Uptown Blues

by Seth Pevey

  A sound. Finally.

  I look back at Louis, but he still hasn’t moved. He hasn’t raised his horn to his lips, but I swear I can hear jazz music. If I was in a boat on the ocean and someone played that music from the sandy bottom of the sea, I would know just what it was. And that’s what I hear now, coming from someplace far away.

  Music. Good music. Great music, even.

  Is it just in my head? Am I crazy?

  Louis still hasn’t moved, but the sound is coming from somewhere off behind him, real. Must be. It’s bouncing down one of the long streets that lead to his park from all sides, from one of many old paths that lead right here to Congo Square.

  Louis winks one of his big bronze eyes right at me. I could swear it.

  A trombone.

  A tuba.

  A snare drum.

  I hear them getting louder and closer. I know now that they’re coming down from somewhere in the neighborhood. The big sound. Instruments distinct, separate, no melody.

  I move towards that sound before I can think of all the reasons why I shouldn’t.

  Nine

  The next morning broke with one of those brilliant spring sunrises in South Louisiana—dewy and green and windswept, the swampy miasma all blown away.

  But Melancon wasn’t working with enough sleep to appreciate the glorious way it dawned.

  He and Felix had spent a tense night driving all over the city. They’d begun in the Seventeenth Ward and woven eastward up and down from river to lake, completing the circumnavigation six times. It had been nearly three in the morning when they’d finally agreed to call it off, the aching tiredness overcoming their guilt and the promises made. By then the El Camino had a deflated tire from all the Orleans Parish potholes, and Melancon himself had a sore back from the same. He’d been so achy and stiff that he had actually gone home to his dingy room in St. Roch, just to sleep in an actual bed.

  Not a single sign of Andre, Melancon thought to himself, walking up the dimly lit stairs to his office. The boy must be a damn magician as well as a trumpet player. Andre the magnificent. Either that or something far worse had happened: something that Melancon wasn’t ready to imagine just yet. Two or three times in the dark night, they had stopped young men who fit the description from a distance, and each time been disappointed by a surprised stranger’s face gawking back at them, decidedly less than silent about being approached in such a way.

  It was now six thirty, and despite the late night, the two detectives were already yawning and sipping coffee together as the sun peeked over the tops of the old buildings and through the French doors of the Basin Street Detective Agency. Felix, though still in his twenties, had dark circles under his eyes, greasy hair, and a noticeable droop to his shoulders. Melancon shuddered to think what he himself must look like with forty-some years added to the equation and quietly made up his mind to avoid mirrors for the day. The old detective pulled his fedora brim as low as he could, breathing in the steam from his cup.

  “You peg Andre to be street-savvy?” Felix asked through a yawn, thoughtfully stirring some heavy cream into the darkness of his mug.

  Melancon had already considered the question some on last night’s long car ride, which had taken them through some less-than-favorable areas of the city, and was ready with his diagnosis. “Well, we know the neighborhood he’s from on the one hand. There has to be a little toughness to him, or he wouldn’t have made it growing up there. On the other hand, kid is thirteen, and saying he’s a bit of an oddball would be generous. He’s a weird guy, and weird guys get picked on a lot, get seen as easy targets. All I know is that if he isn’t street-smart, then we had better start looking harder, because he won’t last long alone wherever he is. If he is street-smart, we might as well give up because we probably won’t find him at all if he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Damn, do you have to be such an optimist all the time, Melancon?”

  The old detective shrugged.

  “Sounds like we’re fucked either way,” Felix said.

  Melancon shrugged again for good measure, as it was about all he had the energy to do until he got the coffee down. “We’ve been here before,” he said and took the biggest gulp of brew the heat of it would allow, feeling his bones shiver with exhaustion.

  “A kid without language like that…I can’t…I mean…that puts him at a big disadvantage, doesn’t it?” Felix went on. “Even if he is as sharp as Tomás says.”

  Melancon raised his eyebrows. “Might be better for a kid like that not to talk too much. People might get the idea that he’s a hard screw. Silence says a lot on its own, you know.”

  “I bet you never dodged a scrape that way.”

  The old detective painfully straightened his back. “My tongue gets me out of trouble, most of the time, by wagging, not by sitting still.”

  “You mean the same trouble it just got you in?”

  “You aren’t exactly what I’d call a silent partner either, Felix.”

  The young man knocked his knuckles against the hardwood desk and glanced up at the clock on the wall.

  “So, what’s next, then?” he asked. “Because if we just sit here, I’ll fall asleep.”

  Thinking about all of the particulars stirred the old man’s heartburn, but it had to be done.

  “Alright, Detective. You are a thirteen-year-old boy from the Seventeenth with no daddy who loves Louis Armstrong and trumpet and can’t talk. What are you doing right now?” Melancon asked, looking down at the black surface of his coffee.

  Felix was quiet for a long time.

  “You’re a lot closer to thirteen than me, Felix, you’ll have to help me out.”

  “To be honest with you…” Felix hesitated. Melancon turned to face him.

  “I’m distracted.”

  “Distracted by what?”

  “By the thought of what happens to the kid next when we do find him. I mean, what would happen to him if he walked right through our front door, at this very moment, and sat down on the couch?”

  “Well…we’d have to take him to the police, Felix. He’s a witness in a homicide investigation. The only witness, maybe.”

  “And after that?”

  Melancon quietly sipped his coffee, turned his back again.

  “Well,” Felix started, “here’s the way I look at it. He probably hasn’t been reported as missing yet to the police…at least not by that uncle. It would just make him look bad, right? So, I don’t think it’s our job to report him missing to the police, either. That’s up to his family. And reporting him missing to the police doesn’t necessarily do him any favors. On the other hand, he probably knows enough to go to the police if he’s in fear for his life, even though he also knows he’ll have to talk. And he clearly does not want to talk. Or to be with his uncle. Otherwise, they’re just going to stick him in some home, aren’t they? That’s where all this is headed, unless the stepmama recovers real quick.”

  Melancon, for once, held his tongue.

  “I’d probably rather be free myself,” Felix went on. “And I’d probably go to whatever lengths I had to to make sure I was free. I’ve heard Tina talk about those homes, the ones they put wayward children in, and yeah, I believe I’d rather take my chances on the street.”

  “He’s a thirteen-year-old boy,” Melancon said.

  “Exactly. He’s young, but not too young to make his own decisions about some things.”

  “We made a promise to an old friend, Felix. One who we owe a huge debt to, and one who also happens to take promises very seriously. At least if we find Andre, we know he’s safe. We can tell Tomás he is safe. We owe him that much. Problem is we’ve got no leads. And no suspect for his father’s murder. Now, what does that mean?”

  “Means the killer is still out there. It means that if the killer knows Andre is the only witness, he’s probably looking for the kid too.”

  “And so, this isn’t just about going to an orphanage, Felix. This could be life or death. Fact is
, we’ve got jack shit to go on, and we had better get busy being detectives.”

  Felix shook his head. He reached into his pocket and placed Andre’s cell phone down on the desk between himself and his partner.

  “We’ve got this,” the young man said.

  Melancon sat down at the desk and peered down at the little black phone. It was a bit out of date. Smaller. Not the big glassy mirror he saw most kids carrying these days.

  “You look through it?” he asked Felix.

  “The numbers all look like they were put in by an adult. Just by the way they’re written. Mr. Julian Oliver – Music Teacher. Sarah Weinberger – Child Psychologist. Uncle Melph. Mother. Father.”

  Felix’s lower lip seemed to quiver a bit on the last entry. He sat across from Melancon, and they both stared down at the device together.

  “I’ll call the music teacher,” Melancon said suddenly and snatched the thing up before Felix could object.

  “Yes, is this Julian Oliver?”

  Melancon gave the thumbs-up, pointed at the notepad on the desk.

  “Yes, this is Detective David Melancon. I’m calling in regard to a certain student of yours.…Yes.…No, he is…well hopefully alright.…Andre Adai.…Okay, would it be possible for my partner and me to stop by your office this morning? We just need to ask you a few questions.…Thank you.… Okay. Eight works for you?…Okay. Right there on St. Charles?…Okay.”

  Melancon slapped the phone shut.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The fineness of the spring morning was fully apparent, even to their heavy eyes, as the detectives bumped and jostled down the Avenue. The air was crisp and flower-smelling, petals and pollen swirling on the root-broke sidewalk, the wispy clouds already melting from a cobalt sky. The crepe myrtles along the sidewalk were in glorious bloom, still bedecked with beads from the many parades.

  Melancon stopped at a gas station and had Felix pump some air into his sagging front tire while he checked the dipstick’s shade.

  Julian Oliver’s house was another Victorian, not nearly as grand as the Herbert family home, but stately nonetheless. It looked to be just another residence, unless your eyes happened to alight on a small plaque out by the gate that read “Julian Oliver – Music Instructor.” It listed no phone number or contact information. That, combined with the St. Charles address, told Melancon that either this was a side gig or the man must be one of the most inexplicably successful music teachers this side of the Mississippi.

  They found him on his side porch, clean-shaven with a few large birthmarks on his left cheek, which was ruddy in the morning air. His hair was prematurely graying and thinning, and he kept it plastered back on his head.

  “Julian Oliver,” he said, taking no great pains to hide the suspicious study he made of both detectives. “What do you want?”

  Melancon raised his hands in mock submission. “You could relax a bit, first of all. We aren’t here to arrest you or anything.”

  The man narrowed his eyes at Melancon, his head bobbing slightly and his cheeks growing even redder than before.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened, and I’ll decide whether or not to relax.”

  Julian had a faint accent that Melancon was only just able to peg as British. Not the refined, posh English of the upper-class Londoner, though. Something else. Maybe even a little Scottish thrown into the mix. It seemed it had been Americanized over a long period but lingered at the edges.

  “Where you from?” Melancon tried.

  Julian didn’t answer but continued staring at the two of them with deepening lines spreading across his forehead.

  “Look, we’re friends. We’re here because Andre Adai’s father was killed.”

  Julian’s shoulders tensed, but the sharp angles of his brow released into concerned curves. He sat down quietly on one of his wicker porch chairs and motioned for the detectives to do the same.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Melancon waited. Neither detective sat down. Their eyes drifted over to connect with each other for the briefest of conferences.

  Julian waved his hands around the porch apologetically, as if they were all huddled in a shanty rather than on the porch of a mansion. “I’m a bachelor, so I’m afraid I can’t really offer you proper tea and biscuits.”

  “That’s fine,” Melancon said, finally sitting down, still carefully studying the man. Felix sat as well, squinting in the early-morning light and trying that disarming smile of his.

  “You must understand. People talk when you’re an unmarried man who privately tutors kids. One rumor gets started and…well, I don’t have to tell you chaps. When I get a call from private detectives, in this environment, I become a bit panicked.”

  Melancon chose to let the silence, long and stretched out and awkward, linger until it became a bit painful.

  Julian shook his head. “But, I’m…Andre. I can’t believe such a thing has happened. You say his father was killed? Can you say what happened?”

  “Not exactly. The crime is still fresh, under investigation.”

  “Oh my God. So, he was murdered? You haven’t caught the…the perpetrator yet?”

  They watched him.

  Julian’s hazel eyes went from one detective to another with increasing speed. “You aren’t saying?”

  “Certainly not,” Felix broke in, lifting the tension at once with a smile and a friendly lilt to his voice. “We aren’t actually investigating the murder. At least, not officially. We’re just trying to fill in some missing pieces here. You haven’t heard from Andre, by any chance?”

  Melancon was impressed with his young partner. Felix was learning how to take all of the subtle, unanswerable tension right to the edge. To use it, harnessing awkwardness to compel speech. And also how to cut the tension right before you lost a potential source of information, just at the right moment, so they would open up the floodgates and be on your side throughout the casual interrogation that followed.

  But Julian seemed to have been oddly stunned by it all and remained far from a gushing font of conversation. He slowly shook his head, apparently considering his timeline carefully. His mouth hung open and his eyes traced a passing streetcar out on the Avenue.

  “No, no. Our last lesson would have been a few days ago. Maybe Tuesday? I can check my—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Melancon said. “We’re here just to try and learn a little bit more about Andre. As you probably know, the kid keeps his cards sort of close to his chest.”

  Melancon looked for that smile of recognition and understanding from Julian, a friendly mutual reckoning about a young pupil, but the teacher remained dazed.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to process all this,” he finally said.

  “We understand Andre is interested in music,” Felix went on, “which must have made you two close. We were hoping you could elaborate a little on…just what kind of a boy Andre is.”

  “Oh my,” Julian said, a crushed look settling on his features. “I think you had better come inside.”

  The detectives found a very clean and well-ordered studio downstairs, an assortment of instruments that neither of them could have named. Some were exotic and mysterious; others were of that shining brass quality that one saw nearly every day on the streets downtown. They all had their places—their hooks and stands and corners. Sheets of music lined the front of a grand piano, jet black. In one corner an old Wurlitzer jukebox caught Melancon’s appreciative eye. It looked well polished and held the light of the early morning, now streaming in beautifully through the large windows.

  “Nice place,” Melancon said, looking at Mr. Oliver with as much suggestion as he could muster.

  “I have some pictures I’d like to show you,” Julian said and gestured the detectives over to a far wall.

  The first was a framed photograph of a tow-headed boy, his mouth agape in silent song. He stood in front of a music stand, with wires and microphones surrounding him in the background.


  “Nephew of yours?” Felix guessed.

  A slight smile played on Julian’s lips—tight, tired, perhaps a bit condescending. “That, gentlemen, is a young man named Aksel Rykkvin, of Norway. This is him midperformance with the Oslo Philharmonic, during which the king and queen were both in attendance. The king is said to have come to tears over the beauty of the child’s voice. You see, Aksel is a vocalist, a soprano at the moment, though that will surely change. But he has one of the most astonishing voices the world has ever heard.”

  The two detectives politely leaned in, each in turn, and studied the photograph.

  “He is thirteen,” Julian said and waved them on to the next picture on the wall.

  In the next photograph, a young, chubby-faced Asian girl in a flowing dress cradled a violin beneath her chin. She stood on a bright wooden stage with a large piano in the background.

  “Lee Soo-Bin,” Julian continued. “She has a tone so perfect that it would make you weep. Flawless technique. She is but sixteen now but is destined to become one of the foremost concert violinists in the world.”

  “And here.”

  He moved past them to the next photo, in which a young child was cradling a ukulele in his lap, sitting on the lip of a fountain and staring at a pigeon that had landed nearby.

  “Feng E, a slightly less conventional musician. He gained fame on YouTube. Taiwanese, twelve, and absolutely brilliant on any set of strings. He’s still quite young but has already become a master in eight different instruments.”

  Julian now waved to an empty space on the wall.

  “And this…barren spot you see here, gentlemen. This is where, one day, I will put Andre Adai.”

  Felix’s eyes widened. Melancon nodded his head.

  “You see, chaps, when you ask me if Andre is interested in music, it’s like asking if Shakespeare fancied a bit of poetry and prose…or asking if Van Gogh was interested in paint and color and a summer sky…like asking if Einstein liked physics or…well, you get the idea. Andre Adai is but thirteen, and already he’s one of the finest trumpet players the world has ever seen. He has a gift that you and I would struggle to comprehend.”