The Ghost of Manuel Grady (a short story)

Note: This story was an entry into the latest edition of NYC fiction contest. This was written to a prescribed set of criteria, which I won’t outline here. Later in the week I will do a deeper dive in the results of this entry + analyse the feedback I received from the judges. This one has given me a lot of food for thought which is proof that these competitions are worth entering regardless of result.
But that’s enough pre-amble. Enjoy.

The Ghost of Manuel Grady

—
The charm of the Grady twins was always at its most potent when you were face to face with them. They filled up any room they entered like mustard gas. Bernie on the piano, twinkling triplets without effort. Manuel singing in his low bellow. It might’ve all come off a bit too cheesy if their reputation didn’t precede them.

But we’ll get to that.

It was in their absence that their real power lay—when you were no longer around them, when it was just their looming aura left to consider. For women—and indeed some men—it was a question of the heart, usually in concern to Manuel. Hoping he’d call back, make one of his unannounced visits. For those hopeless souls, the pain of this absence was just as intoxicating as the joy of being around the twins.

Those twins were all at once sweet and bitter—burnt caramel, salted chocolate, orange-fig salad.

And for men. To be in business with them was a high stakes jackpot. But like any jackpot, it usually didn’t end in happiness. Once you got the new car, the jet ski, and the trophy wife ticked off the list, you never failed to discover a gaping hole somewhere on your person, in your person, surrounding your person. In the case of the Grady twins Bernie was typically the one responsible for physically installing said hole.

Silent treatment is an apt term for their approach, because it really did feel like you’d been administered a medically calculated course. Day one you’d suspect it, day two you’d become certain, and on the third day, the symptoms of that brooding reality became impossible to ignore. With the Grady Twins, all business arrived in threes.

You’re probably wondering how I know all of this? Well. I happen to have had many dealings with the twins. I had front row seats for more than one of the tragedies of collateral damage that fell at their feet. But that part doesn’t make me special. All you had to do to secure one of those seats was develop a drinking problem and a penchant for white boy jazz.

The thing that makes me particularly special is my front row seat to Manuel Grady’s death.

That’s right. I know you heard the rumour. I know that just like the rest of them, when you heard the news, you felt his absence right away. Could hardly call yourself a local if you didn’t.

Yes, you definitely felt it. Like an awful hole had been torn in the universe.

For one whole weekend, it was the talk of the town. The stories of people who were there that night got mixed up with those who pretended they were there. It was an electrical fault in the microphone, a heart attack, poison in his drink from a scorned lover!

But I can tell you exactly what it was, so long as you’re willing to trust me.

See I was in the front row, as per usual. Cradling my scotch, sleepy after a long week. Drifting off to a Coltrane number.

The twins were on form. Bernie’s fingers working like mad.

Manuel standing with one elbow propped on the old grand piano, eyes closed, riffing old scat runs with a cigarette in between his knuckles.

He didn’t know it, but there were still a few drops of blood on his sleeve from the bookie he shook down earlier in the day.

We’d already cleaned that up though. I did a lot of cleaning up for the twins in those days. But don’t even start to throw pity my way. It was more pleasure than pain. In fact, at the time, I was dating a lass named Florence Dew, whom Manuel had recently let down particularly hard. She had a reputation around town for holdin’ a grudge, so he asked me to sweeten her up a bit. Take her out, keep her nice and distracted. As I said, it was nothing but pleasure for me.

And that spot of red?

It was nothing to worry about really. I only noticed it ‘cause I knew where to look.

I saw Manuel go two-by-four stiff right before my eyes that night—if he wasn’t dead before he hit the floor, his skull bouncing off the edge of the stage certainly did it. It was an aneurism. I’m certain of that. The same thing happened to my pop on my sixth Halloween. That memory occupied a whole chunk of my memory right up until Manuel’s death knocked it out of the way.

Anyways, by the time Thursday night rolled around. The Catz club was packed fuller than it had been in a decade. Every social climber, mogul and errand boy turned up hoping to get eyes on the mourning Bernie Grady. Trying to imagine one of those two in a state of emotional turmoil is like trying to imagine a 5D landscape. The brain just doesn’t quite know how to do it. So, when someone tells you, you might be able to see a mourning Grady brother in the flesh? Of course, you’re gonna go along to get eyes on it.

Funny I used the word flesh there, because on that Thursday night, half the crowd thought they saw a ghost. Rather than a mourning Bernie, they found the Catz pianist in residence with his same old stoic smile, twinkling away on ivory keys. White Russian resting on the score sheet stand, as he went about his profession as per usual.

But more astonishing, was a very alive Manuel, standing right beside him, bellowing away. First a Miles Davis number, then a Pat Matheney standard and finally, a rise into Tony Bennett.

Like everyone else, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Blood pumping, his uniquely charred soul flowing from his vocal chords as always. He even clenched his cigarette in the off angle that you couldn’t replicate if you’d practised for months. His pencil moustache danced with his charming crooner’s scowl.

I must have looked like a cartoon rabbit rubbing my eyes, glancing over to old Clancy who was just as miffed as I. Because even if you ignored the small detail that I’d only days ago, watched this man meet his maker from seven and a half inches away, something old and lizard like inside me was picking up a warning that no amount of thinking could sniff out.

This version of Manuel Grady was perfect. But that was the problem.

Then I clicked. Almost interrupted the song from my front row chair as it came to me. It wasn’t Manuel that was getting to me at all. It was Bernie’s playing!

During the verses, it was impossible to pick up—his workmanlike technique carried him through those sections flawlessly. But whenever we reach an improvisation section, the first, the second and there again on the third, he slowed down. He slowed well beneath his usual blistering pace. Usually his hands looked like two arachnids up there, scuttling over the keys, at points frantic, but always free. Always the “right” note to compliment the underlying melody.

That night he was slow. As if trying to assure everyone of his calmness. How relaxed he was. The only time I’d heard him play like this before, was the day we offed Terry Minster’s mother-in-law. But that’s another tale altogether.

I thought I was cornering this rerisen Manuel when I forced my way back-stage that night. Bailed him up at the top of the stairwell where they throw out the drunks, and made sure his back was to the exit. Terrible air up there, dust swoops into your lungs with every breath. Little did I know…

“Hey there Manny.” I said, playfully punching at his pocket square. “Your voice sounded great tonight.”

“Terrence,” he nodded, flashing his canines. “Gracious as always.”

“Hope you don’t mind me dragging you back here,” I assessed the half rotting handrail and brushed it with a frown. “I just wanted to to hash out somethin’ you said to me the other night…”

He shrugged and sucked in a drag that had me worried he might ignite all the dust floating around that orange tip.

“It was after we stopped by the bookies.” I clicked my fingers. “That thing you mentioned about Florence? It really stuck with me, and I’ve been avoiding the poor girl ever since!”

Right away, the mention of this name dropped “Manuel’s” eyes to the floor. Yet, he drew his eyebrows together as if attempting to parse out which specific memory I might be referring to.

“You remember right? The thing you said about her mole.” I asked, beginning to lift the cuff of my pant leg. “You know the one right up on her inner thigh. The one shaped like a sax?”

He nodded as a new light entered his eyes. I started, but he extended a hand as if to cut off any further conversation. This guy was good! He even layered on a teasing tone. “What about it, Terrance?” he asked with a lift. “Don’t tell me you’re all shook up about having to eat my seconds?”

I grinned back and let him enjoy the schoolboy banter that he must have been convinced we were about to settle into.

But then I held my gaze. I straightened up my smile and stared at him for just long enough to watch the doubt creep in. I dusted off that handrail for a second time and pushed out my lips.

“See, the thing about Florie’s skin is this….”

The man in front of me went almost as rigid as the dead Manuel he was attempting to impersonate. “Careful Terrance…”

I snorted. “Careful?” I shook my head. “See Mister. I never noticed a single mole on Florries milky, white skin—”

“--I said, be careful.”

Both of us were sober as Jesuits by this point. We were now two fencers who’d decided to throw down their swords and settle it with our fists.

I shook my head. “I don’t know what scam you and Bernie have got into here, but unless you’re gonna cut me in, don’t you believe for a moment that I’m gonna call you Manuel!”

“I don’t think you’ve been listening to me,” he said slowly.

By this point I was done. I raised my hands and turned to leave. If this imposter wasn’t willing to take my warning on board, he’d soon find out.

But as I gripped the door knob, it stuck. My heart skipped. Suddenly, the same instinct that cued me to Bernie’s panicked piano playing, fed me the news that there was a larger presence behind me. More than just a man.

My heckles stood stiff as the neck of a double bass, and I prayed to every god I could think of who omits the existence of ghostly beings.

My prayers were answered by none other than Bernie Grady himself. “Terry,” he said from the bottom of the stairs.

I turned and felt no shock at the presence of the cold, black barrel pointed at me. Bernie’s Glock—as ever-present on his body as his wise cracks. There was one night where he even left that thing resting on the top of his piano for an entire Thursday show!

“Terry, I see you’ve met my little brother Saul,” he said.

“Little?” responded the duplicate “Manuel” with the confidence of a man outside of the line of fire.

“By four and a half minutes” shrugged a grinning Bernie.

By the time my expression caught up to my racing mind, Bernie had lowered the gun. He released a sigh. “You see Terrance, Manny’s name was listed on the title of a—”

I raised my hand. “No need to explain.” I said, letting him see my eyes. “The Grady’s always did do their business in threes. I should have guessed this earlier.”

I almost left it at that, but then glanced back at this “Saul,” sneering. “Cut me in, and I’ll keep the twin racket afloat. Shit, I’ll call you Penelope for all I care.”