Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

  “A hellish day,” she said. “Except for the last part. I keep worrying about Melody. What do you think of a nineties’ kid who’s got a thing for Janis Joplin?”

  Steve shrugged. “She’s got good taste.”

  “But Janis died.”

  “So did John Lennon—it happens to everybody, haven’t you heard?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just got a weird feeling she’s got a self-destructive streak.”

  But Steve wanted the good stuff. “About that last part you mentioned. Was that by any chance the part where you had a little talk with Nick Anglime?”

  “Now how’d you know that?”

  “Well, who wouldn’t if they could? Besides, I saw the way you just happened to manage to speak to him last night.”

  “That was for your benefit.”

  They got to the restaurant.

  “They do a nice gumbo.”

  “Good. I’ll have that and the shrimp etouffee.”

  “Just the gumbo for me.” When they’d ordered, she said, “First I ran around all day listening to people’s lies.”

  “Everybody lied to you?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way—they told their own versions of things.”

  “So how can you tell when they’re lying? Do your palms itch or what?”

  “I’ve got a better system.”

  “Check out their stories? Even I could do that.”

  “Okay, then. I get this weird feeling right behind my left ear. You want to hear about Nick Anglime?”

  “I’m on the edge of my seat.”

  “Well, he lives in a baronial manor.”

  “What would you expect? It’s on Audubon Place.”

  “The place isn’t Southern at all, it’s more European. It’s stone, for one thing. And inside, it’s like a museum. All beveled glass and dark wood and Oriental rugs and Tang Dynasty porcelain.”

  “Wait a minute—how do you know the porcelain’s provenance?”

  She gave him a grin. “I made that part up. But it sure as hell didn’t come from Pier 1. Even the walls were works of art; little designs painted on. Stuff on stuff. And colors so rich and deep you could sink in if you touched them.”

  He nodded.

  “And hung with sconces and mirrors and very dark art. European, I’m pretty sure, but I didn’t recognize any of the artists. And the ceilings were three-dimensional.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t know—carved or something. Vaulted. Like ceilings in Italian palaces. Oh, and some were painted too—maybe frescoed for all I know. And the floors were marble—those that weren’t parquet. I didn’t go in the kitchen, but I guarantee you there’s no linoleum in there. Probably Spanish tiles.”

  “Excuse me. The witness is speculating.”

  “It’s like he has so much money, he has to invent things to do with it. Travel all over the world to find things to buy.”

  “Well, how’d it look?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gaudy or nice?”

  “Aren’t we snotty tonight.”

  “Well?”

  She shrugged. “Both, I guess. It’s fabulous. It’s a sultan’s palace.

  “It’s got some harim, I bet.”

  “I don’t know. He might be an ascetic in some ways.”

  “I beg your pardon? The guy’s living in a stately pleasure dome.”

  “Well, that’s it—it’s stately. More sedate than anything else. He’s got kids living there too. Don’t ask. You’ve been to Buddhist centers, haven’t you? They’re always beautiful. Very well thought out, but formal. Churches too.”

  Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t see anything ascetic about spending all that money.”

  “I only said ‘in some ways’—I guess I meant about the women. He just doesn’t seem wildly sexual. And anyway, he’s a spiritual seeker.”

  “That doesn’t preclude sex, but I’m too fascinated to argue the point. Keep going.”

  “Claims he sits zazen.” Something was bothering her. She paused, but it didn’t come clear. “I can’t tell you why, but I don’t get the impression he’s a wildly committed Zennie.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure. The weird ear feeling, I guess.”

  Steve slurped gumbo. “He seemed like a dilettante?”

  “A little. I don’t know. He seemed tired. Burned out, I guess, but not from drugs. At least not recently. Just…” She spread her arms helplessly. “… tired of life, maybe. I can’t explain it. I thought he was going to be mesmerizing, but he hardly has any personality at all.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Well, not that you can get at.”

  “Hold it here. Baby, this is Nick Anglime we’re talking about. That’s the closest we’ve got to Elvis himself in terms of star power. Are you telling me that you, Detective Margaret Langdon, are so sophisticated you just weren’t impressed one little bit?”

  “Impressed!” She started to giggle. “Omigod. Impressed!” She laughed till tears ran down her face and had to be wiped by the more alert Steve. Other diners stared, and the waitress brought a glass of water. Steve merely waited.

  “Impressed!” she said, when the power of speech returned.

  “Skip. You’re more tired than I thought. You want to go home?”

  She still couldn’t stop laughing. But finally the thing spent itself, and she drank her water. “Was I impressed?” she said. “I nearly wet my pants. This is Nick Anglime we’re talking about. He doesn’t have to have a personality. Listen, I stammered, I fished for words, I couldn’t meet his eyes. Are you kidding? Impressed! I’ll tell you about impressed. It was all I could do not to roll around on the floor and beg to kiss his ring or something.”

  “Well, I’m glad he wasn’t mesmerizing or anything.”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe he was just a tiny bit mesmerizing. I mean, aside from the fact that he’s an extremely good-looking dude, there’s something else. It’s that he’s withdrawn. By not giving you the slightest notion who he is, he makes you want to know. The more withdrawn he seems, the more fascinating it is in a weird kind of way.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Well, think about it. He’s the nearest thing to God in the pop culture pantheon. So you go in all ready to sit at the feet of greatness, and you don’t get greatness.”

  “And that just makes you want it all the more. I guess I can see it.” He was staring down at the bill, probably figuring the tip.

  Shyly, she stroked his first two fingers. “You want dessert? Bread pudding?”

  “Are you kidding? I just ate the equivalent of three meals. Anyway, we’d have to go to the Palace Cafe for that. You’re way too tired.”

  “No, I’m not. I want to walk through the Quarter.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to look at street bands.”

  “Look at? Doesn’t one usually listen to them?”

  “I want to check out runaway teenage singers.”

  “Melody!”

  She tried not to look smug. “Sure. Where would you go if you were sixteen and knew a tune or two?”

  He looked at her with respect. “That’s brilliant.”

  “My weird ear thought of it.”

  He looked jazzed. “Let’s do it. But no bread pudding. Beignets.”

  They walked to Royal, and over to Jackson Square on the way to Cafe du Monde, but didn’t see a sign of a teenage singer. Over their beignets, Steve said, “I’m going to go to Cookie’s tonight—give you a little time to recover.”

  “What?” She’d heard it, but she didn’t want to believe it.

  “I thought I’d go to—”

  “I meant … why?”

  He touched her hair. “Look at you. You’re beyond bushed.”

  He’s seen me with a concussion. Could I look worse than that? I must be a hag.

  Desperate to register a protest, yet not knowing what to do, she said nothing. It had been
such a perfect evening, how could this be happening? He was the one who needed time alone, that was obvious. It was a first in their relationship—he always wanted to be with her, never slept at Cookie’s, even when he was officially staying there. It was a first, and it was probably the beginning of the end. He’d had enough of her already, couldn’t take her in large doses, and the irony was, she was falling more deeply in love every second.

  But of course she knew that it wasn’t irony at all—or at least not irony in microcosm. It was the greater irony of the tolerance difference between the sexes. She’d heard about it, read about it, endured endless complaining about it from women friends.

  But I never thought it could happen to me. I was so cautious. I let him take the lead in everything. I didn’t dare let myself feel anything until I was sure about how he felt. I did everything right, dammit!

  Alone at home, feeling like a deflated balloon, she called Jimmy Dee.

  “And where,” he said, arriving joint in hand, “is that terrifying bear of a man. You did call me for protection?”

  “I thought you wanted me, Dee-Dee darlin’.”

  “Well, listen to Little Miss Double Entendre. You didn’t used to have such a filthy mind.”

  She accepted a hit of his joint, something she seldom did lately. “I’m just trying to keep a stiff upper lip.”

  “Uh-oh. The bear growled?”

  “He went to another cave.” She handed back the joint, catching Jimmy Dee’s look and considering the tone she’d set with her earlier remark. “Oh, hold it, I didn’t mean—”

  He puckered his lips, clowning. “Tell it to Dr. Freud, tiny one.”

  “I didn’t mean another woman. He’s not like that.”

  “Listen, you don’t have to convince me. He’s not my boyfriend. If that isn’t it, what’s wrong?”

  “He wanted to be alone. I think he’s getting tired of me.”

  Dee-Dee grabbed one of her feet. “Oh, who could be tired of a great big gorgeous thing like you?”

  “Why’d he go away, then?”

  He started massaging the foot. “Darling, do you speak English? He said he needed time alone—why make it complicated?”

  “That wasn’t exactly what he said. He said he wanted to give me time alone.”

  “How thoughtful. For a bear.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “You do look kind of peaked. Shouldn’t you be hopping into bed—with the big case and all?”

  “Do both feet, Dee-Dee. That reminds me—I never saw you last night.”

  “Oh, but I saw you. I got there about the time you were cozying up to Nick Anglime. You had bigger fish to fry than ol’ Jimmy Dee.”

  “Never.” She gave him a pat. “What’d you call me about, anyhow?”

  “Well, I wanted to tell you a couple of things.”

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Including something I shouldn’t.”

  “Ummm. Let’s get married.”

  “Listen, I got bad news today.”

  Her foot, flexing happily in his grasp, went dead still. She could feel her hands get cold. Jimmy Dee was HIV negative and celibate lately—too depressed to get it up, as he put it—but he was still getting tested every six months after several decades of doing whatever he damned well pleased. And then doing it again. (Or so he told it—she personally thought he’d be dead if he’d really led the life he described—probably of fatigue.)

  Seeing her expression, he said, “Oh, my dear, it’s not me.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy Dee! Don’t do that to me!” She smashed a pillow in his face.

  “You sweet thing, your true feelings are coming out. Leave the bear for me.”

  “Oh, Dee-Dee, you ass.” She said it because she loved him and he was half her size and gay; in a way, it was tragic they could never be a couple, and now and then it got to her—particularly at times when she was already inclined to feel sorry for herself. “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “My sister’s …” A gurgle came out of his throat. He struggled for control.

  She had had cancer several months ago, had had her spleen removed. Skip said, “The cancer’s back.”

  He nodded. He had gone to Minneapolis to be with her for the surgery. He was her only adult relative, he’d said at the time, but more than that Skip couldn’t get out of him.

  “I can’t do this,” he said.

  “It’s okay, Dee-Dee. You don’t have to say anything.” She tried to catch him, to give him a hug, but he stood up, avoiding her.

  “There’s more.” It came out a croak.

  Skip moved back on the sofa, giving him room, and patted the place beside her. He sat down and swallowed, staring out the window, not looking at her. He swallowed again, finally said, “I don’t think I can talk about it.” His voice was thin and high.

  “Later, Dee-Dee. Another time.” He let her pat his knee. Touching seemed okay, just not closeness; she could understand it. He reminded her of children—of herself as a child—batting away at well-meaning adults dispensing comfort.

  “Drink?” she said. “Cognac? It’s supposed to revive you.”

  He nodded, smiling a little, still unable to speak.

  She brought him the cognac and poured a little for herself. She knew he was depressed—any gay man in New Orleans who wasn’t had to be kidding himself—and she knew he smoked so much pot to keep reality at bay. Hell, she was depressed herself. She took a healthy sip, savoring the richness, rolling the brandy on her tongue, losing herself in the pleasure of it.

  In a few minutes Dee-Dee said, “The epicurean cop at home.”

  “Beginning to go slightly cross-eyed.”

  “I’m going to tell you something you never heard, okay?”

  “I’ve just gone deaf.”

  “My firm represents a giant conglomerate that shall remain nameless, but which would very much like to own Poor Boys; they’ve been trying hard to buy out the Brocatos. However, the outcome is still very much in doubt.”

  “And thereon, I gather, hangs a tale.”

  “One simple sentence, my dainty darling; one sentence tells the tale: some members of the board want to sell and some don’t.”

  “Ah.” She sat up straight, alert as a hunter. “And who might they be—these fractious board members?

  “Brocato family members. Every one of them.”

  “Ham was one?”

  He nodded.

  “Which side was he on?”

  “Sorry—that’s as much as I know.”

  She wondered why he had told her this—it was unethical, she supposed, violated some code or other. It was probably because he wanted to give her something, felt close to her tonight.

  But he said, “Use it well, Thumbelina. This isn’t meant to be a precedent-setter. I feel sentimental about Ham is all.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Melody woke up on the sidewalk, Chris bending over her. “What’s wrong? What is it?” he said, and she remembered. And would have passed out again if she could have.

  “I don’t know. I just got sick.”

  “Come on.” He helped her up, and she could walk perfectly well, but she pretended; leaned on him all the way back to the apartment.

  “I want to lie down.”

  “Maybe it’s hypoglycemia.”

  She nodded. But when he brought her some toast, she found she couldn’t eat. “I have to sleep,” she said, and rolled over.

  When she awoke again, she was alone. She didn’t know if it had been half an hour or several hours, but she had slept soundly, had fallen asleep immediately. Lying there, on the smelly sleeping bag in the dingy apartment, she felt like puking her guts out. That was the phrase that came to her, and surely the muscle action couldn’t have been that different, but it was sobs, not vomit, that were issuing from her belly; from her pelvis; perhaps from her toes. From the bottom of her being, each one as wrenching as a fit of vomiti
ng, but none so purging. And that was what she wanted. With each sob, she tried to cast out the knowledge that Ham was dead, free herself of this despair, this hopelessness. But it remained like an anchor in her soul, dragging her back, taking her again and again to the depths.

  She screamed, she rolled around on the filthy bed, she tried to think what to do. No plan presented itself, but one thing became obvious: She couldn’t bear to see Chris. Or the other two, Sue Ann and Randy. How was she going to pretend that nothing was wrong? Her brother was dead.

  She said it to herself: My brother is dead.

  But the words had no meaning at all, she couldn’t begin to comprehend them, understood only the dolor that had invaded her body and captured her spirit. Understood only that she wanted to die if she had to hurt like this.

  She got up to go to the bathroom and was surprised that she could still walk, her motor skills were intact, though she occasionally bounced off walls, but that was due to shock and lack of focus, she thought. She hadn’t thought she’d have the strength to make it, had thought she might have to crawl. But strength she did have; she wasn’t actually sick, just out of it.

  On the way back she strayed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, not out of hunger and certainly not out of curiosity, but because that’s where her automatic pilot happened to take her. There was some ketchup and mayonnaise, some bottled salad dressing, a box of days-old doughnuts. With no enthusiasm, she opened the box and closed it again, not even registering what kind of doughnuts were in it. And then she happened to notice a can of beer.

  Barely realizing what she was doing, she popped the top and took a swallow. She took it back in the living room and over to a table where she could sit and look down at the street. She swallowed and stared, swallowed and stared, paying no attention to either action, simply letting her mind roam free, and it worked much better than she could have imagined. If anyone had asked her what she was thinking about, she couldn’t have answered. Her mind, though not still—she was aware of movement—was almost literally blank. “Almost” because she knew it really wasn’t, every now and then came into focus to catch the tail end of some thought, almost like seeing it with peripheral vision. But for the most part she didn’t notice her thoughts, had found some inner space to go to, where she could cover her pain with gray clouds. When she finished the beer, she felt better.