The Devil's Music

by Stephen Mertz

  “The people who know you were looking for her,” said Isaac. “They know I was the one scoring information for you and they know I dealing myself a piece of it. I told them so, or they wouldn’t have told me anything.”

  “You’re still covered,” I said, “because you won’t be here when the cops show up. I will. We both know I can play this a whole lot better if I’m flying solo.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Think about it. A black guy found in the same place with a gun and a dead female? By the way,” I extended a hand, palm up, “give me back my .32.”

  That got me a serious frown.

  “I ain’t so sure I want to do that, whitebread.”

  “Think about it,” I said. “The sun will be going down soon and you’ll be on foot until you make it to a pay phone. If your luck turns bad, we do not need the heat stopping you on foot in the same neighborhood as a recently dead body, especially you with packing up piece. You do appreciate that?”

  He produced the pistol and rested it in my palm with a scowl that told me he what he thought of the idea.

  He said, “You’re running the show.”

  I replaced the .32 under my belt at the small of my back; a second concealed weapon beneath my jacket.

  I said, “Now scram. If my luck holds, I’ll see you at Carl’s.”

  18

  I was tied up with police red tape for hours.

  Before I made that call, though, I called the Travelers’ Rest Hotel. Jenna took my call. I gave her a bare bones report.

  “Poor child,” she said softly when I was done. “Chantel’s sweet soul is with her heavenly father now. May she rest in peace. Lord knows, she’s paid for the mistakes she made. Poor child never really had a chance. But Mr. Kilroy, you have fulfilled your part of our bargain. I want TJ to play his drums in that band again. You tell Stomper to call TJ when he needs him. And may God bless you.”

  Then I called the cops.

  Joe Gallegos and Neil Dickensheets were not happy campers when they arrived together. Joe’s cop reserve was in place, so there was none of the usual acknowledgement of friendship in nod or gesture. Friend or not, his cop eyes gave away nothing. The DA’s man, in contrast, must have been a rotten poker player. He bristled with irritable impatience.

  It would have been worse for me but for the medical examiner’s preliminary determination, before the body was removed, that there appeared to be no physical trauma. No bruises or broken bones. In other words, at this early stage Chantel’s death did not appear to be a homicide. Every indication was that the foolish, unfortunate girl was but another statistic in the Denver’s growing hard drug epidemic.

  We stood on the front porch of the whorehouse and watched the body being loaded into the ambulance, which took off with its keening sirens wide open as if eager to get away from there.

  The warm day had become a cool night. In any other neighborhood, this sort of activity would draw the standard crowd of curious rubberneckers. Not here. The street fronting the bordello was clogged with official vehicles, the air filled with the crackle of police band radio. But what few residents there might be in this industrial park abutting the rail yards were lay lying low.

  Dickensheets said, “The deal was, Kilroy, you get a free pass on the mischief you’ve been causing today and in return you hand us a lead on Libra. You call this a lead? Okay, time’s up. Deliver. Where is Libra?”

  I said, “So you’re offering me new deal, is that it? If I don’t know where Libra is right at this moment, off I go to jail?”

  “I’m not offering you any deal,” he groused. “I have a responsibility to the taxpayers of this city. This is a nation of laws, mister. You need to learn and respect that.”

  “Because if you’re going to talk deals, you damn well ought to respect the one you already made with me. I can still turn Libra over to you.”

  “Don’t give me that.”

  He was going to say more but Joe said, “Neil, let’s hear what he has to say.”

  The DA’s man didn’t like that but before he could say so, I pushed on.

  I said, “I can still use channels and methods that you can’t, either one of you.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed.

  “You sound sure of yourself.”

  “I am. Guys, I’m not trying to work a hustle here.”

  Dickensheets said, “Like hell.”

  Joe said, “What about that cold case you were asking me about? Then those gunshots fired out front of Denny’s?” He winced. “I’m still trying to get the image of you on a skateboard out of my mind. And now a teenage runaway, dead from an overdose. What’s the tie-in?”

  “That’s what I’m working on.”

  “Yeah well, a good place to start would be you telling us what you’ve put together in your mind.”

  “I’d only be wasting our time.”

  Dickensheets smirked.

  “Now that’s something I believe.”

  I said, “You want proof, right? Well as we speak, I don’t have proof. But I do know how I can get it. Turn me loose. What I’ve put together will take us to Libra.”

  Dickensheets didn’t know what to say. I could see the cogs of his political mind trying to process this. It was his personal dislike of me versus the feather in his cap that would result from a takedown of a street threat like Libra.

  Joe chose to ignore the DA’s man.

  He said to me, “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

  19

  A few hours later, Stomper Crawford and I sat in the Lancia, parked across and at the opposite end of the block from Leon’s. There was a streetlight suspended above the next intersection, but its faint illumination left impenetrable the shadows cloaking the alley that intersected the block just past the club.

  A Colorado chill sharpened the night air. At this hour, traffic noise and city sounds were little more than a background presence. This Five Points neighborhood slumbered, or appeared to, tranquil in its post-midnight calm. No pedestrians in sight. Sparse vehicular traffic.

  Stomper and I had been sitting there for the preceding thirty minutes, with Leon’s club under surveillance.

  It was Sunday. A slow night in the ‘hood. The occasional single or couple wandered in and out of Leon’s while we sat there, waiting. By 11:30, the place was empty of customers by our tally. Still, we bided our time.

  A pair of chatty barmaids left the club. They exchanged good nights and walked to separate vehicles. They drove away.

  Five minutes later, the neon sign stop flashing.

  Leon’s was closed for the night.

  I said, “C’mon, Stomper. It’s showtime. Let’s do it.”

  Stomper said, “Time to rock.”

  Stomper was sober and back to being himself, thanks to Michelle who had nursed him back to his present state. I was informed, upon my return to Carl’s, that Michelle had also made happen a long distance telephone conversation reuniting Stomper with his daughter back east; initial positive steps toward reconciliation.

  Stomper would have been aglow except for two things.

  The death of an innocent named Chantel.

  And the reason we were here, prowling Five Points after midnight...

  Little more than twenty-four hours had passed since I’d walked this same pavement and entered the world of Stomper Crawford. A lot had happened since then but the single image that had burned itself indelibly into my mind was that of the dead, unseeing, unblinking eyes of Chantel, staring up into mine, somehow triggering awareness and a new perception of patterns that had led Stomper and me to this time and place.

  We passed the mouth of the alley where it all began with a murder nine years ago.

  I was not only completing a twenty-four hour cycle. I was completing a circle by helping draw to a close what had sidetracked the life of the bluesman who strode beside me. I’d explained my take on things to Stomper, Isaac, Michelle and Carl once I was back at the Capitol Hill apartment while things came together for what wa
s happening right now...

  As expected, the front entrance to the club was locked.

  I spent a minute or so pounding my fist on the metal door before Leon’s voice responded gruffly from inside,

  “We’re closed!”

  I gave Stomper a nod.

  Taking his cue, he called out, “Hey, Leon. It’s me! Stomper! Open up. Let me in, man. We need to talk.”

  A few moments passed.

  “You alone?”

  Stomper looked at me. I nodded.

  “Yeah, let me in!”

  A double lock clicked. A sliding bolt could be heard. Then the door swung open.

  Leon saw me.

  “Damn, man,” he snapped at Stomper . “You said you was alone!” Then he made a fast recovery. That wide smile of a born bartender brightened the lower half of his face. He said, “Hey, Kilroy! Come on in, you fellas. I was just counting receipts, fixing to close up and go home. But come on in. Let’s have us a nightcap.”

  He closed, locked and bolted the main door behind us. The place had that ghostly quiet all bars acquire during the off hours. Leon’s good-natured banter continued as Stomper and I seated us at a table. Leon served us a round of beers.

  A swamper, wearing dungarees, appeared from somewhere in the rear of the place, toting a pail and mop, ready to go to work.

  Leon checked him with a raised hand.

  “Hold up, Andy. It’s been a slow night. No one messed the place up. That’s good news for you. You can skip tonight. Go on home. Help yourself to a six-pack from the walk-in on your way out.”

  Andy reacted as if he’d just won a Ferrari on a game show.

  “All right! Thank you kindly, Mr. Leon, sir. That’s mighty fine of you. Yes sir, mighty fine. Much obliged.”

  And the swamper left us alone.

  Leon resumed his cordial, hospitable regard of me and Stomper, his unexpected late night visitors. The world of musicians and bar owners is a night world. In that world, there is nothing whatsoever unusual about a social call being paid at this hour.

  He said, “So fellas, how goes it with putting the old band together?”

  Stomper said, “Shorty Long is dead. Cancer. The poor guy bought it in a VA hospital.”

  Leon registered a sour expression.

  “Poor guy. That Shorty could lay down some mean-ass bass lines, sure ‘nuff. He’ll be missed. But hell, we can find you a bass player somewhere in Denver, I assure you. That leaves Olga and TJ, don’t it? You say Olga sounds like she’s in. And TJ will join the fold. Been busy day for you, ain’t it, Kilroy? How’s your deal with our little Bible-totin’ friend, Jenna, working out?”

  He would have gone on prattling like that all night.

  I’d held my tongue this long to get us inside. Now it was time to get started on why we were here.

  “You’re talking about Chantel,” I said. “You know all about what happened to her, you piece of shit. You knew Libra was planning to stash her at that house on 35th Avenue but you told him to clear everyone out, to get her away of her there because it was the perfect set up for an ambush to cancel me out of the equation. But Libra was too high by then; having himself too much fun. And so Libra and I, we had our encounter. But I’m sure he told you all about that too. Didn’t he, Leon?”

  There followed what is referred to as a pregnant pause.

  Then Leon said, “You’re kidding, right? Me and Isaac, we sent you to that crack house, ain’t that right?” He glanced at Stomper, still trying to keep it light. “Where’s that boy of yours, Stomp?”

  Stomper said, “Leave my boy out of this, Leon. You got yourself enough trouble.”

  Leon indicated me with a shake of his head.

  “Old man, are you letting this cracker fill your ears with nonsense? Kilroy, I used to think you was straight. A hip white dude. And here you come at me with this jive. It ain’t right, man.”

  I said, “There are only two people who have been a part of this thing, stuck like glue to it, since last night when I walked in here looking for Stomper. His son and you, Leon. Isaac has no reason to harm or sabotage his father. But you...”

  His façade of good humor showed its first crack.

  “What am I being accused of, exactly?”

  Stomper spoke up.

  “Someone’s trying to rub me out, Leon. I believe you got something to do with that.”

  Leon tried to dismiss that with a mild, humorless laugh.

  “Well hell, y’all. That there is just crazy talk, Stomper, and you damn well know it.” Leon glared at me. “You best start getting specific, chalk, and offering up something resembling proof.”

  “I’m working on that,” I admitted. “It’s not something I’m crazy about either, Leon. You’ve helped me in the past.” I remembered a conversation with Teddy Bostwick. “At first I put you above suspicion. You befriended Isaac like a second father while Stomper was gone, and you acted like you were willing to take on handling Stomper’s comeback. But all that was just a smokescreen.”

  “Now why the hell would I want to harm Stomper?”

  “That,” I said, “is a very good question. Again we have process of elimination. Someone is trying to kill Stomper. I was taking fire with him in front of that Denny’s so I know he’s not making that up. But the man skipped town nine years ago. He hasn’t been back long enough to make blood enemies who’d want to kill him for something he’s done. He hasn’t had time to do anything. So it had to go back to that night nine years ago when Stomper witnessed a murder out back of here.

  “By all accounts the victim, one Mousie Garnett, was a lowlife who got what he’d been asking for and if anyone besides his mama shed a tear, it’s hard as hell to imagine anyone giving a damn about poor Mousie all these years later. So I had to look at that alley kill nine years ago from new angles, such as: why was Mousie murdered in that alley and why did it happen when it happened?

  “Here’s why it happened when it did. The Mafia was expanding operations into the city at the time. That accounts for the timing of the kill. As for why it happened in this particular alley: in establishing themselves, the Battaglia Family would naturally take over a piece of the Five Points action. The way the Outfit works, they want a strongman they can rely on to run the show and skim their cut. You are that man, Leon. You’ve done a fine job of maintaining a respectable front, but you wanted that gig when the big boys were setting up business nine years ago. But there were certain stipulations. They’re not looking for punks.”

  Leon said, “The people I work for call it making your bones. I had to waste the snit if I wanted my own concession. It was worth it.”

  He had not moved from where he stood at the end of the bar, observing Stomper and me where we sat at our table. His pleasant façade was history. He lifted his right arm and snapped his fingers once.

  Libra materialized from the shadows, armed with a shotgun that matched the one Chantel had played around with at the crack house. Libra held the weapon with far more familiarity. He positioned himself to Leon’s right.

  “Well, well, well,” he snickered, pointing the shotgun directly at my head. “If it ain’t my favorite white boy punching bag, come back for more.”

  20

  Stomper Crawford ignored the shotgun in Libra’s hands. He regarded Leon with sad eyes.

  “Doggone, I wish to heaven the things Kilroy is saying weren’t true. But since I reckon they are, and since I always figured our friendship ran deep, Leon, I’ve got to know... Why? Why you doin’ me this way? What did I ever do to you?”

  With Libra and his shotgun on the scene, Leon’s smug satisfaction had returned.

  “I know you didn’t recognize me when you saw me off that dude in the alley,” he said, “but a thing like that stays with a man, sometimes buried in the subconscious. See, I read that in a book. It’s natural for something like that to stay in the mind for the rest of a man’s life, something like witnessing a real-time murder. Someday you might see something about me, some way I m
oved, anything, and it would make you think of that killer in the alley. There ain’t no statute of limitations on murder.”

  I added, “See, Stomper? As long as you were gone, you were out of Leon’s reach and he was okay enough with that to care for the wife you left behind and to help raise your son. But when you showed up wanting to reclaim your life, all bets were off.”

  While this conversation was going on, my focus stayed on Libra and his shotgun, cold sweat dampening my forehead.

  It’s damn hard to think of anything else when someone’s pointing shotgun in your direction. I should know. This was the second time today! The only thing I could do was remind myself that I had initiated tonight’s play. Things were supposed to be happening. Unless a word from my buddy Leon instructed Libra to pull the trigger and end my existence. I needed a backup plan quick. But nothing was coming to mind.

  “Hand me that shotgun,” said Leon. “I’ll keep them covered. Kilroy is packing. Frisk him.”

  Libra handed over the shotgun.

  I said, “This is one hell of a disappointment, Leon, seeing your true nature.”

  Stomper said softly, “Amen to that.”

  Now it was Leon who stared at me down the twin barrels of the shotgun.

  “Too bad you had to stick your nose in, Kilroy. I sent Libra and one of his boys out last night in front of the club to persuade you to let things be but you always were a stubborn son. Lucky, too. But not anymore. Not tonight. Now, I’ve got to waste you.”

  He said it almost as if he meant it.

  I said, “You’ve been trying since that drive-by out front of Denny’s yesterday morning.”

  “That wasn’t me,” he chuckled. “Don’t you listen to yourself? I’m management these days. Libra got one of his posse to do the driving.”

  “That was just one more indicator that you were the guy,” I said. “How did the shooters know we’d be at Denny’s? First thing you did after you knew Isaac and I had hooked up was to have Libra stake out Isaac’s apartment. We were shadowed that morning from Isaac’s to the Denny’s, and by the time we came out of Denny’s, the shooters were in place in a hijacked set of wheels. Very professional.”