Jazz Funeral (33 page)

“You kidding, officer? You need a brute for that.”

“I was thinking of going to bars where teenagers hang.”

“Hang? Well, in that case. Something should be done about the creatures.”

“The Blacksmith Shop in five?”

“Done.” It was their neighborhood bar. He was waiting when she got there, dapper in jeans and polo shirt, salt-and-pepper hair curling slightly over the collar. He was a hunk, if rather a smaller one than was suitable for Skip. In his law firm, most people didn’t know he was gay, and women were forever fixing him up with their single friends. The swish act he affected with Skip was for her personal amusement.

They headed for Decatur Street, Jimmy Dee keeping up a running commentary on the passing carnival. “Don’t you just love the fashion statements?” He pointed out a kid in spiderweb panty hose.

“I can’t conceive of having fashion sense at sixteen.”

“No offense, my sweet, but I can’t conceive of your ever having any.”

“I don’t know, Dee-Dee, under your tutelage—”

“Green, purple, and orange hair—look sharp now.”

“The vampire he’s with—do you love the black nails?”

“But the 666 tattoo is too beastly.”

The vampire’s face had been whited out with something like Kabuki makeup. She had black around her eyes and her lipstick was bruise-colored. Her outfit had to have taken days to think up and weeks to put together. Skip thought she was a bit too short to be Melody, maybe too heavy, but she couldn’t be sure. If she wasn’t Melody, she was still somebody’s kid, and if she was a runaway, her next door neighbor wouldn’t recognize her. How did you find one kid in this mob? The bar they liked, the most nondescript on the whole street, except that it had a few video games, was starting to fill up. They didn’t seem to be interested in drinking, just milling. And quite a few of them were already unsteady on their feet—though not from alcohol, was Skip’s guess. Quaaludes maybe.

She and Jimmy Dee walked up and down the street, around Jackson Square, over to Bourbon, back again. The night was eerie; the air was heavy as always, but this time with millions of bodies, flying termites swarming the lights. They walked side by side, incapable of making eye contact if they didn’t want to be mowed down by the crowds. Skip realized later the side-by-side setup had been a rare opportunity for Jimmy Dee, giving him the distance he needed.

He said, “You know what I told you last night?” and she felt a tightness in her belly, knowing what this was costing him.

“About your sister?” She glanced at him briefly, but he looked away.

“Yes. You know how I said there was more?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, this is it, Skippy. She’s going to die—my only relative except for two. I’m going to have to go back and help her through it.”

She longed to give him the gift of her eyes, to show him how he’d gotten to her, but she didn’t dare. He’d hate it. She said, “I kind of thought it was something like that.” She didn’t even say she was sorry. She didn’t touch him.

“And that’s not even the heavy part.”

Now she did turn to him, so surprised she forgot discretion.

But he said, “Look—a street band. White punks on dope.”

Young white punks, playing illegally late. They were hardly older than Melody—two guys and a girl, but the girl wasn’t Melody for sure; way too heavy. They were fairly mediocre, really; nothing different about them.

Jimmy Dee said, “Y’all need a singer.”

The drummer rolled his eyes. “Oh, no, not again. You want to audition?”

The girl said, “He’s a lot more my type than the last one.”

“What last one?”

She shrugged. “One-day wonder. Fantastic voice—we made more money with her in one night than we do in a week by ourselves.” She gestured at the guitarist, a blond, good-looking guy. “But Mr. Stud back there scared her off. So—what do you want to sing?”

Skip said, “Skinny girl? Purple and blond hair?”

The girl, the bass player, opened her mouth, but the lead guitarist did something, pinched her maybe. Skip was about to pull out her badge, but Jimmy Dee’s instincts were better. He toyed with a twenty-dollar bill. The girl looked at the bill and then at the blond. “She’s gone, Chris, okay? She’s not coming back.” She turned to Jimmy Dee. “Her name’s Janis,” she said triumphandy. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

He smiled as if she’d given the right answer. “No. Not even close.”

“Oh.” She was downcast. “Well, maybe it wasn’t her real name. I know—I’ll tell you what she looked like before we did her over.” She never took her eyes off the bill.

Jimmy Dee tore the bill and gave her a half.

“Real skinny, blue eyes. Lots of curly black hair.”

Skip brought out the picture. “Is this her?”

“I’m not sure. It doesn’t look that much like her.”

But the drummer said, as if just realizing it, “She’s the girl who was in the paper—whose brother was murdered.”

“Who is? The picture or the singer?”

“Janis. Why the hell didn’t we put that together?” He turned to Chris. “You knew, didn’t you? You had to have known.”

The blond just shrugged, didn’t open his mouth. Skip thought he’d be death to teenage girls with raging hormones. She took out her badge. “Let’s talk about it.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “She fainted when she read about the guy who died. Said she was sick.” He shrugged again. “That was it—she didn’t talk much. Just sang with us and split.”

“What made her leave?”

The girl said, “She caught him with another girl.”

The drummer stared at the blond: “Asshole.”

It went on like that until Skip was pretty sure they’d given up every crumb of information they had, plus names and addresses. She gave them her card: “If you see her again, call me. And I mean it—it could be a matter of life and death.”

“Hers?”

“Yours if you don’t cooperate. By the way, it’s after eight—haven’t you noticed?”

They didn’t answer.

Jimmy Dee said, “Should I give them the other half?”

“Up to you.”

He handed it over ceremoniously, kissing the girl’s hand. “Stay as sweet as you are,” he told her.

And Skip said, “When you think about making that call, remember I’ve got a rich friend. He might just get generous again.”

To Jimmy Dee she said, “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. I owe you about half a dozen.”

“I’ve got to finish telling you,” he said urgently.

“Okay.”

“You know those other two living relatives? Besides my sister? They’re her kids.”

“Young?”

“Eleven and thirteen. A boy and a girl. The dad deserted the family a long time ago. His parents are alive, but the grandfather’s an alcoholic, and they’re really, really poor. They just have a tiny apartment.”

Skip finally understood what he was telling her. She stared right at him, simply couldn’t play the game any longer. “Jimmy Dee? You’re going to be a dad?”

He was sweating. “Jesus. I don’t know what else to do.” She’d never seen him look so worried. And scared. Downright scared.

The sounds of breakfast penetrated even to the zendo, where Nick had gone for a few minutes’ quiet. It was a good zendo, a twelve-mat room, but he must remember to have it soundproofed. He had come here thinking to sit zazen, or at least that was the excuse he’d given, but once in here, surrounded by white walls, breathing the heavy scent of incense, he was so happy simply to be alone that he started thinking about that. His life was seeming too complicated all of a sudden.

He’d invited Proctor to come for JazzFest and stay as long as he wanted—Nick thought it was important to support him while he recovered from his divorce—but now he wanted to take it all back. This thing Proctor had for Ti-Belle was really getting uncomfortable. In fact, that was why he’d left the breakfast table. They weren’t saying anything, there was just an atmosphere. Something thick and ugly in the air. He couldn’t name it, thought it was more than simple dislike, but they didn’t have any history together. He couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Proctor had seen him through twenty-five years of relationships and never acted like this. All Ti-Belle would say was that Proctor didn’t like her, she could feel it. She never said a word about not liking him. But even Nick didn’t like him much at the moment.

Oh, hell. He’s not himself. No one is when they’re going through a divorce—I should know.

Should he be more patient? He wasn’t even sure he had time for Proctor in his life. He wanted to pursue his spiritual life, spend more time with his kids, and there was another thing—he was starting to feel a weird urge to teach. He thought that was partly behind his wholehearted support of Second Line Square. The part that most excited him was the plan to expand the Heritage School of Music; he wanted to be in on that. It was a weird thing and he didn’t have a clue where it was coming from. But Caroline said you had to listen to stuff like that, and Nick saw no reason to doubt her. He could afford to follow any impulse he had, and this looked like a constructive one to him.

Sort of. There was a piece of it he didn’t trust—somehow it seemed more appealing to teach music to other people’s kids than to figure out how the hell he was supposed to be a dad to his own.

But maybe he could do both.

Then there was the matter of Ti-Belle and the new career she had planned for him. In a strange way, that appealed to him too. But weren’t things getting too crowded here? How to sort them all out? He decided to quit trying so hard. Instead he closed his eyes and began to follow his breathing.

But after a while he heard hurried footsteps coming toward him, followed by a knock.

“Nick! I’ve got to talk to you.”

Proctor stomped in without waiting for an answer, holding a just-opened Federal Express box and the heavy book that must have come in it. “I know who she is. I had this really weird reaction to her—I mean like I remembered something really unpleasant and couldn’t place it. It’s been bugging me like crazy. And yesterday I figured it out. Lacey Longtree from my hometown—she was kind of a Doradale celebrity. My mom taught her tenth-grade English, so I called her and got her to send me this.”

The volume he was holding was a yearbook from a high school in Doradale, Alabama. Proctor opened it to the page he’d marked and pointed excitedly to a picture of a girl. She had dark hair, not blond, and she was chubby, not thin, but she did look like Ti-Belle in some kind of way. Something about the eyes, the expression. Still, it was anything but conclusive.

“What’s this about, Proctor? You’re saying Ti-Belle isn’t who she says she is?”

“You bet your sweet ass she’s not. Just ask her.”

“What’s the big deal? Look, a lot of people change their names. Why do you care so much? I don’t get this one-man war you’re waging.”

“Look, she knows what I’m on to. She saw me get the package and she tried to see what it was. She’s terrified I’m going to blow her out of the water.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s ripe, man. She’ll break. Just show her the picture, okay? That’s all I ask.”

“Okay,” said Nick, and put on his shoes. It had to be done. The Proctor-Ti-Belle thing was blowing apart without any interference from him.

He was actually excited. He wanted to get the thing settled and out of the way. He thought later, blaming himself, that perhaps he should have curbed that feeling, that some of it must have showed when he thrust the open yearbook under Ti-Belle’s nose. It had to have been his energy she picked up on, because there wasn’t anything else. He didn’t say a word, hadn’t even thought about what to say.

He expected it to go much slower.

The minute she saw what the book was—surely she didn’t have time to spot the picture—she sprang at Proctor, an infuriated feline.

“You fucker!”

She got him by the shirtfront, but he ripped himself away, and she started throwing things—a half full bowl of granola, a glass of half-drunk orange juice, a fork, a napkin, a glass of milk one of the kids was drinking. That was as far as she got before Nick caught her. But she was a moving target, slippery and fast. As Proctor dodged, Ti-Belle rushed him, grabbing things as she went around the table, all the while shouting anything that came to mind: “Sonofabitch bastard asshole pussy prick motherfucker.” And finally: “Stupido!”

A hoot of laughter escaped one of the kids before she turned her white-hot eyes on him and he turned red and ducked. Nick understood the impulse. The whole pathetic scene would have been funny if it hadn’t been terrifying in its suddenness, its intensity. Its irrationality. And worst of all, Ti-Belle’s killer eyes. Nick had never seen murder in someone’s eyes before, but now he understood the phrase.

He caught her from behind, both arms around her waist, pinning her arms, but she kicked him in the shin with her heel, and the sound she made was like a hiss. He held but she twisted wildly, and they both went down. The kids and guests started to run for cover. Proctor seemed frozen in place. Ti-Belle wriggled away from Nick and rolled under the table, all the way to the other side, where Proctor had rim for refuge. It happened fast—Proctor obviously didn’t see it coming.

She grabbed his ankle, pulled him off balance, got him down and straddled him, going for his throat. “Ham knew about this, goddammit! Ham knew, damn you! What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

She was choking him, Proctor’s hands struggling to loosen hers, his face turning red, his body twisting. Nick hesitated, trying to decide whether to go over, under, or around the table, but a voice, strong and authoritative—chilling, probably, to Ti-Belle—said, “Miss Thiebaud! Police!”

Turning from the tableau on the floor, Nick saw Langdon, the oversized cop, bearing down; not running, just walking very fast, very purposefully. The servants had obviously let her in.

“Let him go,” she said. If she’d had a megaphone, she couldn’t have sounded more official, more threatening.

Nick couldn’t take his eyes off her. But Ti-Belle shouted, “Fuck!” and he saw that she too was staring at Langdon, hands still around Proctor’s throat.

“Goddamn you!” Ti-Belle yelled. “Goddamn you, Proctor Gaither!” She went back to choking him, more methodically if anything. Nick didn’t understand why Proctor couldn’t fight her off.