The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  She pointed to the sliver of walk-thru space that masqueraded as a kitchen. “Does that mean you want to know?”

  I placed my clothes on a chair and poured the coffee from a silver container on the counter. “New?”

  She smiled, though a troubled look flitted through her eyes. “Yes.” Her smile disappeared but her voice remained soft. “I paid for it myself.”

  I kept my eyes on the cup. “I didn’t ask that.”

  “Yes, you did. What’s going on, Matt? You’re fighting with everybody?”

  I wasn’t ready to admit the obvious. “Boots. I didn’t bring up Hal, you did.”

  “I’m not just talking about us. Lou told me what happened yesterday. And he explained a little about what’s been going on between the two of you.”

  I drank from my cup, and lit a cigarette. I reached for the ashtray. I always liked finding it clean. “It’s not very complicated. I don’t enjoy being squeezed. I especially don’t like it when it happens in front of other people. People I have to live with. I ended up walking out on all of them.”

  Boots shook her head. “Not all of them, Matt. You’re walking out on Lou.”

  I searched hard for some sound of reproach to justify my getting angry, but there was none. “What are you saying?”

  “He’s not doing well.”

  I felt my stomach lurch. “Is he sick? Do you know something I don’t?” “You don’t want to know. He’s not sick; he’s lost.”

  “Lost?”

  She moved across the room and stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray’s gleaming surface. “He doesn’t know what to do with his life now that Martha is dead. He probably wants to move here.”

  “Move here?” Boots had voiced the fear I’d been actively trying to obscure. Her words echoed inside me with an accuracy my double-clutched belly confirmed. Still, it was a truth I wanted to deny. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Does it shock you? It shouldn’t, really. You’re all he has left for family.”

  I’d come here to avoid Lou, not to marry him. “Boots, you’re being overdramatic. His whole life is in Chicago. The Democratic Party, everything.”

  “Matt, Richard Daley has been dead for a long time.” “But Boots…” I protested without conviction.

  “But Boots nothing.” She walked back to her chair by the telephone. “Lou’s glory days are gone, Matt. Gone since long before Martha’s illness. She was his life in Chicago. Not politics, not friends, not even the track. Why wouldn’t he want to move here?”

  “Life hasn’t exactly prepared me for family ties,” I said weakly. “Isn’t that what you accuse me of?”

  My existence had become a string of Hobson’s choices. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “Private detectives aren’t the only people who can loosen tongues.” She looked at me and grinned. “Lou kept calling me Shoe.” “He likes you.”

  Boots started to say something, stopped. “Why are you fighting with everybody, Matt?” she asked again.

  I raised the coffee cup and put it back down, overcome by my earlier fatigue. I turned toward her, leaned against the counter, and shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I’m tired, Boots, I’m just tired. I don’t know what else to say. Nothing is right. We’re not right. Lou and me aren’t right, I’m not right.” Then ran right out of words.

  Boots rose, walked over to me, and took my hand. I followed her silently to the bedroom, where we lay down side by side. I shut my eyes but kept hold. She stayed next to me as I drifted into a depleted doze.

  I sensed when she got up, and rolled over into a deeper sleep. When I opened my eyes, the daylight was gone and I was tucked under a puffy down comforter. The room was dark and it took me a moment to get my bearings. Once I realized where I was I took another moment to check my vital signs. I was alert, my body felt refreshed; I’d gotten a decent sleep.

  The door to the bedroom opened and Boots waltzed through. “Sleeping Beauty awakens”—she hopped onto the bed—“before the kiss.” She moved her head closer and I put my arms around her. I suddenly felt grateful for the comforter. My undershirt couldn’t have kept out the cold.

  Boots had switched from her baggy jeans, and now wore tight, tailored pants with a black silk blouse. I pulled her close; her tough, lean body felt good in my arms. “How come you changed?” She laughed, pulled away, and sat on the bed. “Are you kidding? It’s nighttime, Big Guy.

  What do you want to do for supper?”

  “Supper? What time is it? I figured it was just another dreary afternoon.” “It’s not afternoon, dear. We’re talking seven here. We’re talking famished.”

  I pulled the comforter over my head and toyed with the idea of moving. Tom Belchar came into my head. Tom Belchar could wait. “Baby, it’s cold outside,” I sang, my off-key growl muffled by the down-mixed-with-goose feathers.

  “No one says we have to go out.”

  I poked my head out from under the cover. “You deliberately mistook my meaning,” I accused.

  “That’s right.” She smiled and jumped off the bed. “I’m telling you, boy, I’m hungry. When you only eat one meal a day, it becomes pretty damn important.”

  “Is that how you do it?” “Do what?”

  “Look so ‘pretty damn’ good?”

  She gave me the finger and walked out the door. It took a moment or two to force myself out of bed, then I followed. “If it’s this late, I can drink. Do you want anything?”

  “Rum and something. Since when do your vices punch a clock?”

  I fixed the drinks, and walked over to where she was busy at the pint-sized stove. “I can’t understand how you survive in a kitchen that’s skinnier than you.”

  She looked me in the eye as she took one of the glasses from my hand. “Are you making me an offer?”

  I backed away.

  She laughed. “Anyhow, you’re a funny one to tout large kitchens. When’s the last time you cooked anything?”

  I felt relieved. “Hey, I cooked the other day.” “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I heard you ate, after watching everyone else cook. There’s a difference.”

  I retreated into the living room and lit a cigarette. The ashtray contained more than a few lipsticked butts. Her afternoon hadn’t been a garden stroll.

  I looked out over the river lights and imagined I was looking at The End. It was impossible. The End was dark and squalid and on the other side of town. “I really made an ass of myself, didn’t I?”

  “Which time?”

  “Let’s not make these deliberate misunderstandings a way of life. What’s for supper?”

  She smiled at me, and turned her attention to the food. “Slices of roast beef, fried in olive oil with onions and peppers. If I’m only going to have one meal, it will be anything I want. Also, this dish is close enough to a steak sub for you to eat. Yes, you made an ass of yourself. But as usual, those who know you, worry about you. Just talk to them.”

  Dinner was good. Very good. We avoided mention of Hal, home, or any problem between us. The only uncomfortable moments came with her questions about my work in The End. I minimized my contact with Mel, and, blessedly, Boots didn’t push.

  “I noticed your arm when you had your shirt off.” “Turn you on?”

  “Worry doesn’t excite me. If you were leaving, and the truck-driver wants you gone, why don’t you just stay gone?”

  “It’s one thing if I make the decision…”

  She beat her chest theatrically with her fist. “Ain’t gonna let no one drive me off my land, by golly,” she drawled in a surprisingly good John Wayne. “Even if it ain’t my land, and I do want to leave.” She shook her head and said in her normal voice, “You are a stubborn fuck.”

  “Aren’t you one foul-mouthed cowgirl? Listen, I’m in no rush to bust shoplifters.” “That I understand. Don’t go back.”

  “What am I supposed to do? The building’s not an option. Maybe I should drive a cab? I
’ve done that before.”

  “Don’t be an ass. Be a damn detective. At least when you’re working the stubbornness is used to good purpose.”

  “How am I supposed to get cases?” “Talk to Simon.”

  “Forget it!”

  “Sweetheart, if there’s one thing you learn in Corporate America: you don’t have to be friends to do business.”

  “You sound like Lou,” I said and began to clear the table. I glanced at the clock on the kitchen radio and was surprised to read nine-thirty. “Speaking of business, I have to see somebody.”

  She was on her feet in a flash. “Oh no you don’t. I don’t care what we do”—she looked at my groin—”but we are doing it together.”

  Her eyes didn’t put new ideas into my head, but they reminded me of what good ideas they were. But she was right about my stubbornness. I needed to talk with Belchar.

  “Why don’t you come with me? It won’t take long and then we’ll come back here.” I had another thought. “Anyhow, I have to get my car.”

  “Where are you supposed to go?”

  “I gotta talk with the piano player at the Leonard, and the car’s right in front of there.” She was already looking for her shoes. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You dance a slow one with me.”

  When Belchar’s wife told me he played the piano, I’d imagined an entire band. I’d imagined wrong. A small baby grand sat in the center of the tiny wooden dance floor. Tall stools were placed around the piano, ashtrays on its top.

  The piano’s stools competed with those at the bar for empty. Despite the few customers, the saloon was full of stale tear-stained smoke.

  I looked around the room for someone resembling a musician but came up dry. We ordered our drinks, walked over to the piano, and sat. I hoped Belchar would get the message. It took about five minutes and a cigarette before he did. A tall, gaunt man, in a well-worn tuxedo, he wandered into the tavern from the restrooms’ shadow. He looked at the bartender, who pointed in our direction. This wasn’t the Tom Belchar I remembered.

  The emaciated tux sauntered to the piano, and slid onto the bench. He nodded toward an empty glass in front of his face. “Cash or trade buys you what you want to hear.” He ran his hands lightly across the keyboard for emphasis, but he kept his face down.

  If this was Belchar, he used as much as he sold. And I didn’t mean marijuana. His cheeks were sunken; his hairline started at the top of his head. He reminded me of Pacino’s partner in Dog Day Afternoon. Still, there was something familiar about him—maybe the light touch of his fingers on the piano keys. I remembered the hang-out nights in The End when we listened to Tom play. But now was a thousand piano keys later. And more than a few too many clubs, pubs, and taverns to be sure.

  The waitress arrived with his drink and set it down. Without looking at either of us, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Thanks. What do you kind people wish to hear?”

  “I want to hear whether you’re Tom Belchar.”

  He looked up and stared at Boots. “What does the lady want to hear?”

  Before I could respond Boots piped up, ‘“Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”‘

  His eyes went back to the ivory. “You don’t look old enough to like Ellington, lady,” he mumbled, as Duke’s opening notes filled the room.

  “I’m old enough,” I said. “Are you Belchar?”

  Without looking up he said, “Are you the guy who came to the house looking for me?” He seemed completely disinterested.

  “Yes.”

  “You want more?” He glanced at us as Boots nodded, then segued into another melody. It brought a smile to Boots’ face.

  From the bar, a voice called out, “Christ, get into the twentieth century, fella.” Belchar grimaced and replied, “Paying customer here, Captain.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Boots said.

  “Lady, trouble is when I play “Send in the Clowns” for the tenth time.” “You’re really good,” Boots said.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He kept his eyes down, but nodded his head in my direction. “How come you look familiar?”

  Before I could respond he began shifting back and forth between “I’ve Got a Crush on You” and “I’m Just a Lucky So and So.” Gershwin and the Duke. Boots looked delighted.

  “Jenny said you were an old friend. I don’t have old friends. I figured you for another dun, but now I don’t. Who are you and what do you want?” He suddenly brought the music to a close, and drained his drink. I signaled for another round.

  “I’m Matt Jacob. We knew each other twenty years ago.” “Matt Jacobs, huh?”

  “Jacob. Without the ‘s.’ You knew me as ‘Jake.’ I was a community organizer in The End.” He screwed up his face. “Maybe I remember you, I don’t know. It’s five kids and one hellacious bitch later. That’s a long time to remember anything.” “Well, you knew me.” I had counted on his remembering.

  “I believe you. Like I said, you look familiar. What other songs you like, lady?” “Play anything you want. It all sounds good,” Boots said.

  He began to play a show tune. I’d have to tip Charles to the place. It had been a long time since Boots and I had fun together. Part of me wanted to leave the hunt alone, sit back, and enjoy the night. But, like the lady said, I was a stubborn fuck. “We’re not really here for the music.”

  “I didn’t think so, but I’m not in the market for an organizer.” I laughed. “That’s okay. I’m out of the business.”

  “What business are you in now?” He raised his head and his eyes followed a group of people who had noisily entered the place. I hoped they would stay at the bar. It’d be even tougher to question him in a crowd.

  “I want to know about drugs,” I bludgeoned.

  Boots leaned away from the question, and Tom stared at me, though his song didn’t falter. “You don’t look like a meth head.”

  Well, we knew his diet. “I’m not.”

  His eyes were back on the ivory. “You a cop?” “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.” He slipped back into Ellington.

  “I’m a private detective and I’m trying to find someone related to your side job. No Law involved, not even a client. It’s personal business.”

  “A private cop, huh? I didn’t think any kind of cop could catch a pretty girl.” His hands swung into “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.”

  I chuckled. “I’m not so sure I caught her.” “He’s not so sure he wants to,” Boots amended.

  A woman from the party at the bar stumbled over. It was clear she had passed the midpoint of her night’s festivities. She pushed her very soft, very uplifted pale white breasts close to Tom’s face as she stuffed a rolled-up bill into the glass. “How ’bout “Send in the Clowns”? Do you know that one?” she slurred.

  Tom made his fingers work the song—his touch weighed heavier by automatic pilot. Unfortunately, the lady wasn’t ready to let me go back to work. She turned to Boots and asked, “Can I dance with him, honey? He looks large enough for two.” She rocked her hips at me, and I wanted to hide under my seat.

  “He just looks big on the outside,” Boots replied sarcastically. “You know what I mean, don’t you?” She Groucho’d her eyebrows, and winked lewdly.

  Tom’s chuckle brought a wobbly glare from the woman. He quickly dipped his head and schmaltzed the song. The lady decided not to take offense.

  Instead, she clasped her arms around her bosom and began swaying with herself on the dance floor. A man with a string tie and cowboy hat walked over and stuck another bill in Tom’s glass. “Play that tune again, champ.”

  Tom nodded, waited until the cowboy locked steps with the woman’s sway, and smiled toward Boots. “Are you a friend of his?” He nodded toward me. “Or are you a private cop too?”

  “Friend. Why do you work here? You’re a really good musician.” “Good ain’t all it takes.”

  I found myself growing impatient, but st
ayed smart enough to keep still. The vibes between Boots and Tom were better than any I could produce.

  Boots shook her head. “Look, I know the music business sucks, but you’re talented.” Tom laughed bitterly. “Sometimes things don’t work out the way you figure.” “That’s for sure,” Boots agreed.

  I was about to demand what she meant when Tom continued, “I got married, had a couple of kids, then had some more. That Catholic thing can really screw up a career.”

  The dancers were done and Tom slipped back into the Forties. “You know how it is, gotta work to keep all them mouths fed.” He looked at me, then back to Boots. “Your friend could probably tell you why I work here.”

  “He can sell a little dope on the side,” I supplied.

  “You got it,” Tom said. “What do you want to know about? And who turned you on to me?” “I’m looking for someone who tried to run me out of The End with a 4×4. I figure it was drug related.”

  “Why do you figure that?” Belchar kept his eyes fixed on the ivory. “My ex-client deals,” I shrugged. “No other reason.”

  Tom stopped playing and looked at me. “Where I live nobody’s got reason to run you out of anywhere. If someone really tried to scare you off, you’re reaching higher than me. Us little shits just say, ‘Thank you.’”

  “The guy that started me on this is just a little shit.”

  A smile curled the corners of his thin lips. “The End, dope, a littie shit, me.” He shook his head. “What the hell were you doing working for Emil Porter?”

  Before I could answer someone from the bar bellowed for music. Belchar began to tongue-in-cheek “Feelings.” Boots was right, he really was good.

  “What makes you think I’m talking about Emil?” I asked.

  He glanced up at me. “The End is a small place. Those that collect on the bottom know each other.”

  I enjoyed his music though I wasn’t ready to take him at his word. “Maybe the Leonard is getting too small for your part-time job.”

  He wagged his head, and grimaced. “It wouldn’t matter.” He sounded wistful. “I just make enough to use. Believe it or not, I like music better than drugs.”