The Violin Conspiracy(63)

A few minutes later Ray hung up, feeling optimistic for the first time in days. His family, as defective and maladjusted as they were, was behind him. He was not alone.

His mood continued to improve throughout that day and the next, so the following afternoon, when Kristoff told him he needed “a costume,” Ray just went with it.

“A costume? Like what, a clown?” By now he could keep a completely straight face, so Kristoff never knew he was kidding—he just thought Ray was stupid, and Ray found that to be even funnier.

“No, not a clown.” Kristoff sniffed. “I would not imagine that you would understand this. But you need people to look at you more.”

“They’re already looking at me.”

“A cape,” Kristoff said. “Black on the outside, and dark red velvet inside. Very dramatic.”

“Yeah, for Dracula, maybe,” Ray said. “Or for somebody who’s ninety. Not for me, though.”

They spent the next few days going around and around with costuming possibilities before deciding on black sequins for the tuxedo lapel and a colored tuxedo shirt instead of a white one. (Kristoff had tried to put Ray in ruffles, but that was seriously not happening.)

“You’d look good in brighter colors,” Kristoff said. Was it a compliment? “How about your wearing a red tuxedo shirt?”

“If I were playing Carmen and I was the bull, maybe,” Ray said.

“Yellow then. Yellow would set off your skin color nicely.”

Ray tried on a yellow tuxedo shirt, decided he looked like a pineapple.

Eventually they settled on Ray’s suggestion of a pale pink to match the rose that he now handed to an audience member each night before the performance. Kristoff thought the color was simply to match the rose. In truth, Ray’s choice of color was a nod to Grandma Nora’s housecoat, a private moment that only he appreciated: it was as if he were performing with her every night.

Kristoff’s staginess was paying off. The crowds were huge; most of the shows were selling out. Despite the crazy Marks family and his own family’s general greediness, everything seemed to be getting better and better.

And then he flew to Baton Rouge.





Chapter 19


    Baton Rouge


6 Months Ago

In mid-November he was booked to play a recital at Louisiana State University. He flew in and was enjoying the drive in his rented Toyota on a late-autumn afternoon, down a lazy southern highway. He blasted Eric B. & Rakim on high. He had an hour before he had to be there, and the GPS showed him only twenty minutes away. It was a Sunday evening and the roads were pretty empty.

He pulled off the highway and onto a divided road lined with fast-food restaurants and big-box stores. A mile on, the GPS alerted him that in five hundred feet he would need to make a left turn. He was in the right lane. Checking his mirrors, Ray put on his signal and turned left.

A few minutes after, he noticed a police car behind him and began the universal prayer that all drivers intone when a police officer follows them: Please let him pass me, please let it not be me. He wasn’t speeding. He was wearing a seat belt. He waited.

Blue lights flickered behind him. Ray’s pulse quickened. It’s always nerve-racking to be pulled over by police, he told himself. But he knew it was more than that: he was a Black man in the Deep South driving a nice car. He’d seen too many news reports of Black men having awful encounters with police. No way, he thought. I haven’t done anything wrong.

Plus he had a $10 million Strad sitting on the floor of the passenger seat. He was a big-time performer now. He’d explain everything calmly and be on his way. He pulled into the parking lot of a boarded-up convenience store. The sun was beginning to set. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long. Maybe it was just a taillight. The police car sat behind him, lights flashing. No sign of the officer yet. He turned off the Eric B. & Rakim, put both hands clearly visible on the steering wheel.

The police car door opened. One booted foot touched the ground.

“Step outside your vehicle.” The guy was using a bullhorn. “You. Step. Out. Of. The. Vehicle. Now. Are you deaf? Do it now!”

Ray’s heart was hammering. He got out of the car, both hands in the air. Yeah, sure, white cops beat Black guys up, or shot them. But he was a college grad on his way to a classical music performance. That kind of thing couldn’t happen to him. He’d just stay calm and do whatever the cop asked him to do. Sweat slid cold down his back.

“Turn around and keep your hands up.”

Ray turned around, kept his hands up. Every movement was slow, deliberate, as if in a vat of engine oil.

Boots crunched closer. The snout of a gun wavered into view. Had the guy actually drawn his gun? On Ray?

“Get down on the ground. On your knees.”

Ray’s heart threatened to pound out of his chest. The asphalt pebbles dug into his knees as he slowly lowered himself. He wanted to speak but couldn’t.

“Show me your ID.”

“It’s in my wallet. I’m going to reach into my back pocket and pull it out.” He moved his right hand to his rear pocket. The wallet wasn’t there. Damn—it was in the center console. “It’s in my car, Officer. In the middle. Between the seats.”

“Stay where you are. You make one move and I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.” The cop looked to be in his late forties, a meaty blond man with a reddened face, scraggly goatee, and receding hair barely visible beneath his deputy’s hat. His gut hung over a wide black belt. When he bent through the front door, his shirt rode up, revealing a white back covered in coarse hair. He stood up, holding Ray’s wallet. He pulled out the driver’s license, stared at it, put it back. The name on his badge: E. Bocquet.