Jack O'Connell - Word Made Flesh

“The general public’s ignorance of the man. That willful simplicity about a very complicated and little-known series of events—”

“All I was saying—”

“All those nasty limericks and folk songs.”

Edgar Brockden took a knife

And carved his children and his wife—

“Please, Ms. Brown, Wylie—”

All because God whispered terms

— louding up now, enough volume to steal the attention of the rest of the bar—

Of worship through his friends the worms .

“Is there a problem here?”

And though Kroger looks up hoping to find the maître d’, he knows even before he turns that the question has been asked by the king of Little Asia, Jimmy the Tiger Tang.

August looks from Tang to Wylie and back to Tang, then says, “No problem at all, sir. We were just enjoying the delights of your wonderful establishment.”

“So there is no problem?”

Before Kroger can answer, Wylie, more drunk now than she realizes and staring down at her plate, says, “The crab is a little chewy.”

August Kroger cringes. At this moment, he would like to travel back in time five minutes and crush his beautiful secretary’s windpipe. But Jimmy Tang, five and a half feet of pure class when it comes to even inebriated women, says, “In that case, my profuse apologies. We will do better next time, I assure you.”

Kroger’s shoulders release. He takes a breath, extends a hand toward his host and says, “Allow me to introduce—”

“I know who you are,” Tang says, sliding onto the stool next to Wylie, smiling at her like some high school romantic, “and I know why you are here.”

Kroger is thrown for a loss. Does Jimmy intend to discuss an overthrow right here in public? Granted it’s his domain, but there are ways to do these things and surely, in a manner this delicate, some privacy is in order.

“I want to thank you for taking the meeting, Mr. Tang. I know our relationship will be—”

“Mr. Kroger,” Tang says, an edge placed purposefully in the voice, “you haven’t introduced me to your associate.”

“My associate?” It takes Kroger a second to understand that Jimmy is referring to Wylie Brown. “My associate, yes, of course, Ms. Brown, Miss Wylie Brown, my personal assistant.”

Tang bows his head in Wylie’s direction and she gives a moderate bow back, still sulking over what she sees as the attack on her life’s obsession.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” Tang says.

“We were enjoying the festivities,” Kroger assures him and motions to a skinny young man with an embarrassing attempt at a goatee, the cigarette in his hand more prop than addiction, putting a wealth of emotion behind “A Big Hunk o’ Love.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Tang says, and he sounds sincere. “Because, you know, I am a creature of ritual. And before I even discuss business, I like to know who I’m spending my time with.”

Kroger is lost but tries to cover.

“A wise habit,” he says. “A prudent way to proceed.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Tang says as Mia takes the microphone away from the singing bizboy in midsentence and brings it to her boss along with a steaming bowl of green tea. Tang takes the microphone and smiles at Wylie, then turns and hands the mike to Kroger, asking, “What would be your favorite song?”

Kroger stares at the Tiger and says, “Excuse me?”

“I’m sure we have it,” Jimmy says. “We’ve got all the oldies. An outstanding selection. All standards.”

“Mr. Tang, I’m not sure—”

“You look like a doo-wop kind of fellow,” Tang says, squinting, trying to size up the Bohemian intruder. “What do you think, fellas?”

The money weasels fall all over themselves trying to agree with their superior.

“But I could be wrong. Are you more Motown? Surf music? We’ve even got a few country-and-western chestnuts. That Mr. Hank Williams, he was a talented man.”

“Mr. Tang,” Kroger fumbles, “I don’t, that is, I’m not a …”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Kroger?” the tone suddenly colder, Tang beginning to let his annoyance show. Kroger has only so much time to allow himself to be embarrassed and belittled.

“Because, as I’m sure you are aware, I’m an exceedingly busy man. And in agreeing to take a meeting with you I not only had to rearrange my schedule. I had to risk offending Hermann Kinsky. So I hope you won’t disappoint me, Mr. Kroger. I hope we can all be friends here. I would very much like to get to know you better”—the head turning for another smile at Wylie—“but when in Little Asia, I would expect you to honor the customs of my land.”

Even in her drunken state, Wylie wonders exactly when karaoke became an honored cultural tradition.

“I mean no disrespect, Mr. Tang,” August says, peripherally noticing a handful of the Tiger’s street muscle file into the bar, their leathers and tattoos silencing the bizboys and turning what was a second ago just a kernel of tension into the full-blown ache of a room about to be filled with consequential violence. “It is simply that I am not familiar with this type of … that is, I simply don’t know any of these songs.”

“I find that hard to believe, August,” use of the first name at this stage not at all a good sign for Kroger. “Everyone knows these songs. They’re universal.”

“I’m not exposed to very much popular entertainment. I don’t get out very much.”

“I’m asking you to try, August. I’m asking you to pick up the microphone and give us a verse or two. That’s all.”

“If I had some time to prepare—”

“What is the goddamn problem here? A child could do this, August,” as the meatboys approach and stand behind Kroger with their arms folded across their chests and their sunglasses covering their eyes. “I just want to hear you sing. Are you telling me this is too much to ask?”

“Perhaps tonight wasn’t a good time—”

“Pick up the microphone and pick a song, August,” Tang yelling now, a few of the bizboys slipping out of the lounge. “Let me hear you, right now.”

There’s a long second of anticipation until Wylie grabs the microphone, saying, “Oh, for God’s sake,” and climbing up until she’s seated on the teak top of the bar. She looks down at Mia and yells, “Give me ‘Klaus, Baby,’ “the Imogene Wedgewood tribute to everyone’s favorite German linguist. Mia punches up the instrumental and the Tiger is at once enthralled. And as the sultry music of piano and bass fills up the Last Man, Wylie Brown spreads herself out, reclines along the length of the bartop, and begins to belt out

Write down your love

and pass me the note

Write down your love

that I’ll own the quote

make it true, make it real

let me know, let me feel

Klaus, Baby,

Write down your love

She works it for all it’s worth, momentarily turning even the gang meat into something close to lovestruck.

By the second verse, she owns the lounge, caressing and manipulating a tune that both August Kroger and Jimmy Tang, from this day forward, will come to think of as our song. But what neither man will ever know is that, as her eyes close and head falls back and the tips of her fingers run provocatively down her neck toward her cleavage, a genuine torch song goddess. Wylie Brown is singing not to her boss and not to the neighborhood mayor of Little Asia, but rather, to a delusional heretic and murderer who’s been dead for over a century.

If you want information on the rare-book trade in Quinsigamond, there are any number of people you could go see, including Gilrein’s ex-lover, Wylie Brown. If you want information about the stolen rare-book trade, then Rudy Perez is the only man in town. The Text Shoppe is a trashy little place down on the corner of Eldridge and Waldstein, a cellar hole that takes in water every spring. Gilrein visited the place more than once when he was working out of bunko.