by Ron Levitsky
“Thanks for accepting my invitation on such short notice,” he said, wondering if he should compliment her. He didn’t.
“I’m glad you called. Besides, you mentioned having some important new information. Have you learned anything about my brother Van?”
“I thought you’d be more interested in news about your sister’s case.”
“What’s happened to Nhi is finished, and nothing you or the police do will change it. My brother is still missing, and my parents are very worried. As I told you before, he’s the only male, the last of the line.”
Rosen made a U-turn—the car sputtered—drove back up the block, and continued through the main street which slowly grew less congested. “Like the car? It was all the rental agency had. Don’t sneeze too loudly, or we’ll have to call a tow truck.”
She smiled weakly. “You were about to tell me something.”
“No news about your brother, as far as I know. However, I did have an interesting afternoon. Lester Collinsby and I visited Senator Richard Dickerson and his son on their yacht at the Tyler Yacht Club. Do you know the Senator—Dick, as his intimate friends call him?”
“No,” Trac replied. She was staring out the window.
“How about his son, Junior?”
“No.”
“Strange, because he knew your sister.” Rosen waited for a response, but Trac continued to gaze out the window. “Did you know that Junior Dickerson attended your sister’s funeral?”
She turned swiftly. “No, I didn’t know!”
“I saw him there. He was the only Caucasian. Sure you didn’t notice him? Besides being white, he’s incredibly ugly.”
She stared at him but said nothing.
“What about the bombing? Could there be any connection between it and your sister’s . . .?”
“Why did you call me? To take me out for a drink or an interrogation? Are my parents and I on trial now? Haven’t we been through enough? You people . . .!”
“I’m sorry,” Rosen said. “You’re right of course. We should forget all about the case for one evening and try to have a good time. Besides, I need your help with directions.” He unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to her. “Ever hear of this nightclub?”
“Top o’ the Evenin’s?” The paper trembled in her hand, until finally she grew calm. “Yes, it’s quite the spot. I used to go there once in a while to hear jazz, before I moved to D.C.”
“Good music?”
“Very good. At least it was, and I think Lu still sings there. She’s terrific.”
“Collinsby recommended it. Says his cousin works there. Do I keep going straight?”
They had left the last lights of the Paddy flickering far behind and were now in open country. Occasionally the eyes of a cow or horse were reflected in the headlights.
“There’s a turnoff about a mile ahead,” Trac said, “and Top’s place is a half mile down that road, just before you get to the Black Bottom, the Negro section of town.” She gave a short laugh. “Our wonderful Musket Shoals with its rich section, poor section, white, black, and yellow sections. So much for America, the great melting pot.”
“Your family’s first generation. It takes time to adjust. If not the parents, then the children and grandchildren.”
“Like my dead sister and the children she’ll never have? Or my brother, who doesn’t seem to be anywhere?”
Rosen grew quiet.
“I’m sorry,” Trac said. “We weren’t going to talk about Nhi’s death. Tell me, how did your family adjust to this new world? Did they live the typical American dream?”
He laughed. “You can’t go by me. Let’s just skip it. Is that the turnoff?”
“Yes.”
Slowing the car which sputtered and shook, Rosen turned left and drove the next half mile in silence, Trac relaxing in her seat and looking ahead for the nightclub. “There it is,” she said, but her words were unnecessary. It was the only building in sight.
Rosen pulled into a parking space near the door. Leaving the rental he noticed Collinsby’s Jaguar among a half-dozen cars scattered in nearby spaces. The nightclub was a one-story, box-like structure resembling a small warehouse. A string of naked light bulbs dangled just below the roof, and above the doorway a hand-painted sign read, “Top o’ the Evenin’” with a hand holding a top hat. Very faintly Rosen heard piano music coming from inside. The door opened, and out stepped a well-dressed black couple. Rosen caught the closing door.
“I think I’m going to like this place,” he said, turning to Trac, but her eyes were transfixed by the red sports car. “Trac?”
She didn’t seem to hear him but took a step backward, her hand reaching out toward Rosen’s car door. She seemed about to fall, so he grabbed her.
“Trac?”
Blinking a few times, she barely looked at him, eyes averted as her father’s had been during her sister’s wake.
He said, “I didn’t think it would make any difference if Lester Collinsby was here. No business, I promise. We’re all just going to listen to the music.”
“What?”
“We’re just going to listen to the music.”
She gazed at the Jaguar. “Who did you say this belongs to?”
“Lester Collinsby, my associate. You met him yesterday. Are you all right?”
She put a hand to her forehead then rubbed her eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t get used to . . . I can’t believe that Nhi is really dead.”
“Would you rather I take you home?”
“No. It’ll be good for me to relax. Besides, I’ve got to prove to you that the music here is good.”
Rosen followed her into the blue haze of flickering bar lights and cigarette smoke. The room was surprisingly large, with a bar running the length of the wall to their right and about a dozen tables arranged in a semicircle around the opposite wall. There the piano stood on a raised platform, where a tall black woman was playing the old standard “Mean to Me” and singing with a sweet sadness that reminded him of Billie Holliday. The nightclub was nearly empty, so Rosen led Trac to a table near the piano. While waiting for the cocktail waitress, he looked around for Collinsby. Five or six men sat along the bar; they were black, as was everyone else in the room.
“Do you see Lester?” he asked.
“No. Didn’t you say he had a cousin working here? Maybe he’s with him in back.”
“I suppose so.”
The waitress came over and shouted their orders to the bartender, a tall muscular man wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt.
“This is like I remember,” Trac said, nodding up at the piano player. “Even Lu sounds as good. Isn’t she marvelous?”
Rosen leaned back and listened. Lu was a handsome woman in her early forties with skin the color of cafe au lait and raven hair that fell in large curls playing peek-a-boo, as she tossed her head, with two gold-looped earrings. Her dress was low-cut, and the moisture on her skin made her round shoulders and heavy breasts shimmer, causing Rosen to loosen his collar. She was singing Peggy Lee’s “Fever,” teasing him with her cat-and-mouse voice, the tilt of her head and the way her hands played the keyboard.
“She’s great,” he said.
Lu must have heard him, for she winked in his direction.
“You’re speaking about her musical ability, of course,” Trac teased.
Rosen’s face grew warm. For all his city living and marriage, he still felt awkward in the presence of women. A dozen proscriptions from the Talmud came to mind—“Do not speak too much to women, even your wife.” Revealing one’s passion, that was worse. Again a dozen warnings, each one old and bearded and shaking a finger at him.
The waitress returned with their order. Rosen took a quick drink then nervously drummed the rim of his glass in time to the music.
“I’m glad you like the place,” Trac said. “I thought you would.”
“Yes. This lady’s terrific. I wonder why she’s stuck in a town like Musket Shoals. She’s a
lot better than singers I’ve heard in Chicago and D.C.”
“That’s puzzled me too. I think it has something to do with the owner, Top o’ the Evenin’.”
“That’s his name?”
She shrugged. “It’s the only name I’ve ever heard him called. He’s quite a character. Maybe you’ll meet him tonight. I’m pretty sure there’s something between him and Lu. I don’t know if they’re married, but they’ve been together for years.”
She sipped her drink, and they listened to the music, Rosen gradually relaxing as Lu glided from one song to another. Jazz was both his rebellion and therapy, the concept of improvisation so foreign to his ancestors with their 613 commands to obey. To “waste” time listening to music when there was so much to study was a sin, yet the music was beautiful. It was played and sung, as Lu was doing that moment, from the very soul and therefore, Rosen was certain, inspired by the Lord. Songs of longing like the Psalms of David, of bitter sweetness to which any man would respond if he were only honest. If he were only . . .
“There’s your friend, Lester Collinsby,” Trac said. “Oh good, he’s with Top.”
The two men approached Rosen’s table, the owner shouting to the bartender, “Drinks all ’round here, Big Ben!” Top o’ the Evenin’ was a small dark man with a head disproportionately large for his body. His arms swung in rhythm to Lu’s music, and he strutted like a rooster.
The two men sat down, and Collinsby said, “Glad you could make it. Hello, Miss Nguyen. This is Top o’ the Evenin’. He owns this place. Great, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Rosen said. “Trac’s been here before and told me all about it.”
“Thank you,” Top o’ the Evenin’ replied. “Cowpie said you was a jazz aficionado, and you just proved you got helluva good taste.” He laughed merrily, causing the others to join in.
Rosen nodded up toward Lu. “She’s wonderful. I don’t know which is better, her singing or her playing.”
“You see,” Collinsby said, “our local culture’s as good as any you’ve got up North.”
“Don’t pay him no mind,” Top said. “He’s just prejudiced on account of Lu being his blood.”
Rosen crinkled his eyebrows. “Excuse me.”
“They cousins. Yeah, had the same granddaddy. Ain’t that right, Cowpie?”
Collinsby grinned sheepishly. “I’ve never tried to hide it. Why, I’m proud to have such a great talent as a relation.”
Rosen asked, “Has she ever sung outside of Musket Shoals?”
“Yeah,” Top replied, “we been around some. Always wanted to take her to the big city lights and show her off, but she say, ‘What for? We doing fine right here.’ Besides, she don’t wanna leave the kids. We got two kids, and she say first things first. Speaking of the lady, sit down here, honey.”
Lu had finished her set and came over to the table, pulling a chair between Top and Collinsby. Rosen noticed a marked resemblance between the two cousins—each was big-boned and good-looking, with a generous mouth that dimpled when it smiled.
Top said, “This here’s Mr. Rosen and Miss Nguyen. He was just saying how you was wasting yourself in a dump like this.”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Rosen began as Top laughed.
“Don’t pay him no mind, Mr. Rosen,” Lu said. “He’s always riling up folks. Thank you for the compliment.” She finished Top’s drink. “Oh, I’m thirsty. How about some lemonade, honey.”
Top called over the cocktail waitress, ordered another round then whispered in her ear. She nodded and walked to the bar.
“You in Musket Shoals on business, Mr. Rosen?” Lu asked.
“Yes. I’m working with Lester on behalf of Edison Basehart, the man accused of murdering . . .” he nodded toward Trac, “Miss Nguyen’s sister.”
“I read about it in the paper. I’m sorry, Miss Nguyen. It’s a terrible thing, losing somebody you love like that. I can see why you’ve got such sad eyes.”
“It’s your music,” Trac replied. “Although the melodies are very different, your music and that of my country are very alike. So beautiful, so sad.”
Balancing a tray of drinks with one hand, the waitress returned and as she handed Top his drink, Rosen saw him nod slightly. The woman moved clockwise, serving Lu, Collinsby, and Rosen, and as she bent forward, the tray suddenly slid from her hand, the glass splashing across Trac’s lap. Trac jumped up and shook her dress, while the waitress dabbed at it with a cloth.
“Awful sorry,” the waitress said.
Lu took Trac by the hand. “C’mon, honey, let me take you into the back room and put some cold water on it. If we hurry, it won’t stain.”
“All right, thank you.” Both women walked through a doorway next to the bar.
“Sorry ’bout that,” Top said. “I’m gonna talk to that waitress.”
“Haven’t you already?” Rosen asked.
Top and Collinsby exchanged glances.
Rosen leaned back in his chair. “Let’s stop the play-acting. The waitress dumped the drink on purpose. You wanted to talk to me without Trac being here, so let’s get on with it.”
“Yeah,” Collinsby said quietly. “Look, Nate, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about me being too quick to make a deal with the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office. Honestly I think Basehart’s guilty, but to cover all the bases, I’m willing to look into the possibility of the murder being drug-related. You suggested it yesterday, when you said the shooting might’ve been done by some pusher or junkie. I thought it’d be worthwhile talking to Top, seeing as he . . .”
“Seeing that I’m a nigger and so I gotta be hopped up all the time. Right, Cowpie?”
“C’mon, Top. Everyone knows ‘if someone wants to get high, Top’s is the place where you can buy.’ I’ve represented you a time or two for possession and . . .”
“All right, let’s not be getting into that. Just between us men of the world, sure I do a little and sometimes have a transaction. After all, I’m just a businessman. Hell, white folks do it all the time. You think the Mafia’s from Africa? And all those big-shot politicians’ kids getting slapped on the wrist for snortin’ cocaine. Shit.”
Rosen drummed his fingers on the table. “Can we get on with this? You have some information that will help us?”
Top shrugged. “Maybe. It’s about Van, your girlfriend’s brother.”
“You know where he is?”
“No, but I’d sure like to. For a crook, Van ain’t a very honest man. I’m telling you because Cowpie and Lu are cousins, but I expect you to keep this between the three of us. Among his many business ventures, Van is a supplier of the pleasures of the world.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah, that and women. He was pimping for a bunch a’ Slant girls down in the Paddy.”
“His sister, the dead woman?”
“If it’d made him a buck, hell yes.”
Collinsby said, “Tell him about the drug deal, Top.”
“Keep it down. All right. No need to go into details, but Van and me made a transaction. I gave him a lot of money, and he was gonna get something for me. That was over two weeks ago, and I ain’t seen the stuff, the money, or Van since. Knowing Van, bet I ain’t the only one he skipped out on.”
“A lot of money?” Rosen asked.
“Yeah, a lot.”
“What did his sister Nhi have to do with all this?”
“He used to stash the shit at her place. I know, cause one time I had one a’ my boys follow him. I should a’ been as careful this time.”
“Maybe you were,” Rosen said, leaning closer.
“What?”
“Maybe one of your boys broke into the woman’s room to get the drugs and killed her.”
“Shit.”
“It makes as much sense as some political crazy like Basehart blowing her away. Even more, when you consider that Van’s been hiding out since the murder. Why would he be running from Basehart? Now if he was cheating someone on a drug deal, and tha
t someone murdered his sister. . . .”
“That’s what I’m saying, man,” Top whispered hoarsely, “someone might of. But not me.”
“Why not?”
“Ease up, Nate,” Collinsby said. “Top here’s doing us a favor.”
“That’s cool,” Top said, the grin returning to his face. “In the first place, Mr. Rosen, I told you I didn’t do it. In the second place, you might as well pick out of a hat for all the people who’d like to do Van some dirt. Then there’s the whole thing ’bout the gun. The paper say Basehart’s fingerprints were on the gun that killed the Slant. That means one a’ two things—he did it or else someone framed him. With this color skin how was I supposed to get close enough to that white trash to have him put his fingerprints on his gun ’n then obligingly hand it over to me instead a’ blowing my brains out? You’re supposed to be a real smart lawyer. You figger that one out”—he stuck out both hands—“you can put the cuffs on right now. I’ll go with you real quiet.”
Looking into his half-empty glass, Rosen also smiled. “I like the way you put it, in the form of a puzzle. It reminds me of my days as a student when the rabbis would argue over a question and, when there was no resolution, say, ‘It is for the prophet Elijah to decide.’ That’s for whom we leave the extra cup of wine at Passover, in case Elijah decides to come.” Rosen nudged his glass to the middle of the table. “Let’s leave this for Elijah. If it be his will to discover who’s the murderer, so be it. I’ll just be around to help him. One thing though. I imagine the police are pretty set on convicting Basehart. That makes everyone happy, except for Edison, of course. But if Elijah, Lester, and I do get him off, the cops aren’t going to be happy, and they might start believing in this drug connection with Van. When they start looking for new suspects, on whose door do you think they’re going to knock first?”
“I got nothin’ to hide.”
“At least you have a lawyer in the family.”
Top leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and glared at Rosen. “I’ll ask around ’bout what happened and ’bout Van. But if I was you, I’d catch the next bus back to the big city. You stir up hot soup, you make splashes and get burned. You dig?”
