Morris PI

by Dion Baia

  The reverend smiled and looked Walter directly in the eye. “You a police officer?”

  “Not exactly. My name is Walter Morris. I’m a private investigator and working on a case.” Walter already had his wallet out and opened it to show him his identification, discreetly keeping it low by his hip to not make it look like the reverend was talking to the cops. “I thought maybe you could help.”

  “Private investigator, eh? Well, Mister Walter Morris, my name, like it says on that sign there, is Reverend Percy Clarence. How can I be of assistance?”

  Walter didn’t get the impression the reverend was being insincere or pandering, which could be the case with some in Mr. Clarence’s profession, so he jumped right in at the deep end. “You know a girl by the name of Caldonia Jones? She commutes down on the train from Westchester. I was told she’s a member of your congregation?”

  The reverend’s smile immediately faded, and he glanced down at his feet then back up at Walter. “Is this about her disappearance?”

  “Yes. I’d love to know anything at all you could tell me about her that may help me track her down. How many people know?”

  “It’s gotten around town. And the police haven’t gotten involved. Did her father hire you?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say.” Walter quickly changed direction. “Do you know who her father might be, Reverend?”

  The reverend nodded at an elderly parishioner who yelled his named from the other side of the street and waved back at her with a warm and sincere smile as he answered Walter, “Someone who would be publicly ashamed if it ever got out that he had a child out of wedlock. A colored child, at that. It would be scandalous. Someone whose status in the public eye might be forever tarnished by such news becoming public.”

  Walter didn’t respond. Reverend Clarence looked back at Walt. “We seem to be talking about the same person here, my son?”

  The private detective smiled. “I believe we’re on the same page, Reverend. My client is worried about her safety first, which has now become my concern as well.”

  The reverend turned his back to the street and held his bible close with both hands down by his belly. “She stopped coming to church and bible study ’bout four months ago. She used to be real close to the church until her mama passed away some years back. That’s why she came here. Her mama was from this area after she’d originally moved here from Holden, Louisiana. Once her mother passed on, I think the devil got a hold on her and introduced her to the wickedness of the world that, sadly, our surrounding community has to offer.”

  “Know anyone who was close to her, anyone who could help me locate her?”

  The reverend squinted his eyes to block out the sun. “Maybe Mister Howard, the groundskeeper at the Hayden Mansion, he might know. She considered him the grandfather she never had, if I remember correctly.”

  “That a fact?” Walter took the name down in his notepad. “Mister Howard?”

  “Yes, Howard Crothers I believe his name is.”

  “Anything else you might be able to tell me about her?”

  “Well, that I hope for her sake she hasn’t followed in the path of her father. The Lord saw fit to punish that man for his sins before he’d even left this Earth. Mister Hayden is an evil man who deserves all that was dealt out to him, believe me.”

  Walter frowned. “Excuse my frankness, but that doesn’t sound a very ‘godly’ judgment coming from you, Reverend.”

  “It’s not coming from a place of God, Mister Morris. It’s coming from a member of the community, someone who knows a little too much more than he should know from personal experience.”

  Chapter 6

  HAYDEN MANOR

  Early the next morning Walter drove up to Hayden’s Westchester estate in his ’39 Mercury Town Sedan. He was allowed onto the estate after he flashed his identification and gave his name, leaving his Merc in the roundabout right in front of the mansion. He told the first footman he saw that he was looking for a fellow by the name of Howard Crothers and was pointed in the right direction.

  They told him Crothers was at the zoo, and at first Walter thought they were messing with him. So, when he was taken to an actual zoo that abutted the house and probably the indoor hall from the other night, Walt had no words. Along with Hayden’s museum menagerie of exotic animal rarities, he also had an entire zoo on the grounds with all the animals you’d see at the circus or in your everyday box of animal crackers. The private zoo had all the architectural flair of Central Park Zoo, with its habitats patterned with the same stone and rock style, and the more Walter thought about it, with Hayden’s wealth, it was probably designed by the same guy.

  Eat your heart out, San Simeon.

  An enormous black panther paced around a huge cage, staring out through the bars, looking bored and waiting to be fed. Walter walked over, fascinated by the animal. In the back of the enclosed area, a small metal door opened and a metal cookie sheet with raw meat on it slid out. The animal hurried over.

  After a few moments of watching the panther feast, Mr. Howard Crothers, the head groundskeeper, headed over to Walter. The bowlegged, elderly, dark-skinned gentlemen introduced himself. Chatting, the two walked throughout the zoo’s path, passing various animal exhibits.

  “So you take care of all these animals, Mister Crothers?” Walter asked with a respectful demeanor.

  “That’s right, sir. Fo ’bout twelve years, since Mista Hayden been keepin’ a zoo here, I’ve been tendin’ to ’em.”

  “You take care of all those wild animals out there—the lions, tigers, and bears—all by yourself?”

  Howard nodded.

  “Oh my.”

  “A lot better than plowin’ behind a mule down in Clarksdale….”

  Walter nodded. “I hear that. Seems to be a tough job, taking care of these exotic creatures. I mean, how’d you come about learning how to care for each one?”

  The question made Mr. Crothers stand a little taller and prouder as he replied. “Yes, sir. Basically, you soon gonna learn what you can and can’t do with these critters. Gotta respect them and treat ’em like people. People who got personalities and different moods.” He lifted up his right trouser leg to show Walter while they walked. He revealed a disfigured leg with a good-sized piece of his calf missing. Walter stopped in his tracks. In place of what was missing was a fancy metal plate, which had skin partially grown over the edges.

  “This is from when I got careless wit’ a gator we had here back in thirty-eight. Hahaha…Mista Hayden had his rich doctor friends who were over visitin’ from Europe fix me right up. I don’t know what I woulda done without them.”

  Howard rolled his pant leg back down and they began to walk again. Howard headed over to a railing overlooking a silverback gorilla exhibit. “They only discovered these guys in the wild at the turn of the century.” He gestured toward the primates who were sitting comfortably and eating fruit and leaves.

  “Amazing,” Walt observed in awe. “And this motha has got them in a cage in his backyard,” he added in with a shake of his head.

  Howard paused, thinking for a long minute, and looked over toward the detective. “I get the feelin’ you ain’t come to talk about no zoo, Mista Morris man.”

  Walter smiled. “You’re right, I’m sorry to say, Mister Howard. I wanted to ask you about Caldonia Jones.”

  Howard’s face dropped. “Such a shame. I knew her motha Corrina too. Such a sweet woman, I tell yah.” He took a stained rag out of his back pocket that substituted for a handkerchief and rubbed the sweat away from his forehead and the back of his neck. “Real close to Mista Hayden. Was even talk that they bed togetha, but you know how sewin’ circles be, Mista Morris, ’specially in our line of work.”

  Walt nodded. “Mama passed away a few years ago?”

  The elderly man frowned. “The big C got her.”

 
Walter took off his hat and fanned his face. “Did you know Caldonia well, Mister Howard?”

  Howard laughed and put both his hands into his back trouser pockets. “Wha—shit…. I helped raise her. We all did. She wanted to be a singer, like Bessie Smith, Ethel Waters- you heard of Ma Rainey, right? Cause they don’t make her discs no more.” Walter nodded. “You never know with you young kids. Or that…,” Howard’s eyes detoured to the left to remember the other name, and a twinkle hit his eye when it popped into his head. “…Edith Piaf, the French crooner, as she liked to say.” He looked back at Walter. “Then when her Mama got sick and Caldonia took care of her until the end. She just stopped smiling then. That was so sad. Lost all her drive to be that singer she once wanted to be. And, since her ma passed away, she just ain’t around here as much as she used-ta be.”

  “You have any idea what happened to her?”

  “I don’t know, sir, seems she disappeared. We all is as worried as Mista Hayden is. It ain’t like her.” Howard shot him a serious glare to convey the fear and concern he and the others had.

  Walter nodded in understanding. “Do you know who she ran around with? Where they would go?”

  “Not really.” Howard turned away. “Used to hang out in Harlem, in the clubs there. There’s talk she dated a musician. I think a white fella, but nobody’s supposed to know that, especially Mista Hayden.” Howard smiled as his mind wandered. “I used to go down there during’a early Depression. Last time I was there was the night Louis knocked out that German Schmeling in thirty-six. It was like New Year’s Day, Christmas Day, and the Fourth of Ju-ly, all wrapped into one.”

  “I can only imagine.” Walt paused before asking one of his biggest questions. “Do you like Mister Hayden?”

  Howard stared down at the silverbacks and thought long and hard. “Look, he’s a tough man. He has a way ’bout how he wants things. But he takes care of us all and certainly spares no expense when it comes to makin’ sure we all looked after. Yeah, he be a hard man, but he’s okay.” Howard pointed down to his leg. “I wouldn’t be walking on two legs right now if he ain’t got his rich European friends to fix me.”

  Walter nodded in understanding, and looked down at the gorillas, who were peaceful and serene.

  A maid unlocked and opened a wooden door, and Walter walked into Caldonia’s room. The room was plain but spacious, and it was shared with another maid. There was little on the walls, or any personal items for that matter, on Caldonia’s side. A window between the two beds at the far end gave a beautiful view of the grounds behind the house and the woods beyond that. Two lonely gray single beds were separated by a bare nightstand under the window, and about the only other thing that could fit in the room was a bureau for the clothes they both shared. This entire wing of the house was for the servants’ quarters, with the females on this floor and the men below. Crothers brought him up, escorted by a maid so they had a chaperone on the female floor.

  Walter stepped in and cautiously looked around. “This was her side?” Walter said to the maid, indicating to the right side by the window. The maid nodded.

  The only picture on the huge wall was a small framed photograph of a young girl, which Walter assumed was Caldonia, seated on the lap of an older woman in a maid’s uniform outside by a rope swing. Walter gave the room a polite once-over.

  Stuck up on the dresser mirror on her side was a more recent photo of Caldonia and her mother, both noticeably older.

  “Can you tell me any more about her fella?”

  Howard turned back to the maid, who was standing in the doorway, and nodded to indicate it was okay answer to Walter’s question.

  “She never really talked about him,” the shy maid shared. “All she used to say was that he was a musician. A professional one.” She shot a glance to Howard, and he nodded again for her to continue. “We’re pretty sure he’s white. He was helping her with her singing, practicing. Teaching her stuff.”

  Walter looked around on the dresser and opened the drawers, checking to see if anything was taped to the underside or stuck to the back of them, hidden. He looked back at her with a warm smile. “Go on.”

  The maid slightly blushed and returned his smile. “A piano player, I think she said. I hear he’s a foreigner, friends of Mister Hayden’s friends.”

  “If Mista Hayden knew about that, my gosh.” Howard shook his head and sighed.

  Walter crossed and sat down on Caldonia’s bed next to the nightstand. He opened the top drawer and discovered a bible. “A musician, eh? You ever hear his name mentioned?”

  The maid shook her head. “No, only that. I think maybe she met him up there, where she used to go to church, at a place in Harlem.”

  While examining the nightstand, he saw something was on the floor against the wall, down between the bed and the piece of furniture. He bent down, picked it up, and brought it into the light in front of the window. It was a half-spent matchbook. The advertisement on the cover read:

  THE CREO ROOM

  “Swell as Hell”

  131ST AND BROADWAY

  “Harlem.”

  Walter recognized the address. The Creo Room, the last place Caldonia had been heard from and where she told Crane to pick her up before she vanished.

  Chapter 7

  THE CREO ROOM

  If Walter led an exciting and thrilling life, he’d take the night off. But he didn’t, so he decided he’d make a night out of it anyway and knew the exact place to go.

  He went home, cleaned up, and changed his shirt before heading back out. He took a cab over and could hear the bass notes emanating from the nightclub even before he laid eyes on the place. People were everywhere, coming and going from the club. Walt paid the cabbie, took out the matchbook once more to confirm the name and address, and crossed the street toward The Creo Room.

  He nodded at a rather large bouncer at the front door who looked him up and down. Walt smiled a broad, happy smile and entered the establishment.

  His eyes had to gradually adjust in the smoky and dimly lit club. It was a huge space, half-moon in shape, with an enormous bar on the left side that curved around toward the back of the venue. There was a long partition about five feet high that separated a section of booths that overlooked the main sunken area of the club. After that was the general seating space, and past that the large dance floor and expansive stage against the far back wall.

  The Creo Room was a black-owned club, catering almost exclusively to a black clientele. The surrounding neighborhood and community were very proud of this, and for good reason. It did occasionally attract white patrons coming in to hear good music and also had regular white jazz musicians playing the latest swing or bourgeoning bebop music that first appeared on Swing Street. Unlike other clubs that had Negro workers and musicians playing to white-only audiences, The Creo Room took pride in being pro-black. They almost encouraged a black-only customer base, with, of course, several exceptions.

  Walter had never been here before and could instantly see why people loved it. The club had a Haitian and Jamaican island theme to it, and the lighting made the space feel like it was continuously twilight on a beach. Fast jazz was flowing through the air from Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie and their band onstage. People mingled about, while others had a good time trying to keep up with the music on the dance floor.

  After taking the scene in, Walter gravitated toward the bar. “Well, you have good taste, Caldonia,” he muttered, almost feeling embarrassed that it took a case for him to check out a hip and swinging place like this in his own neighborhood.

  The bartender made his way to him. “Drink?”

  “Please. Wild Turkey. On the rocks.”

  The bartender reached for a glass. Walter leaned against the bar, making note of all the entrances and exits and where the office and backstage doors were located. It was an entire operation they had going on here, with hostes
ses, waitresses serving food, busboys, and cigarette girls; then there were the dancing girls dressed to match the island theme of the club. They walked around and mingled with the patrons, dancing in synchronization with some of the larger musical numbers.

  Walter got his drink and lit a smoke.

  “Can I help you with anything else?” the bartender asked.

  “Not at the moment, thanks.”

  The man politely nodded and went over to serve someone else.

  Walter sipped his drink while taking in the scene and swinging music. A very attractive dark-skinned woman wearing a sarong walked up and put her arm around him.

  “You looking for a date tonight, Mister?”

  He winked at her. “Already got one. Thanks.” She shrugged and walked away.

  On the stool next to Walter was a man with a pair of nasty scars on both his cheeks, starting from the corners of his mouth, as if his cheeks had been ripped apart. When he and Walter made eye contact, the brother’s stare was like ice, so Walt manufactured a courteous smile and looked elsewhere.

  Up onstage, the band finished and a bald, middle-aged, dark-skinned man emceeing appeared onstage in a single spotlight, filling the time as the musical acts behind him switched out.

  “Let’s have another round of applause for Bird himself, Charlie Parker! Or back when I knew ’im, Yardbird—” he shared a loud laugh with the saxophonist, then raised his arm, pointing at the musician, “—just before he heads out for a tour of California.”

  The crowd answered with applause.

  Once the stage was clear, he repositioned himself. Now with the single spotlight cast upon him, Scatman the emcee was an oasis in the empty darkness on the stage.

  “Hello again, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, we welcome back to The Creo Room our old friend, the incomparable, remarkable, irrepressible—Hell, he’s the funkiest brother I’ve ever met who tickles the ivory…. Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Laszlo Strozek and the Improvisations!”