The Twelfth Card

that somebody else had programmed. But with “Bolero” he knew the source. His father had the piece on an album. The big, crew-cut man had played it over and over on the green-plastic Sears turntable in his workshop.
    “Listen to this part, son. It changes key. Wait . . . wait . . . There! You hear that?”
    The boy believed he had.
    Thompson now opened his eyes and returned to the book.
    Five minutes later: Wsssst  . . . “Bolero” went away and another melody started easing out through his pursed lips: “Time After Time.” That song Cyndi Lauper made famous in the eighties.
    Thompson Boyd had always liked music and from an early age wanted to play an instrument. His mother took him to guitar and flute lessons for several years. After her accident his fatherdrove the boy himself, even if that made him late to work. But there were problems with Thompson’s advancement: His fingers were too big and stubby for fret boards and flute keys and piano, and he had no voice at all. Whether it was church choir or Willie or Waylon or Asleep at the Wheel, nope, he couldn’t get more than a croak out of the old voice box. So, after a year or two, he turned away from the music and filled his time with what boys normally did in places like Amarillo, Texas: spending time with his family, nailing and planing and sanding in his father’s work shed, playing touch then tackle football, hunting, dating shy girls, going for walks in the desert.
    And he tucked his love of music wherever failed hopes go.
    Which usually isn’t very far beneath the surface. Sooner or later they crawl out again.
    In his case this happened to be in prison a few years ago. A guard on the maximum security block came up and asked Thompson, “What the fuck was that ?”
    “How do you mean?” asked the ever-placid Average Joe.
    “That song. You were whistling.”
    “I was whistling?”
    “Fuck yes. You didn’t know?”
    He said to the guard, “Just something I was doing. Wasn’t thinking.”
    “Damn, sounded good.” The guard wandered off, leaving Thompson to laugh to himself. How ’bout that? He had an instrument all along, one he’d been born with, one he carried around with him. Thompson went to the prison library and looked into this. He learned that people would call him an “orawhistler,” which was different from a tin-whistleplayer, say—like in Irish bands. Orawhistlers are rare—most people have very limited whistling range—and could make good livings as professional musicians in concerts, advertising, TV and movies ( everybody knew the Bridge on the River Kwai theme, of course; you couldn’t even think about it without whistling the first few notes, at least in your head). There were even orawhistling competitions, the most famous being the International Grand Championship, which featured dozens of performers—many of them appeared regularly with orchestras around the world and had their own cabaret acts.
    Wssst . . .
    Another tune came into his head. Thompson Boyd exhaled the notes softly, getting a soft trill. He noticed he’d moved his .22 out of reach. That wasn’t doing things by the book . . . . He pulled the pistol closer then returned to the instruction booklet again, sticking more Post-it notes onto pages, glancing into the shopping bag to make sure he had everything he needed. He thought that he had the technique down. But, as always when he approached something new, he was going to learn everything cold before executing the job.
    *   *   *
    “Nothing, Rhyme,” Sachs said into the microphone dangling near her ample lips.
    That his prior good mood had vanished like steam was evident when he snapped, “Nothing?”
    “Nobody’s seen him.”
    “Where are you?”
    “We’ve covered basically all of Little Italy. Lon and I’re at the south end. Canal Street.”
    “Hell,” Rhyme muttered.
    “We could . . . ” Sachs stopped speaking. “What’s that?”
    “What?” Rhyme asked.
    “Hold on a minute.” To Sellitto she said, “Come on.”
    Displaying her badge she forced her way through four lanes of thick, attitudinal traffic. She looked around then started south on Elizabeth Street, a dark canyon of tenements, retail shops and warehouses. She stopped again. “Smell that?”
    Rhyme asked caustically, “Smell?”
    “I’m asking Lon.”
    “Yeah,” the big detective said. “What is that? Something, you know, sweet.”
    Sachs pointed to a wholesale herbal products, soap and