Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

  But he said instead, “Fuck the police.”

  “What?”

  “We can find her, Patty. We’re her parents. We’ll look for her ourselves.”

  “We will?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, George Brocato saying “we,” including her, as if she were his wife.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Skip stopped at Old Metairie Village to call Ariel. “I need to talk to a drummer named Johnny Murphy. Any idea where I can find him?”

  She’d meant to ask for his address and phone number, but Ariel interrupted. “Johnny? He’s around here somewhere.” She yelled, forgetting to cover the receiver. “Hank! Have you seen Johnny Murphy?” Pause. “What?”

  She came back to Skip. “He’s drinking a lot today. He tends to do that. Hank said he left a while ago. You could try him at home or maybe Cosimo’s.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall dude. Ponytail. Seems a lot older than he ought to.”

  As it happened, a man like that was hanging on for dear life at Cosimo’s. His ponytail could have belonged to the old gray mare, but it wasn’t only that that made him look old. Johnny had a lot of miles on him. He was handsome, or he would be if he’d get about forty-eight hours sleep, but he had “Bad News” written all over him. In bold type. Skip would have thought Ti-Belle’s taste tended to the better-heeled and better-groomed. And better able to give her a boost up.

  She showed her badge and started to explain, but Johnny Murphy wasn’t ready yet. “Hey, you really a cop?”

  “Uh-huh. As I was saying, I’m investigating—”

  “I just can’t believe a little gal like you is really a cop.”

  Skip was six feet tall barefoot, and she was wearing two-inch heels. “Very funny, Mr. Murphy. Now suppose you tell me where you were Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday? Was Ham killed Tuesday? I hardly knew the man—why you asking me?”

  “Why’re you getting drunk like this? Feeling bad because of ol’ Ham?”

  “Lady, pay attention. I told you I hardly knew him. He did a lot for the city and all that shit, producing the festival and working on Second Line Square and all. But other than that, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “Fine. So you wouldn’t mind telling me what you were doing Tuesday. Also Monday and Wednesday.”

  “Now how the hell am I s’posed to remember somethin’ like that?”

  “Why don’t you check your calendar?”

  “Huh?” Drunken dopiness gave way to shrewdness. “Okay. Good idea. Why don’t I check my calendar?”

  He grabbed a leather bag he’d set on the bar, the kind of man-purse a man like him would never have carried if he hadn’t been a musician, and extracted a battered pocket calendar. “Let’s see now. Monday. Nothin’. Ti-Belle was out of town, so we couldn’t practice. I’m her drummer, you know that, probably. Shit, you’re a cop, you probably know everything about me. Monday night—nothin’. Tuesday I had a doctor’s appointment. Asshole told me to stop drinking. Wednesday, Ham’s party. No, I’m just kiddin’— fact, I was right here with Norm, wasn’t I, buddy?”

  The bartender smiled at hearing his name, but obviously hadn’t heard anything else.

  “You satisfied?”

  “How long was Ti-Belle out of town?”

  “Monday through Wednesday—all three. Right before JazzFest too. But hell, we’re pros. We been through it all. We can play in our sleep. We didn’t need to practice. Hell.”

  Skip wasn’t sure if he was bragging, simply stating a fact, or trying hard to convince himself.

  “You didn’t see Ti-Belle on any of those days?”

  He belched loudly, too far gone to bother apologizing. “Hell, no. Didn’t do a damn thing worth mentioning. Oh, wait—yesterday I played tennis with Tommy Houlihan.”

  “Ti-Belle says she spent those three days with you.”

  “She what?” He guffawed. “Did I hear you right? Ti-Belle Thiebaud said that?” He was having the best old laugh in the world till suddenly the penny dropped. “Wait a minute! Ham was killed Tuesday, right?”

  Skip nodded.

  “And Ti-Belle says I was with her? Holy shit! You know what that means?”

  Skip shook her head, smiling. Johnny Murphy was a pretty funny drunk. “What does it mean?”

  “Means the bitch did it.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Sherlock, case solved. Ol’ Ti-Belle just tried to use me as an alibi. Means she did it, right?”

  “You’re pretty quick to accuse her. Any reason she’d want to do her boyfriend in? You ever hear her threaten to?”

  “Hell, no, she never threatened. I’m not accusin’ her, I’m just lookin’ at the evidence.”

  “All the same, you’re a bit shy about it. I might have thought you’d have a little more employee loyalty. Isn’t she a good boss, or what?”

  “Oh, I’m just having a little fun with you. Ti-Belle Thiebaud’d never do a thing that dumb—it might interfere with her goddamn motherfuckin’ career, and we’d just hate that, now wouldn’t we? Nothin’ in this world is so fuckin’ almighty precious as Ms. Thiebaud’s brilliant career, and you can be damn sure she ain’t gonna forget it long enough to stab her boyfriend. Her boyfriend who’s about the most important dude in the state of Louisiana in the music bi’ness.”

  “So you weren’t with her Tuesday. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’. Can I buy you a drink? I’m so shocked and surprised by all this nonsense, I almost forgot my manners.” For the first time, he was looking at her, narrowing his eyes a little, registering her femaleness.

  For all his bombast and pseudo-country accent—she noticed it came and went—she liked the guy. She sensed he had done lifelong battle with a streak of sadness in himself, and hadn’t won the war yet. People like that tried so hard to stave it off they were usually fun. She felt like bantering a little with him. “Now tell me something, Johnny—if I were a male cop, you wouldn’t offer me a drink, would you?”

  “Why I sure would. Would’ve a long time ago. I was just so distracted by your petite loveliness, I lost my head.”

  She emitted the obligatory chuckle. “I’d never guess you were Irish.”

  “Russian on my mother’s side.”

  She could see it, she guessed. High cheekbones and deep-set, smoldering eyes. That could be Russian. She said, “Johnny, you wouldn’t kid me, would you? You really weren’t with Ti-Belle?”

  “Let me tell you something.” To her amazement he sounded almost sober. There was an angry note in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve known Ms. Ti-Belle Thiebaud a long damn time. A long damn time. I’ve been cleanin’ up messes for her almost as long as she’s been singin’. And I am not fuckin’ doin’ it anymore.” He stuck a forefinger in her face, almost touching her nose. “You got that?”

  “I think I got it, partner. Raincheck on the drink, okay?” As she left, Skip clapped him on the shoulder. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt drawn to him, wanted to help him in some odd way she couldn’t define.

  Out of the dark, out of the air-conditioning, in the sunlight and the late spring humidity, she felt depressed and wondered why. There was something about Johnny that seemed hopeless, she thought. Perhaps he was simply what he looked like—a man well on the way to killing himself with booze—and that was what had gotten to her.

  She needed some gossip of the sort Alison probably didn’t know, and Ariel seemed a likely source. What, she wondered, were the chances of Ariel’s having a free moment? She called the festival office, fully expecting to be referred to the fairgrounds. But Ariel herself answered, sounding out of breath.

  “Oh, Skip. I was just going home. I feel like I’m gon’ die.”

  “Going home?”

  “Well, going by the Brocatos’. It’s the only chance I’ve had all day.”

  “Could you give me a few minutes? I’m in the neighborhood.”

  “Sure. I’ll just pass out for a
while. Wake me up when you get here.”

  The JazzFest office was painted a kind of grayish-lilac with rose trim—a muddy color, not entirely successful. But the reception area, converted from what had once been the Old Reliable Bar, was a cheerful peach. A young black woman who looked good in it told her Ariel was upstairs.

  A ratty old carpet covered the stairs, contrasting in that wonderful New Orleans way with a handsome curving banister. Upstairs was the usual maze of offices. Ariel wasn’t in hers but in Ham’s, which was large, comfortable, and hung with JazzFest posters. She wasn’t resting either, but talking on the phone. It was twenty minutes before she got off.

  She grabbed a linen jacket. “Quick. Let’s get out of here.”

  They went to the courtyard of the Maison Dupuy and drank Cokes as the fountain splashed. “It’s soothin’ here,” Ariel said. “Ham and I used to use it as an escape.” She smiled, leaning forward. “A working escape, of course. Briefcases everywhere, ink stains on our fingers, papers flyin’ in the wind—still, it beat the office every now and then.” She paused, struggling for control, and when she spoke again, her voice came out a squeak. “I still can’t believe he’s dead. I just can’t believe it.”

  “Ariel, listen. You want to help me find the murderer?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry about this.” She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, which was already damp from the Coke. “Being such a baby, I mean.”

  “Don’t be silly. This whole town loved Ham, and it’s going to take us all a while to get back to normal. I wanted to talk to you because I figure you know more than anyone else about the inner workings of JazzFest.”

  “Well …” She seemed to be assessing that. “I might. I guess with Ham gone, I probably do.”

  “What would you think about being a little indiscreet?”

  “Indiscreet?”

  “I have some unofficial questions for you. What the press calls deep background.” She spread her arms, showing how expansive she was, what good buddies she and Ariel were. “Oh, heck. Let’s call it what it is.”

  “Gossip?” For the first time since Skip had met her, her eyes twinkled; she smiled a real smile.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, for Ham.”

  And they laughed together, just two fun gals having a real fun time together.

  “I was wondering about Ti-Belle.”

  “Yes?” Ariel licked her lips, poised for action. Looked slightly predatory. Skip had chosen well.

  “Well, I was wondering about her relationship with Ham. Did they get along well?”

  Ariel looked disappointed. “Ham didn’t really talk about that.”

  “But you probably saw them together a lot. I thought maybe you came to your own conclusions.”

  “Actually, they seemed perfectly happy. But I did overhear Ti-Belle telling someone else about a fight they’d had. It surprised me, to tell you the truth. Maybe that’s why—” She stopped, raising her hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay. This is all confidential. And let’s face it, Ariel—Ham’s dead. Trying to protect him at this point is an exercise in futility.”

  She looked down at the table. “I guess so.”

  “They fought and maybe that’s why …”

  “Okay. You’ll probably find out anyhow. Everyone’s buzzing about it.”

  “Yes?”

  “The word is, Ti-Belle’s seeing Nick Anglime.”

  “Ah.”

  “I haven’t personally seen them or anything—I’ve just heard it.”

  Skip took it in, raised an eyebrow, said nothing.

  Ariel looked pleased with herself.

  “You must hear a lot of things.”

  “It’s one of the things I like about the job.”

  “I must introduce you to my friend Alison Gaillard.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone you’d like. Tell me—was there any buzz about Ham?”

  “You mean seeing somebody?”

  Skip slouched back in her chair, the very picture of “nonthreatening.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “Ariel, you’re blushing.”

  Her hands went to her face. “Oh, shit, I always do that. Well, hell. I was wondering if I should tell you. Okay; Ham and I got together once, a long time ago.”

  “‘Got together’? You mean you dated?”

  “No. We just kind of fell into bed one night when we were working late.”

  “Just once? That was the whole story?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice said it might have been for Ham but it wasn’t for her. “I guess he wasn’t very interested. Or maybe he didn’t want to get involved with an employee. So, hell. I went back to my natural color. That’ll show him.” She smiled, letting Skip know she was perfectly aware it wouldn’t show him anything.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry, I guess I left something out. I was a blonde at the time, and Ham told me a weird thing. He was drinking—we both were—we went for a late drink and ended up having too many. I guess it was his idea of foreplay—what he said.”

  “What was it?”

  “He said he could only have sex with blondes, brunettes just didn’t do it for him. I guess I didn’t pay too much attention that night, but later, when he—you know—never followed up, I got mad about it. I thought, ‘Right, Mr. Big-Shot Producer, you can get all the blondes you want, so why mess with mere brunettes?’ Pissed me off.”

  “So you grew your hair out to show you didn’t care?”

  She touched her cheeks. “Oh, hell, I’m blushing again. I guess so. Only it didn’t feel like that. I just got less interested in being a blonde. I mean, the remark really turned me off. Like we have to make ourselves into whatever they want, and they just reject us anyway. I was sick and damn tired of it.”

  “Was this before he was seeing Ti-Belle?”

  She thought a minute. “I don’t think so. But they weren’t living together then—I do have some standards.” She giggled. “Hell, I think I’ll get my hair frosted.”

  “So after all that, he did move in with Ti-Belle.”

  Ariel nodded.

  “And then what? Any more blondes in his life?”

  “Not that I know of, and, honey, I made it my business to keep tabs. I mean, who’s in a better position to know who calls? And what he’s got on his calendar.”

  “That’s why I thought we should have this little talk.”

  “Well, as far as I can see, he stuck close to the bitch.”

  “You don’t like Ti-Belle?”

  “I don’t like her cheating on Ham. He was too fine a person for that kind of shit.”

  Skip suppressed a smile, knowing Ariel would have found cheating on Ham’s part perfectly acceptable—with the right person, of course.

  “Basically,” said Ariel, “I think he was monogamous. Family man. The kind—you know—the kind you could really love.” A sob, half checked, came out of her throat with a noise like “Whmmmmf.” And tears poured, too many and too fast for the damp Coke napkin. Skip had to dig in her purse for a tissue.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Suzuki-roshi wrote: “In the zazen posture, your mind and body have great power to accept things as they are, whether agreeable or disagreeable.”

  This was Nick Anglime’s goal, though Suzuki had a few things to say about goals as well. Which he would ignore for the moment. Today, Nick wanted to accept death, spend the day making peace with it. Death was here in his life, and not for the first time. He and his friends had done the usual things, things involving chemicals and strangers and fast-moving vehicles. Death happened.

  Janis and Jimi, Jim Morrison, Keith Moon, Mama Cass, Richard Manuel, John Lennon—they’d died so fast, so soon after he’d come to love them. And there had been others, closer still, including Feather Willis, a woman who’d died in his bed. He’d had to call his manager, and his manager had sent some men to roll her up in a
rug and cart her away—back to her own apartment, of course, not to be dumped by a roadway or anything so revolting, but Nick had been shaken. Had written a song about it, “Knock Me Over with a Feather,” that had made him a million dollars, give or take. Yet he hadn’t done it to make money off of Feather’s death, he had done it because he had to; that was the song that had to be written then. If he had exploited her memory, as Rachel, his second wife, had insisted, then so be it—death was part of life, and that made it part of art.

  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.