Then she lit a cigarette. She sat that way a long while. Then she heard a footstep crunching the wet sand somewhere in the darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
GHOST QUINTET
Wednesday Night, 10:00 P.M.
“Oh, Won’tcha Come ’long with me?”
Dum...dum...dum...dah-dah....
“...down th’ Mississippi....”
The band played behind Johnny Nickles in a slow, melancholy way. They leaned back and relaxed to the easy rhythm of the blues, the Basin Street Blues.
They sat back in the smoke that swirled around their chairs and played it slow and sad.
“...Old friends to greet us....”
Behind Johnny’s vocal, Link Rayl played a soft clarinet figuration. The big liquid tones flowed out like thick sorghum molasses on a hot July day in Louisiana. Link closed his eyes and hunched back in his chair, twisting his face with the sheer agony of the beautiful notes he was improvising.
Johnny stood before the microphone in front of his little Dixieland band in the crowded Honky-Tonk Street joint, singing in his familiar husky whisper the blues song about the famous street in New Orleans’ old Storyville district. He sang it for Miff, who had grown up down there. Miff, who was dead now....
Johnny Nickles was of average height. But the way he was built—square and heavy around the neck—and the careless manner in which he carried his shoulders, made him appear short. He had the thick bull neck and hard belly of a trumpet player who reached for a lot of high ones. He was in his mid-thirties and he had been playing a trumpet so long there was a little hard spot on his lips from the pressure of the mouthpiece.
He was from New Orleans and he liked to play the kind of Dixieland jazz that was born there. Melodies like this Basin Street Blues, written about the street where Lulu White had her famous bordello, “Mahogany Hall,” where Jelly Roll Morton played his great piano.
Johnny liked to dress in three-hundred-dollar suits and loved the look and fit of imported shoes. And if you asked him who the greatest trumpet player in the world was, he’d tell you without blinking an eyelash, “Why Johnny Nickles, man!”
He played the only kind of music he could ever grow excited over. The two-beat rhythms of the old French quadrilles, Creole folk melodies, the funeral and parade marches and whorehouse piano that had been handed down from musician to musician and improved upon until they made up today’s melodies of Dixieland. They were the stock in trade of every musician who sweated out the night-long sessions in tight, hot little joints on Bourbon Street, New Orleans—or of those who tried to initiate that kind of music anywhere else.
Tunes like Muskat Ramble, Rampart Street Parade, That’s-a-Plenty, High Society....
Johnny had been running his current band for over a year. They were old-timers, like himself, from his own home town. They’d worked steadily, first in the East and now along the West Coast. For the last six months things hadn’t been too good for Johnny. But the band stuck to him because they liked his kind of music better than making a hell of a lot of money.
* * * * * * *
That was Johnny’s band—guys who had played together since the days of riverboats, Storyville and the early days in Chicago. Their arrangements were “head arrangements” worked out between them and committed to memory instead of written on paper.
But they were no longer a complete unit. In the past six months, two of the men had gone. First ‘Zack’ Turner, their arranger, had died of a heart attack. Then, two nights ago, Miff Smith, their drummer, had been murdered.
For six months, Johnny’s luck had been running bad. Back in New Orleans they’d have said somebody had worked up some powerful gris-gris and put a voodoo “fix” on him.
Tonight, the band was playing in a special way. They were saying good-bye to Miff in the only way they knew, with music.
Johnny lifted his shiny gold horn. The diamond on his little finger glittered. He fitted the mouthpiece to his lips, half-closed his eyes and took his trumpet chorus. Through the pall of smoke that hung over the dance floor, he was looking at a man. A curly-haired guy who joked and laughed a lot and liked his women. A guy who felt the music in his blood the same way they all did. Then suddenly, the guy was nothing but a lump sprawled across a bed with the top of his head blown off.
What’s it like, Miff? Is it cold and dark and—nothing? Or is there still music out where you are...?
Johnny’s hand was sweating and slippery, holding the trumpet. Maybe he was a little scared too, along with the rest of them. Scared of something he couldn’t see or fight.
The kid they had hired to replace Miff on drums was all right. Not like Miff, but he was passable. He was a good-natured youngster and he held a nice, steady beat. But he didn’t have the lift that Miff had, that special quality that could pick you up and take the earth away from under you so that you’d be swinging along in the soft clouds of his rhythm.
It was hard to think of Miff as not being back there on drums. First Zack Turner and then Miff Smith. The brains and heart of the outfit, dead. Maybe those newspaper publicity stories about the Ghost Album they had recorded were true. The last of the great jazz men had gotten together and recorded their requiem, said the stories. And now they were bowing out....
“...now ain’t you glad you came with me...?”
The song ended. It whirled away and dissolved into the layers of blue smoke where so many songs had gone before, down through the long years.
They sat still for a moment afterwards, six guys dressed in nondescript, unmatching suits, on a smoke-fogged bandstand, all seated in straight-backed chairs with ashtrays, beer bottles, cans of valve and slide oil, broken reeds and battered instrument cases around their feet.
When the number had ended, they took a fifteen-minute break and drifted down off the stand, stretching their legs.
Johnny’s throat and mouth felt dry. He stopped at the end of the bar and ordered a beer.
“Too bad about Smith,” the bartender offered, handing him a cold bottle and glass. He lit a cigarette morosely and waited for Johnny to pick up the conversation from there.
Johnny just let it lay. He didn’t feel like holding a wake.
The bartender sighed and went on. “He was a nice guy, Paid his bills regularly, always treated me nice. Never did see him drunk, y’know, sloppy. Women, I guess, were Miff’s only weakness. Well, what the hell. They went for him.”
Having completed the brief character analysis, he scowled down at his cigarette and waited for Johnny to contribute something to the conversation.
But Johnny had nothing to add. That was a pretty complete picture of Miff. A nice guy who liked his women and never hurt anybody. And yet, somebody had wanted him dead enough to blow the back of his head off.
Johnny sipped the beer. He felt tired inside. He glanced at his wristwatch. Then, with a sudden jerky motion he stood up and went over to the telephone booth. He thumbed a coin into the slot and spun the dial with his forefinger.
Presently, a woman’s crisp voice announced, “Tanner’s Memorial Hospital.”
Johnny rubbed his damp palm against his trouser leg. “I want to talk to Dr. Nathan—Ed Nathan.” Johnny’s voice was intense.
There was a moment’s silence. Then the operator told him, “Dr. Nathan is with a patient and cannot be disturbed. Would you care to leave a message?”
Johnny hesitated. “Can you tell me how Miss Ruth Jordon is?”
“I’ll connect you with the fourth floor desk.”
There was more red tape. But at last Johnny found himself speaking to the special nurse on the case. “There is no change yet in Miss Jordon’s condition, Mr. Nickles,” she told him impersonally.
“Is she conscious?”
“I really can’t say, Mr. Nickels. Doctor is with Miss Jordon right now. Perhaps he’ll have something to tell you shortly.”
“Is a police guard there?”
“An officer is stationed outside her door. You don’t have to worry, Mr.
Nickels.”
Her voice was as reassuring as a glass of ice water.
Johnny swore and left the telephone booth. He thought of Ruth lying white and still, like a beautiful statue.
He lit a cigarette and wandered back toward the others in the band. They were sitting around a corner table in the tight, hot little place, drinking.
Johnny looked them over, the other four guys who, beside himself and Miff Smith, had been together for over a year and had recorded the Ghost Album with him in Chicago more than six months ago.
There was J. W. Richey, the ‘bone man. In his forties, Richey looked like a cross between Hoagy Carmichael and Fred Allen. Married once but separated from his wife. Richey was cynical about all women and soured on life in general. He had been shooting pool downtown Monday night—the band’s night off—at the time Miff was killed.
Eddie Howard played piano in the band. He was a sickly guy who wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and was always reading books on health and taking pills. He had a weakness for health fads and fat women. Monday night, he had been attending a health food lecture at the auditorium downtown.
Tizzy Mole, the bass man from New Orleans, had been Miff’s closest friend, often rooming with him. Tizzy was the youngest member of the band. He drank too much—a practice that had increased noticeably in the short time since Miff’s death. About the time Miff got the back of his head shot off, Tizzy had been watching a movie in an air-conditioned theater.
Fourth, there was Link Rayl from San Antonio, Texas, who blew clarinet in Johnny’s band. The oldest member of the band, Rayl was a quiet guy who took his music seriously. When he played, his face screwed up with intense concentration as if he were trying to force his whole being through the slender tube of black granadilla wood in his fingers. He lived in the same apartment building as Johnny. Monday night, at the time of Miff’s death, he had been in his room, practicing.
As Johnny stood quietly regarding the four musicians, he noticed a tall thin man in a tired gray suit wander in and move over toward the band’s table. Johnny stiffened. Even viewed from the back, Nickles knew who it was. Harrison, the city detective. He’d been nosing around the band asking questions even since Monday night.
Johnny pulled a chair up to the table and joined the others.
Harrison took a fresh wooden match from his pocket, exchanged it for the one he’d chewed to splinters, and grinned at Johnny.
“The great Johnny Nickles. How’s the mighty horn tonight?”
Johnny restrained the impulse to knock the smirk off the city dick’s face. He had no love for the cops in this town, and for good reason. Starting with the sheriff, Fred Botello, and continuing right on down, the entire force was as crooked as the slide of Richey’s trombone.
“Leave the band alone, Harrison. They’re edgy enough tonight.”
Harrison tilted the match up at the corner of his mouth and spread his hands out. “You wanna find out who knocked off your drummer, don’t you?”
Johnny answered. “You won’t do it hanging around here. Bring in Cowles’ daughter and you’ll start getting warm!”
Harrison’s eyes grew dark and dangerous-looking for a moment. Then he seemed suddenly bland. “Ain’t got the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he murmured softly. “All I know is what I read in my orders. And they say to keep an eye on this band and pick up a streetwalker from this district name of Jean.” He suddenly leaned close to Johnny. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find Jean, by the way?”
Johnny looked blank. “They come a dime a dozen around here. How the hell should I know?”
“Yeah, but this one is something special.” Harrison grinned suggestively. “Brunette, on the tall side, built like some art work off a sexy calendar.”
He received silence for a reply.
J. W. Richey remarked sourly, “If you find one like that on Honky-Tonk Street, let me know. The only stuff I’ve seen around here could be had for four bits a night—and looks and smells like it.”
On the bandstand, Johnny picked up his horn and began to finger the valves. Eddie Howard, his thin face looking even pastier than usual tonight, perched on the piano stool. He looked just like a skinny owl behind his thick glasses, Johnny thought. J. W. Richey squirted oil on his slide from an atomizer. Link Rayl nodded softly on his rickety old Albert system clarinet.
Tizzy was tight already. Whenever Tizzy got drunk, which was nearly every night, his shirt tail worked loose. Right now it was hanging out at half mast. Johnny didn’t worry about it. Sometimes Tizzy got so stiff they had to lean him against a wall and steady him there with chairs, but he still played perfect bass.
“Okay, folks,” Johnny said huskily into the mike. “Gather ‘round while Johnny Nickles, the world’s greatest trumpet player, provides a little tune for you.” He kicked off the beat.
They played Muskat Ramble, a classic composed by Kid Ory.
Eddie Howard laid down a good open pattern of chords and Johnny punched out the lead in his big, rich cornet tone. J. W. Richey smeared in his tailgate glissando and Link Rayl wove a polyphonic pattern of clear brittle counterpoint in the upper register of his clarinet.
Pretty soon they began to relax. And then they started to play good Dixie. The fast steady beat seeped into the woodwork. Everything in the room vibrated to the tempo—the glasses on the table, the windows in their frames, the bottles on the bar. It was as if the entire place had become one great throbbing heart.
And out in front of the band stood the short, cocky guy with the golden horn, the flashing diamond and the three-hundred-dollar suit.
Johnny found himself alternately watching the clock and Harrison. When the city dick left, Nickles finally walked off the stand. He avoided Norman Norman, the fat, greasy owner of the Sho-Tune Bar, the little wallboard joint where the band played. He walked out of the place and turned down Honky-Tonk Street.
He was on his way to keep a date with a Honky-Tonk Street whore who went by the name of Jean....
CHAPTER FOUR
INTERRUPTED MELODY
Wednesday Night, 11:15 P.M.
Johnny walked out of the joint and turned right, continuing on down the street at a steady pace. Honky-Tonk Street huddled around him warmly with its noise, its laughter and its smells.
It was a street on the wrong side of the tracks, situated between the Negro and Mexican sections and the docks.
Some of the bars ran girlie shows. Pictures of the entertainers looking coy in G-string costumes were plastered boldly out in front of the places. Music floated out from hot, smoky, crowded rooms.
He passed a tattoo shop and a photographer’s studio. Every place on the street would be wide open and doing a brisk business until four in the morning.
A strange potpourri of humanity drifted along the sidewalks of the narrow, dirty street. There were sailors and pasty-faced kids dressed in peg leg trousers, hopped up on marijuana, florid-faced businessmen, beggars, hot-dog vendors. And every kind of woman in the books—from sallow-faced chippies to giggling old maid schoolteachers slumming and hoping, with titillating fear, that they’d be picked up.
Johnny walked behind an overstuffed blonde who jiggled along clutching a sailor by the arm as if she were afraid he’d vanish into thin air if she were to let go.
After some time, he shoved his way through the crowd, left the outer fringes of Honky-Tonk Street and walked along the beach.
As he swung along, his trumpet case tucked under one arm, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a glittering pin.
It was not much larger than a half-dollar piece—a little scrap of jewelry made of silver and diamonds.
It was an expensive bit of custom-made glitter. He had found it two nights ago on the floor of Miff Smith’s room, a few feet from the bed where Miff’s body had lain asprawl in the bloody tangle of sheets. It could have belonged to any one of a number of women who were in the habit of calling at Miff’s apartment. But Johnny happened to know whose it was�
��he’d seen her wear it often enough.
The pin belonged to Raye Cowles, daughter of Sam Cowles, the big boy who pulled all the strings in this town—at least, all the ones worth pulling. Cowles ran the whole show, including Sheriff Botello and the rest of the crooked police force.
That, of course, made it tough. Because daughters of big wheels like Sam Cowles didn’t go around knocking off Honky-Tonk Street musicians. Or if they did, nothing was ever heard about it.
Only this time Johnny intended to see that something would be heard about it. Even though all he had on his side was a bent scrap of costume jewelry and a local newspaper publisher who had no use for Sam Cowles....
The police knew Johnny had the pin. Earlier he had called Fred Botello, the sheriff, and threatened to turn it over to the local anti-Cowles newspaper unless the Cowles girl was brought in for questioning. Botello had ground the enamel off his molars. But he couldn’t touch Johnny. And furthermore, he knew if he arrested Nickles for withholding evidence, the newspaper would grow curious about the nature of the evidence he had withheld.
So Johnny had at least one weapon against the whole Cowles bunch. But it was a weapon that ticked like a time bomb.
He slowed his pace almost unconsciously and absently studied the faces of the women he passed. He left the park area with its bright lights and big Ferris wheel. The beach grew darker as he walked and he searched the shoreline for a glimpse of the girl he was to meet. He was about to give up when he heard a woman’s voice, muffled by the wash of surf.
He turned down the beach. The moon was out, coating the tops of the waves with platinum. Then Johnny saw her, sitting in the shadow of a dune.
She was leaning back against the sand, slowly smoking a cigarette and humming as she gazed up at the stars. Her clinging black satin dress had slid back from her propped-up knees, leaving her white thighs shining faintly in the moonlight, the curves and hollows of her long legs looking like carved ivory.
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