Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  “Maggy, times are bad.” His eyes were slits in swollen skin as if he’d not slept for ages. His slightly blue lips twitched. “I appreciate you filling in these nights. But we’re paddling in shit around here.”

  “How deep?” She wanted to be nice and care about his business problems, but he had no right to interfere with her talking to a guy during her break. She hated it when men messed with her life.

  “I should’ve told you sooner, but I kept hoping things would change.

  “What?”

  “The club’s in bad shape financially. It’s fucked. Been that way for a while.”

  “Tough times?” The economy had been in one long recession for a couple years, beating everyone up. She knew it had to have hurt the Black Cat as well. People stop going out when money gets scarce. Clarence’s drinking habits had made her wonder. But this was the first time he had talked to her about it. “Fucked?”

  “When I bought this bar forty years ago it sat in the middle of run-down warehouses. Now it’s surrounded by upscale condos. My taxes are going through the roof. I’ve got inspectors looking for any sign of pests to shut me down, and developers beating down my door. Meanwhile the old building’s falling apart and I can’t afford to fix it.”

  This didn’t make sense. “We’re doing well in here,” she said. The place is packed tonight.”

  “Not only do we need to keep it packed every night, we also have to raise our prices. There are people who want us out of here; because we don’t look refined enough for the neighborhood and others who just want the land we stand on to turn it into another cement condominium.”

  “But if the Black Cat goes . . .”

  “I know. It’s the only true blues bar in the city, and the best on the coast.”

  “Can’t you get them to back off?”

  “I’ve tried.” His head dipped.

  A sense of dread settled into the room. There was something he wasn’t saying. “What did you do?” She touched the cold brick wall behind her.

  Clarence looked above her shoulder at the picture of Bob Dylan on the wall behind her for a moment and then returned his eyes to her. His face paled like a death mask. “I sold part of the business.”

  She worked at not gasping. Her career counted on the Black Cat. After a lifetime of dreams she had finally started to taste success, here at the Black Cat.

  “And you don’t want to know who bought it.” He lowered his voice.

  “Who?” Her stomach clenched.

  “Three months ago to keep away the fucking vultures I sold one third to a man interested in keeping us going. He’s a real blues guy, and it helped. But then the plumbing in the men’s’ washroom plugged up and more bills poured in. I was broke again.

  “So, last month, I sold another third to the guy who was murdered in the alley, Jimmy Daniels.” He grimaced.

  The air rushed out of her lungs. “Does it get any worse?”

  “Yes. Two days ago I found out that Jimmy had talked to the local developers, Smith & Sons, about selling his share.”

  She leaned closer to him. “You didn’t?”

  “Hell no.” The smell of scotch hit her face with his breath. “I sure as hell felt like murdering the son of a bitch, but no, I didn’t kill him. I yelled at him some. But that’s all. I swear.”

  But something in his voice told her he was lying. A shudder ran through her body. “All?”

  He grimaced. “And I punched him in the face. I probably left some DNA there. Ya know what I mean.”

  Maggy nodded.

  “When the police find out they’re going to want to talk to me.”

  An image of Jimmy’s swollen, bloody lip slid through Maggy’s mind. The pieces were beginning to fit together. “Why did Jimmy Daniels want a share in the bar?”

  “Money. Plain and simple. When he told me it was a good investment, I thought he meant in the blues, but he meant in his pocket. He intended to flip it for big bucks. The asshole wasn’t straight with me.”

  “And the third owner?”

  “Let’s keep him out of this for now. I may need your help with him later, but for now he’s a silent, friendly partner.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. “So you want me to vouch for you with the cops?”

  “Hell no woman. I told you I’m innocent.” His eyes widened and he threw his hands in the air in defense. “I want you to be extra nice to all our customers. I need them coming back, every night, staying late and buying drinks. And . . .” He looked at his watch.

  “And?”

  He looked at his desk as if he couldn’t look at her. “I feel bad asking you this, but you could talk to your friend Logan out there and find out what his family intends to do with their share of the bar now that Jimmy’s gone.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to be your spy?”

  “Babe, with the Black Cat’s future at stake, your job’s on the line.”

  “Can’t imagine anyone wanting to sell the Black Cat.”

  Clarence looked at his watch again. “It’s time for your last set.”

  With a pained smile Maggy headed for the door. Over her shoulder she said, “We’re not going to lose the Black Cat, if I can help it.”

  ***

  Looking at Logan she grabbed the microphone and sang, “I Just Want to Make Love to You.”

  16

  Edgar filled his mug with Earl Grey tea. He’d only met his great-grandmother Rita once, a fragile old woman with clear, blues eyes that seemed to look right through him. He’d been almost five. She died soon after that. He shuddered.

  Hard to imagine the old woman had once been young and naughty. He continued reading:

  Rita’s Journal

  Nanaimo, B.C.,October 31, 1928

  Brother XII’s trial was a debacle.

  I stood outside the city council chambers in Nanaimo for an hour yesterday at the corner of Bastion and Skinner. I heard with my own ears the lawyer for the prosecution, Thomas Morton, say to the crowd that he wasn’t afraid of spirits or ghosts or anything like that. As if we in the Aquarius group believe in such things. Imagine “ghosts!” People believe the silly stories about Brother XII and black magic! They call him a cult leader. If they only knew the real story they would understand. They are blind to his virtues, to his vision of a new world.

  The brother’s been charged under his legal name, Edward Arthur Wilson, with embezzling—stealing thirteen thousand dollars from our Aquarian Foundation to be exact. Several of the loyal followers, including our good friend Robert England claim this to be true, but I can’t believe any of it. It’s all a misunderstanding.

  And when the charges went to court the strangest thing happened. The magistrate, a conservative man in an old-fashioned suit by the name of Beevor-Potts, brought the session to order and stated the charges. Then Thomas Morton, the man I’d just seen outside the building saying that spirits don’t exist, collapsed. He just fell down, and others did too. At the same moment! About ten of them were lying flat on the floor, out cold. It was spooky. People were screaming and running around.

  I held my breath, sure that the spirits had visited us and cursed the men with evil in their hearts.

  The judge lowered his gavel and, with a shaky voice, adjourned the court. Rumors ran through the town like wild fire. Some said Brother XII hypnotized the people and told them to collapse. Others said it was his black magic. A few believe it was food poisoning. But I believe in the power of the spirits. I know they struck those men down. Goodness will always prevail.

  That all happened yesterday. Today, the judge moved the trial to Vancouver. There are too many rumors on Vancouver Island to have a fair trial, he said. The town paper is talking about Brother XII on the front page calling the event a, “local sensation.” The judge thinks the trial will be safer on the mainland. I’ll follow the brother wherever he’s sent, but I do think this silly nonsense is a waste of money.

  And I could tell the judge a thing or two. No-where is a person
safe from the spirits, especially if they cross the brother. He can move the trial to Vancouver, but it won’t make anyone safer.

  Brother XII was not at all dismayed by the events. He shrugged his shoulders when I asked him how he felt about it, said, “Fools. The world is full of fools.” Then he kissed me, and the worry of the courts melted away.

  Last night, Brother XII and I continued exploring the edges of Decourcy Island. I love our moonlit adventures. He rows a little skiff and we talk about the constellations. We stopped inside a cave for about twenty minutes. A couple bats flew near our heads. It was really creepy. One flew within an inch of my head, and I screamed. That made him laugh. He does not laugh often.

  When I complained about the cave, he rowed out and we settled for a while on the shore. We made love under the stars. He was tender as he had been in the beginning. I like him that way. When he gets all angry with people, he forces me to do things I don’t always enjoy. At least not as much.

  I wonder what the spirits think of my lust. Brother XII says, it is right for men and women to couple. It strengthens the community. It’s a part of the natural law.

  People say the brother coupled with another woman in the House of Mystery last week. The young pretty one whose husband’s been sent to the other island to work. That’s supposed to be a sacred place. I can’t believe he would violate it, let alone be with another woman. That’s just another nasty rumor.

  In his magazine, The Chalice, he’s been writing about the American election. He’s so knowledgeable. I guess he must get it from the spirits.

  I still wonder what he sees in plain little old me.

  17

  “You are the music while the music lasts.” T. S. Eliot

  Hunter rubbed his hands together for warmth. The new moon slid behind a blanket of dark clouds. Only the warm glow coming from inside boats and float homes at the marina lit the night, the kind of hearth glow that warms the heart. Damn, he’d like to be inside with a woman and, if he had his way, with Maggy Malone.

  At the meeting in the morning people signed up to patrol the docks. He’d taken the empty spot in the middle of the night. It seemed like a good idea at the time. An hour had passed, but so far he’d seen nothing unusual and gotten himself soaked in the unrelenting rain. Did the Dock Rat know about the security patrols? Dock Rat. That was the name Smokey gave the unknown asshole who messed with their stuff at the docks. It fit.

  Hell, he could be in one of the patrols. Hunter shook his head, hoping the Rat wasn’t an insider.

  Mist formed above the water in swirls. Dampness seeped into his bones, chilling him to his core. Walking the docks seemed the only way to keep the community safe. He kept himself warm thinking of snuggling up with Maggy. He could almost feel her soft skin, smell her scent. He shook his head to clear it. If ever there was a time he needed to focus, it was now. He needed to protect his community, including Maggy, and that meant keeping his guard up. That’s how he’d catch the Rat, with vigilance and determination.

  The brisk breeze off the Salish Sea caught the ends of loosely stowed sails, making rustling sounds up and down the docks. Boats rocked by the wind and water bumped against the docks. Mast fittings clanged in the wind. A fog horn blasted in the distance. The dock sounds, so familiar to him, would have been comforting if he wasn’t looking for the person trying to ruin it all. Why would anyone want to disturb such peace?

  The sound of a delicate footfall made him turn around. There stood Elena in her rain gear. He immediately wondered what was under it. She wasn’t what he needed right now, or ever for that matter.

  “Hey,” he said. “Sneaking up on me?”

  “I thought you might like company.” She sauntered toward him.

  Yeah, like a hole in the head. The woman lived with a Mexican drug lord. He didn’t need that kind of trouble. “Did you set the fire in your galley?”

  She hesitated too long. In the faint light, her fine-boned face turned into a smile. “What if I did?”

  “I’d be seriously pissed off.”

  She moved closer.

  He was a man, and despite being angry, his body responded to her proximity. He tried narrowing his gaze.

  “And what would you do to me if you were angry?” Her coy voice stopped him cold; too artificial for his tastes.

  “If I weren’t a gentleman?”

  “Gentlemen are overrated. If you weren’t a gentleman, what would you do?” She stood next to him now. Her warm breath touched his face and the heat of her body warmed him in a dangerous way.

  “I’d throw you in the chuck.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back.

  Elena’s baby blues popped. “Oh.”

  “We can’t happen,” he said.

  “But, we’d be so good.” She emphasized the “so” and inched closer. A piece of paper couldn’t fit between them. This woman was persistent.

  He stepped back. “First of all, you live with your boyfriend.”

  “He’s away all the time and I get lonely. I need some toys to play with.”

  “He’s a crook, Elena. Deal with it. And I’m not a toy.”

  “And if I wasn’t with him?”

  She’d moved in again, cunning like a cat slinking into warmth. He hesitated, probably too long. It was that disconnect thing. While his brain said, “No fucking way,” his body said, “Oh yeah.” The time it took him to think was all she needed. Her arms circled his body and pulled him to her with a strength he didn’t know she possessed.

  That’s when he heard a strange noise.

  His body froze. The hair on the back of his neck rose. It came from the end of the dock. He pushed Elena away and started running. It sounded like a hammer tapping. At three-thirty in the fucking morning? Who’d be building in the middle of the night?

  Elena said something, but he didn’t stop to listen. He wanted to get to the sound, fast, wanted to find out, once and for all, what was going on. Find the Dock Rat.

  It felt like forever, but was more like two minutes, before he reached the end of the dock. Adrenaline rushed through his body, focusing his mind. He’d find the bastard who’d caused the trouble.

  But there was no one in sight. He looked towards the sound and saw a hammer, tied to a thin rope, attached to the side of a sailboat. The rocking of the hull made it hit the side rhythmically. What the fuck?

  He knew the boat. It belonged to Parker, a semi-retired lawyer who lived in North Vancouver. He hadn’t been down to the docks for at least a week. Something about a conference in Vegas.

  He reached down for the hammer and pulled it up. On the side of the wooden handle a message in black marker read: “Gotcha.”

  Using his flashlight Hunter scanned the dock, but he had just been here minutes before. The guy had to be on the water. He scanned the water. One boat, a small skiff headed towards Maggy’s houseboat community. “Maggy.”

  Hunter started running. As he passed Elena she grabbed at his arm, but he pushed her away. He’d deal with her later, one way or another. Right now, he had to get to Maggy.

  A metallic taste flooded his mouth. His muscles tensed but he ran full out. The Rat had a lot of explaining to do. He ran to her door. Candlelight flickered through her blinds. She must be meditating. Sometimes she got mystic-like after singing.

  He reached for her door handle and didn’t bother knocking. Too pumped. He opened the door wide and burst through. Maggy was in the arms of another man. Shit!

  ***

  “Hunter,” Maggy said.

  She pushed Logan away and turned to face Hunter, watching his face pale at the sight of her naked breasts in front of him.

  Logan turned also. “What the hell?” His voice growled at the edges. He reached for Maggy in a show of possession.

  She moved away from him, grabbed her blouse off the floor, turned and put it on.

  Hunter moved towards Logan. Not a good thing. Squeezing between them, she held them apart with her hands, tasting testosterone in the air.

/>   “Hunter, what’s going on?” she asked.

  He shifted his eyes away from Logan and locked with hers. It took him a minute to answer. “A guy. I saw a guy in a row boat heading this way.” His steely blue eyes began to soften. “I’m sorry Maggy. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Logan backed off. “You could have knocked, man.” His voice sounded less ragged now. Maggy’s pulse slowed.

  “Look, buddy. I don’t know who you are,” said Logan. She kept her hand against Hunter to make sure he didn’t lunge. This was insane.

  “What did the guy look like?” she asked.

  “It’s pitch black on the water. A fog bank is moving in. All I could see—” he paused to breath, “—was a black shape rowing a boat this way. No one’s going to be out in the rain and cold in the middle of the night unless they’re up to no good.” Hunter hesitated. “I figure he’s The Rat.”

  “The Rat?” asked Logan, his face red.

  Hunter looked at him. “An asshole sabotaging the docks, cutting boat lines, setting fires, crap like that. He left me a note a few minutes ago at my dock. It made sense that the guy in the boat was that man.”

  “The Rat?” Maggy tried to piece it together.

  “Whatever—the bad guy.” Hunter’s body relaxed. “He’s probably long gone now, but you’re safe, so . . .”

  A scream pierced the night. “Aaaaaaaaaaaah!. Help. Someone, help me! Heeeelp!” They ran out the door, Hunter first, followed by Maggy and then Logan.

  Elena stood on the dock beside Maggy’s place. With a shaking hand she pointed at the water and then her body collapsed onto the wooden boards.

  A body floated face down in the water.

  Maggy knelt down to take a look at Elena while Hunter jumped in and pulled the body to the dock. Logan helped him heave the body on top of the wooden dock, then he extended his hand to Hunter. Together they rolled the body over together.

  Maggy screamed. “Edgar!” A long marlin spike protruded from his chest.