Jackson grabbed Billy’s hand, feeling the wave of enthusiasm, and headed for the far right corner of the bar. Some patrons playing pool stopped their game to inch closer to the show, and the boys hurried up the stairs.
Jackson made Billy stay close to him, because of the darkness. “Come on, bud. Everything’s fine.” After a few slow, deliberate steps, they made it to the top. Jackson planted both feet in the dimly lit hall. He squeezed Billy’s hand and turned to look at him when suddenly, from out of the murky hall, someone broke through and tackled Jackson. It was one of those tackles they teach on the football fields in Tuscaloosa and Baton Rouge, a head-on collision right in the chest. The assailant’s shoulder tagged Jackson directly below the sternum, causing him to fall to the edge of the stairs and roll to his side groaning. He scooted out of the way, hoping his tackler had not hit him intentionally.
There was a wild racket above his head—much scrambling and shuffling of feet and bodies. It almost sounded like an impromptu wrestling match had broken loose. Jackson shifted around on the floor to watch the commotion. The person who had tackled him ran down the stairs and turned the corner on the bottom floor. Jackson saw him just as a second man followed, almost tripping down the staircase. The second man wore a pair of colorful plaid shorts and a golf shirt. His pretty wavy hair floated as he descended the stairs. Both the escapees were running from a much larger man, who was doing more thumping than running. It only took a second for Jackson to realize who it was.
Rogers’ familiar voice bellowed, “Stop lying on the floor. If the customers see you down there, our cover’s ruined.”
“Since you’re the one chasing people, do you seriously think we’re the ones blowing our cover?”
The lieutenant leapt down the steps after the suspects. At the bottom, he stopped just shy of rounding the corner, put his radio to his mouth, and told the officers outside to grab the two men who had just run out of the bar. He hit the wall with his fist and then turned to the boys. “Get up, dammit.”
The redheaded bartender poked his face around the corner to see Rogers leaning against the wall. Jackson and Billy remained sprawled over the top of the stairs. “Do I need to call the police?”
“I am the police.” Rogers waved his badge at the bartender and then raised his shoulders. He spoke so vehemently that his body shook. “You best not breathe a word to anyone. It’ll ruin an ongoing investigation, and I’ll have your ass for obstructing me. Understand?” The jolly redheaded man became a little pale-faced and slinked away. Rogers disappeared around the corner and out of view.
The boys got to their feet and walked a few steps down the hallway. Billy clenched his fists as he tried to get his bearings. “I hate this place.” He pointed to some locked rooms on the right, secret rooms marked “Private”.
“The dancers perform behind those walls,” Jackson said, putting his ear against the first one. Sconces flickered in the corridor creating the appearance of a gothic castle hall. On the other side of the hall from where Jackson listened, the doors were spaced farther apart.
“This must be that secret balcony we saw from downstairs,” Billy said, crossing over to the door. He jiggled the handle. The patrons inside were clapping, apparently at the dancing boxer.
Near the end of the hall, another door opened onto the big open mezzanine with a view of the dancers below. The boxer’s music became louder as the boys got closer. At the edge of the balcony, Neil and Allen peered down at the performer. They had a similar angle as the one Edgar Degas painted in his scenes of the French ballet, viewed from the balcony. The wealthy patrons who “kept” the young dancers got the best seats in the theater.
Jackson turned around to tell Billy to come with him, but Billy had vanished. “Hey! Billy! Where’d you go?” It was so dark, Jackson had a hard time seeing more than fifteen feet. He feared another tackle and hurried back toward the staircase, hoping Billy had wandered there, but there was no sign of his partner.
Quickly, Jackson ran to the other side and popped his head into the mezzanine area where Allen and Neil peered over the balcony. Neil turned around and Jackson said, “Have you seen Billy? He was just beside me a minute ago, but he disappeared.”
Neil shook his head and then stood. Jackson turned around and took two steps down the hall when one of the locked doors swung open and Buddy stepped out. Jackson met Buddy’s eyes and flinched. His pupils were enormous and veins on his neck bulged. Jackson turned to run, but Buddy grabbed him before he could get away. The hustler dragged him inside and used his body to slam the door. Jackson saw Billy in the corner of the room, looking as sad as Goose looked without food. “What happened, Billy?”
Buddy grabbed Jackson’s jaw and jerked his face, so that their noses nearly touched. “Shut up, cuz. You don’t worry about him. You ain’t leaving here till I get back what’s mine.”
The walls rumbled. “Hey, Jackson, what’s going on?” Neil shook the door as he hammered it from the hall. “Jackson? Billy? Are y’all in there?” Buddy cupped Jackson’s mouth and pointed his finger in Billy’s face, warning him not to speak.
Billy jumped to the other side of the room and said, “Yeah, Neil, we’re here. Buddy’s got Jack—” Buddy chased Billy to the cushioned benches and pinned him against the seats. He had Jackson caught by the arm. Jackson heard some scuffling outside the door and then Rogers wailed, “Open this damn, door.” He knocked so ferociously that the benches inside the room shook. Buddy had Jackson and Billy cornered in the dark room. Rogers shouted again. “I’m going to kick down the door.”
Twenty-Eight
Jackson pushed the hustler off Billy, forcing him to the floor. Buddy’s wolf tattoo’s teeth stretched as his muscles moved, and he jumped Jackson. Billy swung his satchel, landing one good lick on Buddy’s head before Buddy swatted the satchel to the floor.
Rogers kicked the door so hard the walls of the private room shook. Jackson heard Neil yelling from outside. “Kick harder, Rogers.” On the second attempt, the frame splintered and the door burst open. The lieutenant flew into the room, tripping over Billy and falling squarely on Jackson. Neil and Allen were coming in so fast that they flew into the pile, which elicited a few f-bombs throughout the room. The group created quite a spectacle of legs and arms and voices.
Neil struggled to pull himself off the pile. The lieutenant had somehow managed to climb the pile, and Neil tried to squirm out from under the weight. “Rogers, see what you did, you brute? Just look at us, flailing around like a bowl of crickets. I told you to let me handle it.”
Rogers grunted. “You weren’t strong enough to make that door budge. Now, get off of me.”
“I’m not on you. Allen is.” Neil tried to untangle himself from the cluster, shifting arms and legs that were blocking him from freedom.
Rogers heaved himself to his feet, using Jackson as something of a stepladder. “Where did he go?”
“Where did who go?” Jackson asked.
“That hustler, Buddy.”
As the others were gaining their feet again, Rogers ran out and Jackson limped after him. Rogers peeked inside the open mezzanine. He searched the room, kicking a few chairs in the process, and then he hurried out toward the staircase.
Jackson started to follow Rogers, then turned back to search the area again, bending down to look under the tables. “Rogers missed him, I guarantee it,” Jackson whispered. He passed the tables and chairs, and scanned the open room. A few booths sat near the wall, separating the open space from the private balcony. Jackson leaned over the railing to see the boxer sweating and dancing below. Just as he did, he felt strong, rough hands on his neck, yanking him back. It was a familiar feeling from familiar hands.
“You got them figures of Glenway’s, cuz. You took ‘em from my house, and you gonna give ’em back.” Buddy’s breath smelled like beer.
“Buddy, of course I’m going to return them. I only took them to find who killed Glenway.” Jackson was close enough to look over the balcony but too f
ar to jump. He helplessly tried to make eye contact with one of the customers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rogers near the pool tables at the far end of the first floor. Jackson waved at him, and Buddy clutched his neck even tighter, eliciting a less-than-masculine peep from Jackson.
Rogers heard the yelp and made eye contact with Jackson. He yelled at Buddy and then came running. Buddy released his grip and craned his stout neck over the railing, apparently trying to locate the lieutenant.
Jackson said, “Only two ways of leaving, Buddy. You either climb the ledge and jump down on the bar, or go meet Rogers in the dark hallway behind us.”
Buddy peered over into the crowd and the bar and then hoisted one of his legs on the balcony rail. Jackson grabbed him. “Buddy, tell me who Blue Moon is.”
“Hey, cuz, unloose me or I’ll drag your ass over.” Buddy grabbed Jackson’s shirt with both hands.
“Tell me who Glenway called Blue Moon. Was it Thurston?”
Rogers screamed from the dark hallway as he approached, thumping the floor. Jackson dug his elbow into Buddy’s ribs.
“Cool it, man.” Buddy grimaced. “It’s Hill, cuz, the hotel manager.”
“How do you know Hill is Blue Moon?” Jackson ground his elbow deeper.
Buddy shifted away. “Hill was obsessed with Glenway. Glenway called him something else too. I can’t remember what. Said they were cozy for a while, earlier this year.” Buddy balanced on the ledge. “Let me go, cuz. And you bring me back what you stole, or next time you won’t be gettin’ away.”
Rogers burst into the open space, throwing tables and chairs out of his way. Buddy jumped down on the makeshift catwalk and the crowd went berserk, as if it were raining strippers in New Orleans. Whistles cut the air as Buddy landed on the bar, wearing his wifebeater T-shirt and showing off his ripped arms. He pulled up his shirt and revealed his tattooed abdomen, and the audience reacted accordingly. Screams of excitement pierced the smoky air. He had to wade through the crowd from the far edge of the bar, which the customers apparently enjoyed, judging from the number of times he was groped and pinched. Jackson watched him make it two steps out of the building before Rogers’s men grabbed him.
Rogers clutched the brass railing. “You’re lucky. You nearly caused us to lose him.” He whipped his big head around to scan the rowdy audience.
“I certainly did not. You were the one who ran in the wrong direction. I knew he was still up here, thank you very much. Stop talking to me like I’m one of your underlings.”
Rogers grunted, the way a pig grunts when he’s caught the scent of slop.
Jackson leaned over the rail. “Hey, there’s Catfish right there.”
“Where?” The lieutenant balled his fists. His lower jaw jutted out toward the crowd.
“Over by the pool tables.” Jackson indicated the far left corner of the room, and Rogers left in a hurry. Jackson hadn’t really seen Catfish; he just needed a minute to think about what Buddy had told him. Neil and Allen walked back on the mezzanine.
Neil asked, “Where’s the lieutenant going? I wanted to have a word with him about knocking us into the wall. Billy’s still limping.” Billy hobbled to the table, walking just like his mother.
Jackson said, “Do you know what Buddy just told me? He said Hill, that fussy hotel manager, is the one Glenway called ‘Blue Moon.’” As Jackson said it, Neil looked at Allen, who focused on a chair without making eye contact. “Does this mean you guys know Hill?”
“Of course not, Jackson. Why would you say that?” Neil straightened his back.
“Because you knew Thurston and didn’t tell me. I need to make sure you don’t know about Hill.” Jackson squeezed Billy’s knee, because Billy had been suspicious of them ever since the murder, and he wanted Billy to pay attention to their reactions.
“I don’t know him. Really,” Neil said. “Glenway certainly never mentioned him, but as you know, Glenway liked to keep his liaisons to himself. I don’t know Blue Moon’s true identity, but I do know I wouldn’t necessarily trust what Buddy says. The way he acts it seems he’s got more than a little to hide. No one with a clean conscience would jump over this balcony, not to mention constrain you and Billy in a room. What a lunatic. All over a few figurines from Glenway’s house, which he no doubt wanted to have for his own profit. He’s a slippery one, that Buddy.”
Smoke from the dance floor floated over the balcony. Allen sat down in a chair for a moment, leaning forward until his beard touched his knee. He appeared to be staring at his leg, but Jackson recognized the posture as one Allen often assumed when thinking about something. “You know, it’s curious. I seem to remember musical notations near the name ‘Blue Moon’ in Glenway’s journal. Maybe Glenway picked the name from the song. It’s a nice song, and I wonder if it means something to Hill.”
“It’s kind of a depressing song, and he makes me feel depressed when I’m around him,” Jackson said. “Like we’re not good enough, or like he’s too good…too good for the world. He’s a fastidious little thing, and come to think of it, he does seem sad…tired and sad.”
During the lull in the dance music from below, Allen started whistling the tune to “Blue Moon.” For a few moments he sat there whistling and stroking his beard, then he took out a few single dollars and made paper airplanes to sail down to the dancers. A waiter approached them, wearing only a bow tie and tight black shorts. Neil ordered them all a drink, and as the waiter left, Jackson heard the crowd stirring. He looked down and saw the redheaded bartender helping a customer. From his periphery, he saw a scuffle. The crowd near the staircase began stirring feverishly, jerking almost, from one direction to the next. Then Jackson heard footsteps running up the stairs, followed by the sound of boots clomping down the hall.
“You ain’t gettin’ away from me, Catfish. Slow your ass down. You got nowhere to go.” A man in overalls and a mesh hat ran past the door of the mezzanine, Rogers close on his heels.
Jackson got up and followed, watching them race toward the opposite end of the hall. They passed an exit sign with a bad, blinking light bulb, and as soon as Rogers swooshed under it, Jackson ran after them. Neil and Allen followed. Catfish slammed into the door ten steps in front of Rogers.
The emergency exit opened onto a rusty, metal staircase, which led to the side street. Catfish took the stairs like a gator takes to grassy marshland. He slammed to the ground in his work boots.
Rogers barked at him to stop. “Dammit, Catfish, you ain’t outrunning me.” He said it as if he knew that’s exactly what the country boy was about to do.
Jackson saw the escapee gaining distance from the lieutenant. He remembered that the roads came together at a “V” at the ballet entrance. He leapt down the rusty metal walk and told Neil and Allen to hurry. “Maybe we can catch Leonard one block over.”
Jackson got to street level and realized his friends were still standing on the walkway. He didn’t wait on them, hoping to catch Leonard on the next street. He ran four blocks, searching everywhere. He had to stop and rest. He put his hand on the trunk of one of those glowing-white crepe myrtles in the Quarter. The sound of an old Cadillac rumbled up ahead. He turned toward the car and crept along a dark sidewalk. The interior light in the Cadillac flashed as Catfish opened the door.
“Hurry, baby…Who chasin’ you?...Shoot, they ain’t gonna get you now. Sure as the day.” The woman’s singsong voice floated through the air, and as soon as Leonard closed the door, the old car surged down the street.
There was no mistaking that voice.
* * * * *
Jackson took his time returning to the Tool Belt. He needed an intermission away from the others to reflect on Buddy’s information and Catfish’s escape.
If Hill was Blue Moon, and he was obsessed with Glenway, then it was no mistake that they were staying at Chez Hill. His thoughts brought the manager into focus. He ambled through the streets of the French Quarter, catching the strong scent of gardenia. He remembered Imogene’s assessment tha
t there were dangerous characters in the Quarter after nightfall. Catfish was one such character, and his escape from the ballet made him even more suspicious. He wouldn’t have risked making such a scene leaving the ballet if he weren’t guilty of something.
Returning to the Tool Belt, Jackson approached the front of the building, passing the paddy wagon and the officers waiting to capture more suspects. They were handcuffing two people whom Jackson didn’t recognize.
Inside, he immediately noticed something protruding from the private balcony, a glossy walking cane. He saw a pair of meaty hands grasp the railing beside the cane. He didn’t have to see the face to know whose hands those were, especially with the enormous ring Rogers wore.
“Does that cane belong to Rogers? Surely not,” Jackson whispered, feeling a chill go all over him. Someone else besides Rogers grabbed the cane and removed it from sight.
In the open area of the balcony, Allen let a paper airplane fall on a new dancer below, a young man dressed up like a sailor, his naval cap sideways on his head. He wore dark blue underwear, which hugged his waist like plastic wrap.
Jackson hurried to the second level. He nearly reached the top when Thurston burst from the private balcony, scurrying forward.
“Hey, Canebrake. Hold up, there.”
Thurston hesitated just a moment, keeping his eyes on the floor, and then tried to pass Jackson.
“Wait. Neil told me you were from Demopolis. So, Glenway named you for the Canebrake region?”
Thurston didn’t answer right away. He had not shut the door to the private balcony. He was sort of wobbling in the hallway. Jackson needed to confront him, but he saw faint silhouettes inside the enclosed balcony, so he nudged the door open. He took one step inside and someone forced the door shut, pushing him back out against the wall. He grabbed the wainscoting to keep his balance.
Imogene in New Orleans Page 24
