Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

  “You’ve had a hard day.” He whispered it, massaging her shoulders. “Are you tired?”

  “Umm-hmm.”

  “Come on. Nothing will happen. I’ll just hold you.”

  “What?” Did things work like that?

  “Really. It’ll be okay.”

  The scruffy apartment apparently had two rooms and a kitchen, but Melody saw only the first, the living room. A door off the hall was closed. Chris glanced at it only briefly. “Guess Randy and Sue Ann got the bedroom.”

  “Are they a couple?” Randy certainly hadn’t behaved like it.

  Chris shrugged. “Sometimes. Give me a hand, will you?” Melody helped him unroll a foam mattress with a grayish sheet on it. He threw down a couple of dusty sofa pillows and found a sleeping bag to use for a blanket. “You want to take off your jeans or anything?”

  She shook her head and untied her shoes, trying to look nonchalant. To her relief, he removed only his shoes as well.

  When he got into bed, she pressed herself against him, fitting her contours to his, wanting to get as close as possible—to be embraced like a child. And he held her as tight as a teddy bear. She was inconceivably grateful.

  Sue Ann cut Melody’s hair the next day, not too precisely, but who cared? It was a modified punk look, spiked up with gel; irregular was what the whole thing was about. They played a gig on Royal Street, which was closed to traffic in the afternoon, to get money for the rest. Everybody chipped in, and they all went shopping together. They got her sunglasses, clothes from the flea market, different makeup and hair color. They didn’t stop at blond, they got purple too, for the bangs. Chris did her himself. Then Sue Ann did her makeup—a very light base to cover Melody’s tawny skin, red lipstick, and plenty of black stuff on her eyes. She put on a pair of striped pedal pushers and an off-the-shoulder blouse. Sue Ann added some zany earrings, dangling fruit baskets.

  Chris said, “You could knock on your own mother’s door and say you’re the Avon lady.”

  It was true, but Melody wanted to cry. She had a new name and didn’t even look like herself. She couldn’t help it, it was weird. And not only that, she was ugly. Chris probably hated her now.

  But after they all had muffalettas, he took her hand and led her up the river, to Woldenberg Park, and talked to her about his music. He played songs for her, only for her, and asked her about herself. She told him about Joel and Doug, first names only, hoping that was okay, and nervously twisted her ring.

  Chris said, “You look sad.”

  “I was supposed to go to a party tonight. At my brother’s house.”

  He put an arm around her, drew her to him.

  She said, “Do you hate the way I look?”

  He said, “Babe, it’s not the packaging. It’s you.”

  They necked in the grass till it was time to find the others and start raking in the money.

  And that night, when it was all over, when they had made nearly forty dollars apiece, and drunk a couple of beers, and once again sat by the river, Melody made love with him. She didn’t even think of it anymore as doing it. What she felt for Chris was like nothing so much as cotton candy—so light, so magical you could barely see it, so sweet it would melt in your mouth. He touched her everywhere, for a long time, and he let her see him slowly, so she wasn’t too shocked. She hadn’t said she was a virgin, but he seemed to know, and he was so gentle, so careful, she might have been a small animal with delicate bones.

  She loved the way his body felt, she loved him, but she didn’t love It. Sex. Her pussy hurt and that was almost all she felt there. Everywhere else felt wonderful.

  “It’ll be better,” he told her, and she knew it would.

  It was in the morning, when they did it again. She almost liked it for itself, not just for the feel of his skin, the twin bumps of his butt under her fingers, the smell of him.

  She showered and was surprised to see blood, but there wasn’t much, it was no big deal. She looked in the mirror and almost recognized herself without the makeup. She was sure the eyes were changed, were more knowing—Desdemona instead of Juliet eyes. But they were still blue, still Melody Brocato’s eyes, so she put on the funny shades she had bought with the others—red with little three-dimensional hearts at the top. She wore the pedal pushers again, with a lavender T-shirt to match her hair.

  When she stepped back in the living room, Chris grabbed her, as if he couldn’t stop himself, and licked a drop of water from her neck that she’d missed. She’d never been happier in her life.

  And then, as they stepped out into the sunlight, she and Chris, she was happier still. She’d had no idea life could be so sweet. They linked hands, heading for Cafe du Monde for coffee and beignets. Could anything in the world be more romantic?

  Chris said, “Want a paper?”

  “Sure.”

  He popped into a store, but she stayed outside, feeling the sun on her freshly-fucked body. Feeling fine.

  “Here.” He handed her the paper. It was like having a knight to do her bidding, she thought, and absently unfolded it. The headline said, JAZZFEST PRODUCER STABBED TO DEATH.

  She realized she must have screamed. She saw her brother’s name below the main headline: HAMSON BROCATO MURDERED. She was suddenly, unaccountably, hot, burning up, and sick in the pit of her stomach, and she felt herself falling.

  A voice yelled, “Janis!” and before she went out, she wondered briefly who Janis was.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Joe Tarantino shook his head. He was a blunt-featured, pear-shaped, working-class kind of guy, dark and dandruffy. Today he needed a shave and, shaking his head like that, as if it were the end of the world, he looked inconsolable.

  “Where in the hell is Carlson?” Joe looked easygoing, but he hated tardiness, hated wasting time, and hated waiting. Skip thought it was fair to assume he was also feeling fairly pressured by so public a murder as Ham’s.

  Carlson was an officer from missing persons. Joe had asked him to join them this morning—himself, Skip, and Sergeant Sylvia Cappello—to confer about Melody. Impatiently, he picked up his phone, and magically, Carlson appeared at the door. He was a youngish detective, with brown hair, a beginning paunch, and acne scars. Skip knew nothing about him, hoped he had half a brain. Because she thought Melody was the key to the case.

  After handshakes and introductions, Joe said, “Let’s get started.” Skip knew he wanted every detail. He was the kind of lieutenant who liked to know how things were going, liked to participate, plan strategy. It might have driven her crazy if she hadn’t truly enjoyed working with him. Cappello, her sergeant, was great, she was just fine, but she was a little on the brisk, close-mouthed side. Joe had a sweet, avuncular quality that made Skip love him and ascribe to him Buddhalike wisdom he probably didn’t have. Steve had once accused her of hero worship where Joe was concerned, and she knew it was true. He was her mentor, the lieutenant who’d had her transferred to Homicide, who’d believed in her at a time when she hardly believed in herself. Thanks largely to a certain sergeant named Frank O’Rourke.

  She ran down the events of the night before for the other three, and threw in reports from the coroner and the crime lab. Ham’s death had been placed at about twenty-four hours before the body was found, give or take. And no prints had been found on the weapon or the open wine bottle. So there was no physical evidence.

  Joe said, “You found Brocato about seven?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “And when did the girl leave the Rosenbaums’?”

  “About five-thirty the day before.”

  “That’d be about the right time, wouldn’t it?”

  Skip nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. We gotta find her. We gotta find her fast. Carlson, what do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Either someone’s got her or she’s in the Quarter; they all end up in the Quarter.”

  “Well, how the hell do we find her?”

  Carlson leaned back in his chair, undau
nted by Joe’s impatience. “Now that’s a right int’restin’ question. They do pretty well over at VCD—used to work there myself.” He meant Vieux Carre District, the French Quarter station, where Skip had worked before coming to Homicide. “They leave flyers, that’s one thing; and they got some good connections. Quarter people are funny—some of ‘em’ll only talk to people they know. I’d call over there if I was you—no sense banging your heads against the wall.”

  Joe nodded at Skip, who nodded back.

  “There’s a few little tricks, though. The kids are like cockroaches—sleep all day, come out at night. If they do come out in daylight, they might go to Jackson Square—it’s free entertainment. At night they go to bars, usually after midnight—way after. There’s a few I can give you the names of. We closed down most of the bad ones a year or two ago—on North Rampart Street. But there’s still a few where they can go to meet some friendly chicken hawks and kiddie pornographers.”

  Cappello winced.

  Skip said, “Somehow I can’t see Melody getting into—”

  “Get desperate enough, they all do. See, these kids don’t think of sex the same way you do. Lot of them have been abused, especially in homes where the mother’s remarried or got lots of boyfriends. To them, it ain’t exactly an expression of true love. More like a way to make a few bucks.”

  “What I meant was, I don’t see how she could be that desperate—she’s been gone less than thirty-six hours.”

  He ignored her. “First thing they learn’s they can’t get jobs—too young, no experience, no references, half the time no brains. Oh, sure, they might luck out—get to be a waitress or busboy. Whoopie-do. But most of ‘em are gonna peddle their ass one way or another. Even if it’s just dancin’ at Bayou Babies. But don’t get the idea that’s any great deliverance from evil—you go in there and see some fifteen-year-old kid shakin’ her booty six inches from some guy’s Adam’s apple, I guarantee you you’ll want to throw somethin’. And that’s nothin’ to what goes on upstairs. I never been there—I know this plumber got called over there. Says they got mattresses all over the floor and cribs along the sides. The kids sleep naked all over the place, anywhere they fall down, I guess. No tellin’ how loaded they have to be to get through that shit.”

  “Who goes up there?”

  “Preferred customers, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “So we should look at Bayou Babies.”

  “Hell, I knew this mother looked there six times in a week, all different times, never did find her daughter. Kid was dancin’ there, though. They all change their appearance, and they hang together, help each other. Lie for each other. They form packs is what they do.” He turned to Skip. “You know how many buildings in this city are unoccupied?”

  She stared at him, didn’t have a clue what he was getting at.

  “Something like thirty percent. Kids see boarded-up houses. They go in and sleep. They call them squats. Then there’s a bunch of cheap hotels—one that’s kind of famous. Know who William Burroughs is? They say he used to score junk there.”

  Joe was getting impatient. “How about a list of their bars, hotels, known hangouts?”

  “Hey, there’s other stuff. There’s facilities, you know. Covenant House. And a church where they hand out vouchers for mattresses. You can check all those places too. Other than that”— he turned his palms up—”all you can do is sit on balconies.”

  Joe and Skip spoke together: “Sit on balconies?”

  “Well, it’s not good police work, but it’s what I tell the parents to do. You just watch the crowds up there where you can see them and they can’t see you. ‘Cause if you walk into one of the kids’ bars — and I don’t even mean the chicken-hawk scenes, I mean the ones with the punked-out wackos and the game machines—they ain’t gonna roll out the red carpet.”

  When he had left, Joe said, “Okay, what’s our strategy?”

  “Find Melody,” said Cappello. “She’s all we’ve got, she’s almost certainly the key, and she might be in danger.”

  “Skip?”

  “Yeah.” She bit her pencil. “Yeah. It’s the danger part that’s getting to me. Obviously, Carlson just assumed she ran away. But we don’t know that. Maybe she caught the killer in the act and he killed her too. Or took her somewhere to think about it. Maybe he’s crazy enough to ask the family for ransom.”

  “It worries me too,” said Joe. “And of course there’s that other nasty possibility.”

  “Little sis did him?” said Cappello. “What for?”

  “How do I know? She thinks she’s a singer, right? Maybe he wouldn’t let her sing at JazzFest. Skip, you need any help? For the routine stuff?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got it covered.”

  The routine stuff. Might as well get on it. She had good friends at VCD. She phoned her buddy Vic De Sandro, who said he’d start on it right away. She called the Brocatos and suggested they have flyers made up. And then she asked the computer for criminal records: Ti-Belle’s, Ariel’s, George’s, Patty’s. And Ham’s, for good measure.

  Everyone was clean. Next, alibis. George had been at work, Patty at home alone, then at the Rosenbaums’—two blocks from Ham’s—then back home. Ariel had been at work, and once, about three in the afternoon, at Ham’s house. Patty and Ariel weren’t exactly out of the question. And George probably wasn’t either. It wasn’t worth pursuing now, but she wondered if George could really account for every hour of his afternoon. Had he been alone in his private office at all that day? She wondered if there was any trouble between father and son—if she found any, that was soon enough to check.

  At the moment, she wasn’t interested in any of these three. She’d saved Ti-Belle for last because everything about her begged to be scrutinized—her sudden rise from obscurity after hooking up with one of the city’s most influential music mavens, for instance; the continuing fights with Ham; and most of all, the way she’d been late to her own party.

  Skip called Chicago first—Ti-Belle hadn’t been to see Jarvis Grablow. Then she called a friend who worked at an airline. The friend wasn’t supposed to, but he could pull up a list of passenger names for every flight out of New Orleans on a given day. Ti-Belle had said “a three-day trip,” so the friend checked both Monday and Tuesday. Ti-Belle hadn’t gone anywhere. Now, that was worth pursuing.

  But first, an all-purpose investigative call that could save hours and hours of snail’s pace bumbling—to Allison Gaillard, long-lost Kappa sister with whom Skip had recently reconnected. Allison was a true belle who knew everything there was to know about how to get people to look at you and then how to keep them looking—a mistress of the Southern arts. She was someone with whom Skip hadn’t had the first thing in common when they’d been at Newcomb together (ever so briefly, before Skip flunked out). But for some reason, after Skip had gone off to Ole Miss, and then to San Francisco, and then had come back reinvented as a police officer, Allison had taken her on as a project. Skip didn’t get it, she was just grateful, because Allison knew everything about everyone; and what she didn’t know, she could find out in five minutes.

  “Skip Langdon calling Gossip Central.”

  “I’ve already pulled your file, officer. You’d be wanting Brocato lore, I suppose.”

  “Allison, you’re amazing. If the city’d let me, I’d pay you handsomely.”

  “Oh, you will, Skippy, you’ll definitely pay, quid pro quo. And we might as well start now. Who did it?”

  Allison knew perfectly well Skip wasn’t going to spew out details of this or any case, but as the world’s greatest gossip, she had to try. “You haven’t given me anything yet. Besides, you’re more likely to know than I do.”

  “I only know where the bodies are buried. I don’t know who buried them. Well, not always, anyhow. But I’ve known the Brocatos forever—or anyway, I know their next door neighbor, which is just as good. Do you know the whole story of George and Poor Boys?”

  “No, but I’d love to.” Skip
took off her right earring and settled in.

  “Well, George is a true self-made man. The story goes that he was cooking in a restaurant when he got the idea for Poor Boys—and I mean short-order type cooking, by the way, not exactly cordon bleu stuff. He got his two brothers to go in with him—hence the name—and they somehow managed to drum up enough investors to make it work. It took them five years to get the first one started, with George going to night school while the thing gestated; getting a business degree. Charming story of family solidarity, except for one thing.”

  “Let me guess. They’ve done nothing but fight ever since.”

  “Ain’t it the way, as my mama’s cook used to say. He was married to a woman named Dorothy—Ham’s mom. Nice woman, stuck by him through thick and thin. But the sad part is, she never got to enjoy the thick. Died about the time he got the thing going. Well, that was about the time people started knowing him, and so after this, the story’s a little more reliable. Apparently, he was crazy about Dorothy, although this pretty much came as a shock to everybody because he just seemed like your basic stone-cold workaholic. When she died, he went into what I guess could only be called despair—unless you want to say it was a drunken stupor. Good thing his brothers were around to take care of the business—he didn’t draw a sober breath until the day he woke up married to Patty.”

  “Wait a minute. He got drunk and married her?”

  “Well, I don’t think it was quite like that. He got drunk after Dorothy died and stayed that way about six months; somewhere in that period, he married Patty. She was a real stunner, I gather.”

  “Still is.”

  “But the question is, what did they have in common—I mean with the age difference and Patty’s abiding interest in her own appearance and very little else? When he sobered up, which he quite soon did, George was said to be a little confused about the matter. Of course I was too young to know them then, but I’d say now it looks like Patty’s the one who drinks too much—and I’m not alone in that assessment either.