Out of the Blues

by Trudy Nan Boyce

  Arrff, arrff! Wonder’s barks were loud, directed at Salt, responding to her harsh tone.

  Wills stood. “I think I’ll take the dog for a walk. The rain has stopped. Maybe you can take the time to catch your breath, get yourself under control.” The screen door sounded like a slap behind them. Salt stood at the window and watched them walking away, Wills with his hands in his pockets. Wonder, at his side, had on his bent ears.

  She went straight to the bedroom, put on her gi, trying to begin the breath practice while tying the belt. Barefoot, she took the steps to the upstairs dojo two at a time. At the door to the white room she took another deep breath and bowed, knelt, and placed herself in seiza on the spot where she always guessed her father’s bloodstains to be beneath the mat. She tried breathing exercises but started to choke, gave up, and lay facedown on the white mat. “Crazy. Crazy.”

  “It was a poor choice of words, a figure of speech.” Wills stood in the dojo doorway. “I’m sorry.”

  Salt, silent, bowed to him.

  He took off his wet shoes, socks, jeans, shirt, and underwear. The rain must have started again. Stripped naked, he entered the room. “I knew from the beginning that you’d always be only yourself. What draws me to you is also what scares me. I accept it. I’ll find a way to trust that you can do the job your way. Now, tell me the dream.” He sat cross-legged beside her.

  Salt brought herself to sitting, wrapped her arms around her knees. “The night I met the bus when Dan’s band got to town, the band was joking with Dan about an imaginary dog.”

  Wills leaned forward so that his waist hung a little over his shy genitals, in a way Salt found sweet and erotic. “What are you looking at, girl?”

  Salt smiled.

  Wills laughed. “Stop it.” He covered himself with his hands. “The dream?”

  She looked off. “In my dream the dog was in an old gray board house, not much more than a shack, one room. I let light into the room when I opened the door. There was an old wood-burning stove, unlit, cold. The dog was sitting perfectly still on top of it. Only his head moved as he talked. He was talking, but I can’t remember what he said. That was all there was to the dream, but my strongest feeling in the dream was that the dog had been alive once, and its words were ones I needed to hear.”

  “A talking-dog story, hmm?” Wills pulled Salt into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “So what does the dog have to do with the case and dancing with Dan Pyne? It scares me that maybe you were the intended target.” Wills turned her so that she sat almost cradled in his arms.

  “I keep trying to recall what the dog was saying.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “Then just the other day Mr. Gooden reminded me that before my dad died I used to talk all the time about wanting a dog, and I remembered. I wanted one so bad that I invented him and called him ‘Ranger.’”

  “So, lots of kids have imaginary friends, dogs, fairies, whatever. See, you’re making this into some kind of karmic happening.”

  “Maybe, maybe,” Salt said. “Wills, just before Dan was shot he was telling me that he and the band called their imaginary dog ‘Ranger.’ It just seems like too much coming together. My dad’s connections with the blues, my first case connected to Stone, the dream, Ranger.” Salt shook her head. “And I keep thinking about Stone. He’s so sick, crazy and sick. I know he’s dangerous, but he never stood a chance. It doesn’t seem right. Prison. He’s always been in prison.”

  Will stroked her hair. “You keep nothing at arm’s length. I could almost murder Huff for giving you a case that puts you up close again with a guy who almost killed you—to put you in the position of working to get his time cut.”

  She turned her face to his shoulder and kept talking. “Please don’t be mad at me when I tell you this. There’s a way in which I owe Stone. He was another child on my beat, from The Homes, and represents for me failure, at every level, everything this city, all of us, have gotten wrong.”

  “Who failed those children, Salt? Who were the individuals who failed them, almost all of them? Who? Their fathers, that’s who.” Wills held her tighter. “Like your father failed you. You think you’re going to fix the world one sociopath, one case, at a time? I love you, girl, but if you keep giving yourself away there won’t be enough of you left for me or anybody. We bleed enough for our own. I’m not going to bleed for the Stones of the world.”

  “I don’t think my father failed me, Wills. That’s part of what I keep trying to figure out.”

  Wonder could be heard running up and down the stairs and through the downstairs hall. “The dog is nuts. He’s upset and letting us know,” she said, nodding to the sound of the dog’s clicking nails on the wood floors.

  Salt wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the gi. “You’re right.” She took his hand and stood, pulling him up with her. Facing him, she said, “I’m not going for self-inflicted wounds. I want you and me.”

  Holding hands, they walked to the doorway, turned, and bowed to the altar. Salt said, “I didn’t start out to dance with Dan Pyne. It was his dog. I was trying to figure out the dog’s message.”

  BAND AT HOMICIDE

  Salt hit the buzzer to allow admittance to the Homicide waiting room. Warily eyeing the premises and giving Rosie sideways glances, the band ambled in. “Please, have a seat,” Rosie said. Bailey presented himself with a little bow in front of Rosie’s desk and shook hands while the others glanced around at the photos of police commanders hanging on one wall and the large blue-and-gold department logo, a rising phoenix encircled by the words “PRIDE, PROFESSIONALISM, PROGRESS” on the opposite wall. Rosie’s red dress was a brilliant contrast to the dull grays and blues of the room.

  Salt introduced them. “Rosie, this is the Old Smoke Band, and they’re here to give statements in the Pyne case.”

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Bailey Brown and these supposed gentlemen”—Bailey swept his arm back toward the men—“are with me.”

  Instead of picking up the phone, Rosie opted to treat them to a view, all six foot three of herself in the tight dress, as she stood. “I’ll go tell Sarge you’re here.” She turned to go through to the inner office area, providing the men with an unobstructed view of her posterior, greatly enhanced by new butt padding.

  As soon as the door closed behind Rosie, Blackbird whistled. “Whew, that is a lot of he/she.”

  Salt smiled. “It’s not your grandfather’s police department anymore.”

  Mustafa sniffed the air. “What is that smell?”

  Blackbird inhaled. “Fish sauce. Smells just like Saigon. Smells like a war I was once in.”

  Goldie cracked his knuckles. “I’m invokin’ my right to remain silent. If you-all know what’s good for you, you-all will do the same.”

  “Hear that, Pops?” Bailey laughed. “Pops ain’t said five words in three years. Aaw, Goldie, we got nothin’ to be silent about. We got nothin’ to hide.”

  “Since when did that matter with black men and the poleese?” answered the sax man, slumping into a battered chair.

  Rosie returned. “Sarge is ready. In the conference room.”

  “Come on back,” Salt said to the band, holding the interior door open.

  Bailey led the crew. As the band passed, Rosie took out a compact mirror and made a show of touching up her lips. They assembled around Salt on the other side of the door. “Where’s the beautiful girl receptionist they got in all the movies?” Mustafa asked, pointing his thumb toward the outer office.

  “They wouldn’t let us in to see Dan. How is he?” Bailey took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “Nothing’s changed. Still touch and go. This way.” Salt led them through the cubicles, past detectives poring over paperwork in their small spaces, past empty desks covered in files, stacked, waiting for the return of their murder men. The band seemed diminished under the office lighting, out of their eleme
nt, like a song played off-key, wrong. “In here, guys.” Salt showed the way into the conference room, where Sergeant Huff, Wills, and several other detectives sat waiting with pens and notebooks ready.

  “Please have a seat, gentlemen,” Wills said. “Make yourselves comfortable. Does anyone need water, coffee, or a soda?” He addressed the room, but his eyes stopped for a half second longer, smiling, on Salt.

  Huff had a carton of Asian carryout in front of him, chopsticks clicking as he cleaned out the bottom of the box.

  The band went to the far end of the table. Thing One, wearing a tie-dyed tie, picked up and relocated to sit beside Goldie. “You the sax player, right?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?” Goldie stretched back and straightened his suit jacket.

  “Google. Listen”—the detective leaned in close to Goldie—“I played sax back in high school. Been thinking about taking it up again. I still got my horn. You guys gonna be around for a while, maybe I can sit in with you some.”

  Goldie looked away, turned toward Bailey. “See what I tell you. Man says we gonna be here awhile.”

  Sergeant Huff pushed the empty carton to the center of the table and looked around for something to wipe his greasy fingers on. “Okay, people, let’s get this show on the road.” Finding nothing, he rubbed his hands together. “My name is Sergeant Huff and I’m in charge of this case. We got a man shot a couple of nights ago, your guitar player. Man comes all the way across the country, stopping in lots of cities and towns, and then gets shot in my town, and I wanna know why. So the way this works is my fine detectives here are gonna take a sworn statement from each of you. And if I understand right, you-all have to leave in a few days?”

  Bailey, at the opposite end of the table, leaned forward, his big arms stretched out, hands open. “Sergeant, my name is Bailey Brown. I guess you’d say I’m the leader of this group. Right now we’re all pretty torn up about Dan, but they won’t let us in to see him at the hospital. His girlfriend is flying in tonight. Nothing much for us to do except make our engagements. We all got mouths to feed, and if Dan’s gonna get paid, we have to make money for us and for him. So other than that, the best way we can help Dan is to give you every bit of information we can. We’ve talked and we can’t come up with any reason for Dan being a target. But we’ll leave that to you to figure out and help you any way we can.”

  “Good enough,” Sergeant Huff said as he stood. “It doesn’t matter to me who interviews who. You guys pair off any way you want. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

  Thing One slapped Goldie on the back. “As one sax man to another—let’s blow.”

  Goldie rolled his eyes.

  “Mr. Brown?” Salt said, standing up.

  “Of course, Detective,” Bailey stood.

  Wills and the other detectives paired up with Blackbird, Pops, and Mustafa, each person differently prepared to hear or tell of events relevant to the shooting of Dan Pyne.

  —

  THE DOOR to the Blue Room was closed. Salt pulled at the corrugated metal and found it unlocked. Inside, Man sat reading at a small round table in the far corner facing the door. As Salt approached, he looked up and with one hand closed a worn Quran.

  “I didn’t know you were religious,” Salt said, pointing at the red cover.

  “Naw, just trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. Some brothers in the West End all up in this shit. Don’t make any more sense to me than the Bible.”

  “Rules to live by.”

  “Ain’t all about no shall and shall nots. I can tell you that for sure.”

  Salt pulled up a chair and sat down a few feet to the left of Man so she could see the door. “What about rules for your boys? Can they lie to you, steal from you? What about murder?”

  “Rules never kept anybody doin’ what they supposed to do anyway. Police got rules; churches, banks, all kinds of business got rules. I don’t see rules keepin’ folks from doin’ what they want.” Man tapped the Quran. “Just words. My boys loyal. They won’t lie to me or steal from me ’cause they loyal.”

  Salt leaned toward him. “And if they aren’t?”

  He shrugged.

  “What about you being loyal to your boys, say, Stone? You took him in when he was young, to get him away from Tall John. You might be the closest he’s ever had to family.”

  Man looked out into the room. “That was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sure Stone could give the feds something more, something on you to help get his time cut.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Stone loyal.”

  “The other night, right before the shooting, you met up with Tall John. Someone else books the music, runs the Shack and the Blue Room, but you’re the moneyman here, aren’t you? You’re the contact with John Spangler.”

  Man leaned back and put his feet on the table, close to the Quran. “Me and John is just business. I’m going to go legit in the club business.”

  “With John Spangler? Legitimate? You’re fooling yourself, Man.”

  “How else I’m going to go legit? You know how it is. How else I’m going to go straight?” Man let his chair fall back to the floor with a thud.

  “Here’s the truth. Stone gave a sworn statement that John Spangler, ten years ago, gave an intentionally hot dose to the bluesman Mike Anderson. Stone can get his time cut if I can verify that information. The statute has run out on Spangler’s abuse of Stone and the drug dealing. But the statute hasn’t run out on murder.”

  “You doin’ it again. Why you bringin’ this shit to me? Puttin’ me in the middle?”

  “You’re already in the middle.”

  “And why you trying to help Stone? He got convicted of trying to kill you.”

  “We’re both in this, Man. I didn’t choose it either. But you’re right. It’s not about rules. The other night—” Salt stood up and walked to the spot on the floor, the sealed cement, still stained with Dan’s blood. “The other night, right here, Dan Pyne was shot. I’m loyal, like you. I’m loyal to doing my job. Just like you know everything about what happens in and around The Homes, I know you know, or can find out, who shot Pyne, and I’m going to count on your loyalty to Stone to find corroboration for his information on Spangler.”

  Man stood. “I’m sick a’ you always comin’ to me with shit. Last time you was all on me about who killed Lil D’s mama. You put my boys in jail. Why you all on me? I’m tryin’ to break out of this shit.”

  Salt turned toward the door, then stopped. “One thing.” She went back to the table and picked up the Quran. “Something you said, Man—it’s not about the rules, it’s about finding the truth. That’s what I’m after.” She respectfully put the book on the table and left the Blue Room.

  —

  PEOPLE ON their lunch hours hurried past the downtown hotel where Melissa was staying. Only the top third of their bodies was visible above the café curtain rail. Salt alternated watching people outside and glancing at the entrance to the café. Melissa had agreed to meet her at noon. It was twenty after.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” the waiter asked again.

  Melissa appeared behind him. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” she said, sliding into the booth. “Your dime, right?” She looked at Salt.

  “Sure. Would you also like something to eat?”

  “If ever there was an occasion to drink my lunch, this is it, don’t you think?” The singer’s face was made up with eye shadow and lipstick, more hard-looking than Salt remembered from the Notelling. Melissa glanced briefly at the waiter. “Just the Bloody drink.”

  Salt’s stomach growled. “I’d better eat. The breakfast special, if it’s still available.”

  “One Bloody Mary and one special.” The waiter left them.

  “Melissa, I’m sorry about Dan. Thank you for meeting with me today.”

>   “Did I have a choice?” She picked up the stiff napkin and patted her nose. “You were with him when he was shot. Right?”

  “Yes, at the Blue Room,” Salt answered, her blood sugar dropping, hoping the breakfast would come soon. Her patience grew thin when she was hungry.

  An old man wearing a dirty jacket peered in the window right next to the booth, his hand held over his eyes to cut the glare. Melissa picked up a knife and struck the window with the handle, startling both the man and Salt. “Bum,” Melissa said.

  Salt shook out her napkin and placed it in her lap. “He’s probably just hungry.”

  “Look, Detective,” Melissa said, pointing the business end of the knife at Salt. “Can we get on with this. For God’s sake, tell me how someone could shoot Dan right in front of a cop and still get away.” She threw the knife on the table just as the waiter arrived with her drink, which she picked up as soon as his hand left it. “Why don’t you go ahead and get me another one,” she said to the waiter while facing Salt. “Hotels are stingy with their alcohol.”

  Salt brought the water glass to her lips, giving the waiter time to leave. “I didn’t see who shot Dan. The room was crowded, and after he was shot I was doing CPR, trying to keep Dan alive.”

  Melissa emptied her drink. “CPR, the last kiss. Kind of romantic, in the broader sense. Poetic actually. How was it for you?”

  Salt folded the napkin and said, “Excuse me. I need to find the restroom.” She slid from the booth just as the waiter was returning with Melissa’s second drink.

  In the ladies’ room Salt splashed her face with cold water. Her skin looked pale. She lifted the coil of hair that covered the scar at her hairline. Today the scar was red-looking. “She might have something you need,” she reminded herself.

  The breakfast was there when she returned to the table. She was so hungry she nearly choked on the first bit of eggs, barely tasting them. She tore the toasted bagel into bite-sized pieces.

  Melissa drained the tomato juice–stained glass. “I’d weigh a ton if I ate like that.”