Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

  Skip called the dispatcher to see if anything had come of her bulletin. Nothing had.

  As she hung up the phone, Frank O’Rourke strode in. “Frank. I thought you’d be at JazzFest.”

  “Some of us have to work, Langdon. Listen, what do you have on the ex-wife?”

  “Ham never got around to making a new will. She does inherit.”

  “Goddammit! She could have the kid, Langdon. She could be holding her. Have you checked out her house?”

  “She doesn’t have the kid. I saw Melody myself this morning.”

  “You what?”

  “She seems to have stolen a car.” Unhappily, she told him the story, knowing it didn’t make her look great.

  True to form, he didn’t miss an opportunity. “You lost them? You didn’t get a license number? What the hell are you telling me?”

  “Listen, I could eat my gun about it. I’m worried as hell about that kid.”

  “I swear to God I don’t know why we keep you around, Langdon.”

  She turned back to the computer and began calling up some imaginary record, anything so she wouldn’t have to look at him anymore, so he’d get the idea of shutting his obnoxious trap and going away.

  But he said, “Find out if the ex-wife needs money.” She nodded very slightly, grudgingly, still staring at the screen. “And do it now.”

  She stared at him. How dare he?

  “Report to me in an hour,” he said, knowing it was Saturday and she had very little chance of finding out any such thing.

  Cappello, goddamn you! I could kill you for getting hurt.

  She sighed. Well, hell, consider it a challenge. Show the bastard.

  She called her favorite twenty-four hour, full-service information spewer—Allison Gaillard.

  “Skippy, I’m so worried about that poor little girl.”

  “Me too, Allison. Just about beside myself. Listen, she’s changed her hair—she’s a blond with a purple streak if you hear anything.”

  “Want me to call around?”

  “I’ve got something a little more pressing, if you don’t mind. But listen, this is very, very confidential—it’s about Mason.”

  “Mason! Omigod. You don’t think she did it, do you?”

  “Well, look. I need to know if she needs money, and I’m afraid I kind of need it right away.”

  Allison laughed, a smug laugh, Skip thought, and that delighted her. “Have you come to the right place. I had lunch with Temple Becknell yesterday, who’s Kitsy Coignard’s realtor, and she said Kitsy just heard Mason’s putting her house on the market.”

  “Maybe she’s buying a bigger one.”

  “Uh-uh. Mason made some real bad investments. She went into business with a guy she was living with who was just a wee bit younger and kind of needed a boost to get started—well, it was like this: he had a house, which he sold to get the money to buy this photography studio, and then he moved in with Mason.”

  “Excuse me—did you say photography studio?”

  “In New Orleans, Louisiana—not exactly the home of big-time advertising and hotshot slick companies.”

  “So what was he taking pictures of?”

  “I think he thought he was a photojournalist—I don’t know. But at first, business didn’t come and she lent him money and then some did and he bought more equipment and he was always on the verge of getting some great job with some company that needed an annual report, and she lent him more and more money.”

  “How could she be that dumb?”

  “Well, she wasn’t that dumb. The business would almost catch on and then wouldn’t quite—you know how that can be? And he’d pay her back a little when it was doing well. What finally did her in was his sick mom.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Oh, no. Mom wasn’t really sick. That was just the boyfriend’s story. It turned out Mom owned the house the b.f. claimed to have owned, and he owed her the money he’d invested in his studio. So Mason took out a third mortgage to lend him money for his mother’s illness, having already taken out a second to keep the business going, which she had bought into and therefore had a vested interest in.

  “But then, without telling her, the boyfriend decided it was never going to work and declared bankruptcy; and since Mason was his partner—and still solvent—the creditors came after her.”

  “What a lowdown centipede.”

  “Well, we still haven’t hit the punch line. Have you heard about the Formosan termites that are eating the Quarter?”

  “No, but I think I saw some the other night, swarming the lightposts. Is that where she lives—the Quarter?”

  “Yes. And she’s got termite damage to beat the band. Which she can’t afford to fix. So she’s selling her house for a song—Kitsy hopes—and finding an apartment.”

  Skip was reeling. “What about the boyfriend?”

  “Oh, she dumped him a month ago,”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Chas Gegenheimer. Not very romantic, is it?”

  “Omigod, he took my brother’s wedding pictures. Gorgeous galoot.”

  “Well, I hope he’s hot in the sack too.”

  “Allison. How many phone calls away is the answer to that one?”

  “Well, if you could see me, you’d know I’m blushing. I know already, of course.”

  Skip was silent for a moment. Allison had a daughter about two years old and a good marriage, she’d thought.

  “Don’t be a dork, Skippy. How could I spend all day on the phone if I had time for silly stuff?”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Your silence was eloquent. I do not know firsthand, but believe me, I know. However, I really must protect my sources.”

  Skip hung up laughing. She had seriously underestimated Allison during their college days. The woman was her idol now—the world’s greatest detective, and she never even had to step outdoors.

  She called her brother, Conrad.

  “My sister, the cop,” he said, “calling her favorite source.” With Conrad, this passed for nice—he usually grumped at her. She figured his new wife, Camille, was the source of the new personality.

  “How’s the ticket situation?”

  “I’m hurtin’. Glad you called.” They had a deal. He gave her information, in return for which she fixed his parking tickets—or so she told him. She paid them herself.

  Lately, they were costing more, though. Knowing she’d be calling eventually, he tended to ignore them, letting the penalties get out of hand.

  “One big one or two littles?”

  “I thought you were a big wheel down there.”

  “Conrad, there’s such a thing as discretion. If I do it too much, they’re going to make me stop.”

  “How big and how little?”

  “Under fifty dollars is little.”

  “Six littles or two bigs.”

  “Jesus, don’t you ever park legally?”

  “I’m storing up nuts for the winter.”

  “Okay, four littles, but still only one big.”

  “No way.”

  “Okay two bigs, dammit. How well do you know Chas Gegenheimer?”

  “Who?”

  “The photographer at your wedding.”

  “Oh. Not at all. He’s a friend of a friend.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “Your victim’s ex-wife, as a matter of fact—Mason Brocato. Well, she’s not really my friend. She’s Camille’s.”

  “I love this town.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Growing up, she’d hated the city, hated the web of connections no one could avoid there, hated the way everyone knew everyone else’s business. Now she was getting used to it, at times like this even liked it. “Well, look, this is kind of delicate, I guess—it’ll be obvious why I’m asking what I’m asking. Can we talk without this getting back to Camille?”

  “Sure. If Mason did it, fuck her.”

  “Mr. Compassion.”

&n
bsp; “Hey, I’ve mellowed. Everybody says so.”

  “Can you find out what Mason’s financial situation is?”

  “I already know. She was over here two days ago complaining to Camille that she’s putting her house on the market. Claims she’s tapped out and it’s all Chas’s fault.”

  “Has she actually put it on the market?”

  “How would I know? But she did mention her agent—that’d be about real estate, wouldn’t it? Jimmy Holhngsworth, who I went to Newman with. Wanted to know if he was married.”

  “Do you have his phone number?”

  “He’s too young for you. And he is married.” He hadn’t mellowed that much.

  One phone call to Hollingsworth identifying herself as Conrad’s sister, and she had what she needed. In fact, more. Not only did he verify the pending house sale—he said, in that confiding Southern way Skip had come to love, “You know Mason’s been going through some hard times lately.”

  A simple “Oh?” and he poured out the whole story. Nothing you could take to court, but the same story three times—plenty good enough for O’Rourke.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “So how can we be talking if I have your only phone?”

  “Melody, is that you? Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Like you really care. Thanks for turning me in.”

  “I didn’t turn you in. You left, and the next thing I knew a cop turned up saying you were involved in a chase.”

  “Oh, sure. Like you gave me your only phone.”

  “I forgot about this phone. I’m not kidding—it’s an old one I had in the basement. I only remembered it when you didn’t come back.” There was a rattling at Richard’s end. “Hear that? It’s me shaking the phone. I dropped it three times and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. That’s why I got a new one.”

  “You just happened to conveniently forget about it.”

  “Melody, I didn’t call the cops. I swear it.”

  “Well, if you didn’t call them, why the hell were they chasing me?”

  “Did you see the person in the other car?”

  “Not very well—it was just some cop wearing shades and a baseball cap. Really great disguise; fooled the hell out of me.”

  “Melody, listen, I don’t think it was a cop. You’ve got to go home—or come here at the very least. You have to get to someplace safe.”

  “No thanks. I know how safe I was before.”

  “Then why’d you call?”

  “You might have turned me in, but I’m still not a car thief. I parked your goddamn car near the auditorium. I hope it gets stripped. I already gave your phone to a kid in the neighborhood.” The Municipal Auditorium was in Treme, a neighborhood that terrified most white people.

  Melody hung up, furious.

  How dumb does she think I am?

  She was at a pay phone at a hotel she’d heard about where lots of kids stayed. More like a flophouse, really—just a few bucks a night. On the way over, she’d shoplifted a pair of panties from Maison Blanche and picked up some shorts at the flea market. She’d showered, applied the Kwell, and was now experiencing blessed relief. She had just about enough for lunch and bus fare back to Joel’s.

  Hoping the bed harbored no bugs (though it looked like it did), she sat down and thought about what to do next.

  Betrayed by Richard. I still don’t believe it.

  Or did I know all the time—unconsciously, as she would say? Did I know I couldn’t trust her or anybody else on this miserable planet?

  How about if I just go walk in front of a bus or something?

  She had to lie down. She felt too awful to sit up. She didn’t even want to curl up, to feel her body against itself, comforting itself. She just lay rigid on her back, arms at her sides, as if she were dead.

  She wished she were. Really, really wished it.

  The idea about the bus had struck her fancy.

  Got Janis’s Ol’ Kozmic Blues again.

  Janis had been like her. Hadn’t fit into her hometown, had been too different to make it there. And talented. And she’d died young.

  Like me. I could do it.

  I wonder how?

  The bus plan was a thought. Or maybe she could jump off something. Take an elevator to the top floor of some building, somehow get to the roof, and just walk into space. She kind of liked that one. She might just get paralyzed from the bus, but she’d never survive a crash from twenty stories up. Even ten.

  If she had a hair dryer, she could take it in the bathtub with her. Or any small appliance—but how could she get one? She could shoplift a curling iron maybe—something small. But if she got caught doing it, it was back to her old life. Unless the irony killed her, which struck her as a real possibility.

  There was a bittersweet pleasure in thinking these thoughts. It was kind of creative in a macabre way.

  But I better think about what it’s like to be dead.

  It was hard at first. She tried out words.

  Cold.

  Still.

  Motionless.

  Quiet.

  Like I am right now.

  The thought was oddly appealing. But there was something about Janis that was nagging at her, something that wasn’t quite right.

  It came to her—Janis had a career. She didn’t die before she sang, before she became Janis.

  Melody thought about that for a while. And honestly found she wasn’t all that damned interested in a career right now. Lying here, maybe forever, seemed more appealing.

  She closed her eyes.

  She didn’t know how long she’d slept, didn’t have a watch, but she was afraid it was too long. She felt hot and panicky. She had to replace the Boucrees’ infested sheets before anyone turned up to practice.

  She would stay at the Boucrees’ one more night, catch their set on Sunday, and then decide what to do. If she was going to die, it couldn’t be at their studio. That would be the ultimate betrayal of hospitality.

  She took the sheets with her. She’d now stolen three times in one day. What was next—hooking? She stared out the window of the bus, tears tracing hot paths down her face. Her eyes hurt.

  If I were dead, I couldn’t get the crabs and my eyes wouldn’t burn every time I cry.

  But I wouldn’t cry because I wouldn’t feel a damn thing.

  Her “dead” words changed subtly. Maybe cool and restful was more like it. As if summoned, the smell of loam came to her, of rotting vegetation in the summertime. She had always loved that smell.

  But I’d have no nose if I were dead.

  She couldn’t convince herself. She thought that if you were in the ground, the cool and peaceful ground, where it was quiet and nothing hurt, you could smell that smell; you had to be able to. You would lie in the ground and you would smell the ground and then you would become part of the ground, part of the smell, a component of the loam; you would be the Earth herself, a goddess, some said. You would have achieved immortality.

  I’d be contributing to the ecosystem.

  She liked the idea. At the same time, it horrified her to realize it would have made her giggle if she’d been in her right mind. It wasn’t funny at all now. She genuinely thought it might be the best contribution she could make.

  She got off the bus and made her way to the Boucrees’ garage. No one was there, and she was grateful. Sluggishly, feeling nothing except a vague sense of duty, she ripped off the contaminated sheets, replaced them with the stolen ones.

  Then there was nothing to do but lie down again. But she didn’t. Like a sleepwalker, she went to the piano and sat. She hadn’t yet been able to work on Ham’s song with her instrument, and that was what she found herself doing. It was funny how it happened. She didn’t decide to, it happened. Perhaps alcoholics found themselves drinking with no recollection of having gone to the store for a bottle of bourbon. She knew that compulsive eating was like this, had heard friends talk about suddenly realizing they were holding an empty Oreo package. She
thought it odd, what she was doing, but she didn’t stop to ponder. She was running on automatic and it was like lying in the ground; nothing hurt.

  For the first time, she played the song, and was shocked at how good it sounded. But it needed work. So much, such a ton of work! She’d never get it done.

  He gave me ice cream on sunny days and alligator lessons;

  He gave me Janis, he gave me Etta, he gave me Irma—

  He gave me the blues and it made me so happy

  He gave me music. He gave me music, He gave me music!

  When I sang before, it was just the baby blues—

  Now I got the cobalts; I got the royal-blues;

  I got the midnight-blues for my brother… the one

  Who gave me music—

  It was working. It was good. Good. It was wonderful. She was loving it, she was loving singing it. Before, it had been only a tune in her head, or hummed softly to herself so no one could hear. Now she was pouring it out from her soles, from the floor, from the ground under the building, from the middle of the Earth; and it felt soooo good.

  “Holy shit,” someone said. “Who is this babe?”

  It was a whisper, but it was a shade too loud. Melody screamed into the microphone. Her hands flew up from the keyboard and she whirled.

  Two of the Boucrees were there—she didn’t know their names, but she thought one was Joel’s father, Tyrone. She’d been so engrossed, she hadn’t even heard them come in.

  “You scared me,” she said, embarrassed, and now even more so, for saying such a dumb thing.

  “Take it easy now; take it easy. We didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The man sounded as if he were talking to a dog: Take it easy, girl; you’ll be okay. She straightened up, got the squeak out of her voice.

  “I’m a friend of Joel’s. Mel—uh, Janis, uh, Frank.” After Anne Frank; someone else who died young, who had an artist’s soul. Melody was pleased with herself for thinking of her.

  “Well, I’m Joel’s dad, Tyrone—and this here’s my brother, Chick.”

  “Baby, you sho’ can sing,” said Chick. He was a fairly young guy, probably not more than thirty, with hair cropped short and round, wire-rimmed glasses; very severe. He reminded Melody of Delfeayo Marsalis, and she thought that was probably not accidental. The way he talked, kind of affectedly funky, didn’t even begin to go with the look. He reached out his hand, as if to give her high five, but then thought better of it and slapped his own leg. “Mmmmph! You sho’ can!”