Jazz Funeral (17 page)

All those other times, he hadn’t known how to think about it, and he didn’t know now. He knew how to miss the person, that didn’t take figuring out, but he didn’t have a philosophy to cover the subject. He wanted to, though.

For seven years now he had been pursuing spiritual studies. He would follow one path and then another—he wanted to sample them all, indeed believed in them all, couldn’t see a reason for pinning himself down.

He was in a Zen phase now—his third; he kept coming back to it because sometimes when he meditated, he felt different, physically and spiritually. It made his mind different, his body different, the world different. The deeper he went, the simpler things got. That was one reason he did it. He was bemused that everything written on the subject seemed wildly complicated.

“We die and we do not die,” wrote Suzuki-roshi. “This is the right understanding.”

It bothered him how these people talked about “right”—right practice, right posture, right understanding, right livelihood. Half the stuff they wrote made it seem as if life and truth held a million options, but excuse him if this right business seemed a little on the dogmatic side.

He came out of his reverie, realized he’d lost the thread. This was the sort of thing his mind was doing today, detouring obsessively—veering off, often toward Ti-Belle, the Crazy Cajun, as he’d come to call her ever since he found out she bleached her pubes. He’d fallen out of bed laughing at the time, and thinking about it now, he gave a loud hoot. It was his favorite thing about her. He’d known women with boob jobs and women with butt lifts and women who’d had every single one of their armpit hairs removed by electrolysis—even one who’d given up a rib or two to make her waist smaller. But he’d never in his life known a nut case who had black roots on her pussy. There was something just plain endearing about being so thorough—or maybe he was just so nuts about her, he’d lost it.

That could be it, and he knew it. He was thinking about her mouth, her voice, her crazy Cajun stories, her legs, the way she’d pretend to know something she really didn’t. He was thinking about her home alone, in that horrible suburban house, and wishing she was with him. And yet not wishing it. He needed space; he hadn’t moved to New Orleans to be with a woman.

He had a spiritual anchor—Caroline Meyer was with him for a few months, Meyer-roshi, his friends called her, though she wasn’t a roshi and claimed she wasn’t even his teacher, just a more experienced student. Caroline said Nick was becoming obsessed with Ti-Belle (though that was more in her old-friend role than in her roshi role). It was true, he was. It seemed to him that if you were trying to free yourself from desire, which he supposed he was, a woman, the very symbol of desire in Western culture, was the last thing you needed. (Caroline said that showed what an extremely inexperienced student he was—the idea, to her, was to observe what you did, be alert to it, but that didn’t mean don’t do it.) His discomfort was his own; Caroline declined to give it sanction.

He couldn’t count the number of women he’d had—and had children with—and was currently still supporting, some in this very house, from time to time. Sabrina was here now with their daughter Mia; Gillian had left only a week ago. Eric and Scott were here too, the twins from his marriage to Rachel. And then he’d once had a little thing with Caroline.

He’d been through stages where women hid under his bed and in his closet, bribed people to get near him, tore at his clothes, wrote him tomes rather than letters, and poems and songs galore. Slept with his friends, hoping they’d get to meet him. Followed him from city to city and brought him gifts that creeped him out—nice things, stupid things, ugly things, it didn’t matter, they were bribes. Bribes to get near him, to spend time with him, to get him to notice them, approve them, make them real to themselves.

He’d had women and he
had
women. The last thing he needed was a woman. He wanted to live a quiet life, a spiritual and contemplative life, a life more or less alone, which he could do in this vast palace of a house, even with all his house guests and staff members. But he couldn’t even read about death without thinking about Ti-Belle. He couldn’t stand to be without her, couldn’t wait till she came back.

“Volleyball?”

It was Proctor, sticking his head in. He was always organizing.

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, you think too much.”

“No, really. I think I’m depressed.”

“Endorphins, baby! Endorphins.” Proctor was dancing up and down in his shorts and T-shirt, trying to dribble the volleyball, ready for action.

“Y’all have fun.” He looked back down at his book. He was irritated. Except for the kids, just about no one treated him like that. Proctor could get away with it because they’d been roommates at Auburn. But just barely. Most people—except for Ti-Belle and all the exes—pretty much treated him like royalty, and he’d gotten used to it. He and Caroline were working on it. He wanted humility—it was something he knew he needed—but it was just so damn nice to have everybody hopping when he said rabbit.

So Caroline thought Proctor was good for him—because he wasn’t even slightly intimidated by Nick’s fame. On the other hand, Proctor was probably going to have to go soon. Because Ti-Belle hated him.
Hated him
. It was unreasonable the way she raved on about him. And it looked to Nick as if the feeling was mutual. He’d seen Proctor looking at her a curious way—not admiringly, which she wasn’t used to, and with his eyes narrowed a little bit, like he was planning an attack. Or maybe trying to stave one off, Nick wasn’t sure which. These two weren’t going to work out under the same roof. And if he had anything to say about it, Ti-Belle was coming here.

Yes!

He closed his book with a bang, realizing he was going to ask her soon, couldn’t help it, was driven to it. He needed her and he wanted her and he was going to have her.

He could see Proctor and the twins through the open window—it was nice today, too nice for the AC, so the maid had simply flung the windows open. It reminded him of summers back in Alabama, and so did the scene in the yard—adults and kids playing together, shouting, having fun, as if death hadn’t entered their lives. His life.

He breathed down into his belly and held the breath. Then he let it out, slowly, slowly, and sat there for a moment, contented, even thinking of joining the game. But he wouldn’t for a minute. He’d sit here and savor his library, the most beautiful room he’d ever seen outside of Florence or Rome. There was dark wainscoting, then books to the ceiling. A fireplace. And naturally, leather furniture. He’d chosen a deep burgundy to match the Oriental rug. A tapestry hung on one wall, a three-hundred-year-old French painting over the fireplace. (Rachel had chosen it on one of her visits; he could never remember the artist and didn’t care anyway, but he liked the fact that it was old.) The room was the room he’d always dreamed of having when he was a little boy growing up on a quiet street in Birmingham. Rich. Not rich like Hollywood rich. Rich like Old World patinas and craftmanship. Rich like somebody’d put a lot of thought and care into it, and then his son had come along and done it all over again; and Nick was the third generation to leave his mark. Of course that wasn’t the case—it was something that had taken a decorator and Rachel three months, but who cared?

Proctor had said, “You’re the William Randolph Hearst of New Orleans.”

Which had made Nick laugh.

It was right on the mark. He’d picked New Orleans for his castle because it was relatively cheap, it was isolated from the glitter spots, it was Southern without being a backwater, and he had good memories of it. From spending time here as a young man, before he’d made it.

And because it had a music scene. Not a big heavy rock scene, just a nice local scene he could observe and enjoy and not participate in. He was sick of that shit—performing, putting out. But he still loved the music, loved to be around it. He’d been thinking of getting involved with Ham’s project, Second Line Square. He could throw benefits here at the castle.

The thing didn’t look like a castle—it looked like a gracious Southern home—but he wanted to do with it what Hearst had done at San Simeon. He wanted to get the finest of everything and surround himself with it. And then hole up to pursue his path.

The doorbell rang. James would get it, or Luellen. It was probably somebody for one of the kids. Or Caroline or Sabrina. Or maybe Nanette, the acupuncturist.

Luellen came in. “Mr. Nick? A young lady to see you.”

“What young lady?”

“A young lady policeman.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t think what to do. Did he have to see her? Should he have a lawyer present? But wait—it didn’t have to be about Ham. Maybe it had to do with parking; or break-ins in the neighborhood.

He got up. Almost without thinking about it, he walked to the door, propelled by curiosity as much as anything else. “Yes?” And then, “Oh.”

“Oh?”

It was someone he knew—the big mama who’d spoken to him at Ham’s that night. He hadn’t realized she was a cop. Or had she said she was? He’d forgotten. He wondered if she could sing—a woman with a build like that ought to sing Gospel or something. “I know you from Ham’s.”

“Yes. Skip Langdon.” That was all she said. What did she want? Why was she just standing there?

“Well. What can I do for you?”

“I have a few questions. Not many, really … I wonder if you have a minute?”

She looked wistfully behind him, into the marble-floored foyer. She wanted a house tour. Well, okay. He knew how to get a woman on his side. She was a fan, probably.

“About ten,” he said. “Would that be enough?”

“I’m sure it would.” She smiled, happy now.

He let her in, led her into the library. Her mouth all but fell open. In a minute she’d say, “Have you really read all these books?”

But she went straight for his first editions. “The Sound and the Fury. Hamlet.” Her fingers kept moving. “Everything but Pylon. Somehow I never connected … well; I mean …” She flushed.

“You think if you can sing, you’re too dumb to read Faulkner? Ms. Langdon, I’m an ol’ boy from Alabama; I had to read this stuff in high school, some of it. You know that song of mine about the boy named Joe? That’s about Joe Christmas. From
Light in August
. You know it?”

She nodded, raised an eyebrow.

“Sit down,” he said. “Can I offer you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She was still staring at the room, but she had a confident air about her. Something told him she wasn’t going to turn into a pliable little Gumby.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m here about Ham Brocato’s death. I was wondering … did you know him well?”

“No. I’d have liked to, but I’ve more or less just moved here. In fact, I don’t quite understand why you’re here.”

“Don’t you, Mr. Anglime?” She had gorgeous green eyes and they didn’t waver; but she wasn’t giving him a chance to blink first. They were very amused eyes at the moment. Did she think he couldn’t see that? She was starting to piss him off.

“No.”

She shrugged. “Well, we’re just talking to a few key people closely connected to the case—”

“Wait a minute. What connects me to the case?”

But she said, “We found your name in his appointment book. So I thought I’d ask when you last saw him.”

His name in Ham’s appointment book? He’d been to Ham’s house once before the party, two months ago. That’s where he’d met Ti-Belle—could the cop possibly mean that?

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, it was an entry for next week—’call Anglime.’ I thought maybe you were close friends.”

“‘Call Anglime.’ That’s what you came out here for? Because he was thinking of calling me?”

She nodded.

“How could I know why he planned to call me?”

“I just thought you might.” He thought she was smiling flirtatiously, inviting him to play a little game with her.

“Well, if I had to make a guess, I’d say it was to ask for a contribution to the Second Line Square Foundation.”

She just couldn’t smile enough. “Probably it was,” she said. “Just as a matter of routine, do you remember what you were doing Tuesday afternoon?”

“Why Tuesday?”

“That’s when Ham was killed.”

“You’re asking me what I was doing when Ham was killed? Officer, you’re out of line. I hardly knew the man.”

“I don’t think it’s out of line. You’re a well-known friend of the family.”

“Well, it is.”

She stood. “I’m sorry, I guess I was wrong.”

“You’re sorry! Barge in here invading my privacy—I swear to God I’m going to report you.”

“Listen, I’m sorry you’re upset. New Orleans is a very small town and we’re all upset. Ham leaves a big hole.”

“I can’t believe you’re treating me like a suspect.”

“Mr. Anglime, I’m sorry you took it the wrong way. You’re not a suspect at all. I just thought I’d ask while I was here.”

“Well, why did you want to know?”

She shrugged. “I don’t. Really. I’m very sorry to have bothered you.”

She started out the door, but he followed. What did she know? Was it better to say something?

“Listen, I have nothing to hide. I just don’t appreciate you bargin’ in and askin’ these questions, that’s all.”

“I understand. I apologize.” She was pleasant as could be, chest sticking out in her white blouse. This close, he realized how tall she was. Was she standing like that on purpose? He thought she was, but not for reasons of enticement. Because the pose gave her confidence—legs planted firmly, chest high; this wasn’t a woman who’d be easily intimidated.

“I was home meditating.”

She nodded. “I see.” She let a few seconds pass. “Vipassana?”

He smiled. “No, that one’s too rough for me. Zazen.”

“Zazen? I thought that only took about twenty minutes.”

“Twenty, thirty, or until your incense stick goes out. But you do it over and over again.”

“Until you get it right?”

“Well, I don’t think there’s a wrong way. You just follow your breathing.”

She was on the front porch now, doing a long good-bye. “You mean your mind never wanders?”