Twisted

“They had a tournament tonight. Five hunnerd bucks. Know a lotta players was there. Check it out. Talk to Izz. Little dude hangs in the back. Tell him you know me and it’s cool.”
    “Okay, it pans out, I’ll talk to D of C. Get your brother knocked down.”
    “Thanks, man. Hey, you want another beer?”
    “You still got Smokey Robinson on the box?” He nodded to the jukebox.
    Sam frowned indignantly. “Course I do.”
    “Good. I’ll take a rain check.”

    At Uptown Billiards Tony’s reception was a lot cooler but he found Izz, who was little and was in the back though not just hanging out; he was relieving a cocky young shark of a good wad of bills bysweeping the table at eight ball without even paying much attention. After he pocketed the money and watched the loser slink out of the parlor, Izz turned to Tony and lifted a plucked eyebrow.
    Tony introduced himself and mentioned Sam’s name.
    Izz looked at him like he was a bare wall. Tony continued. “I’m looking for somebody.” He described the perp.
    Without a word Izz stepped away and made a phone call. Tony heard enough of the conversation to know he’d called Sam and verified the story.
    He returned to the table and racked the balls.
    “Yeah,” Izz said, “guy like that was in here earlier. I remember the Rolex. Took it off and left it on the bar when he played so I knowed it was fake. He was good but he washed out the second round. He was trying too hard, you know what I’m saying? You can’t never win, you play that way. Soon as you start trying, you already lost.”
    “He hangs here?”
    “Some. I’ve seen him around the ’hood. Mostly he keeps to himself.”
    “What’s his name?” Tony said good-bye to five twenties.
    Izz walked to the bar and flipped through a soggy, dog-eared stack of papers. Contestants in the tournament, Tony guessed. “Devon Williams. Yeah, gotta be him. I know everybody else in here.”
    Another $100 changed hands. “Got his address?”
    “Here you go.”
    It was on 131st Street, just four blocks away.
    “Thanks, man. Later.”
    Izz didn’t answer. He sank two balls on the break, one striped, one solid. He walked around the table, muttering, “Decisions, fucking decisions.”
    Outside, Tony stood on Lexington Avenue, debating. If he called for backup they’d know what was going down and the detectives would swoop in like hawks. They’d snatch the case away from him in a minute. Somebody else’d take the collar and his chance for the boost with his detective application would disappear.
    Okay, he decided. I’ll handle it solo.
    And so, armed with his Glock and his backup revolver strapped to his ankle, Tony Vincenzo plunged into residential Harlem. The fog and air were heavy here, absorbing the sounds of the city. It was as if he were in a different time or a different place—maybe a forest or the mountains. Quiet, very quiet, and eerie. A word came to him. A term his father had used once, talking about music: nocturne. Tony wasn’t sure what it meant but he knew it had to do with night. And he thought it had to do with something peaceful.
    Which was pretty damn funny, he decided. Here he was on his way to collar an armed and dangerous perp by himself. And he was thinking about peaceful music.
    Nocturne . . .
    Five minutes later he was at Devon Williams’s tenement.
    He turned down the receiver volume of his Motorola speaker/mike and pinned it to the shoulder of his leather jacket, where even if he was shot and down he could still maybe call in a 10–13 officerneeds assistance. He clipped his shield to the pocket of the jacket and drew his Glock.
    He crept into the lobby, read the directory. Williams lived in one of the first-floor apartments. Tony stepped outside again and climbed the fire escape. The window was open but the curtains were drawn. He couldn’t see inside clearly, though he caught a glimpse of Williams, walking into what seemed to be the kitchen. Bingo!
    He was carrying the violin case and was still in the sweats. Which meant he’d probably still be armed.
    A deep breath.
    Okay, whatta we do? Backup or not?
    No . . . Once-in-a-lifetime chance. I do it myself, I get the gold shield.
    Or get killed.
    Don’t think about it.
    Just go!
    Silently Tony climbed through the window into a small parlor. He smelled sour food and dirty clothes. He moved slowly into the hallway and paused just outside the kitchen. Wiped the sweat off his gun hand.
    Okay, do