by Larry Karp
“Ms. Nowlin?”
“Yeaaaah? That’s me. What the hell you want? Who are you? If you’re sellin’ something, you can get your white asses outa here.”
“We’re not salesmen. We’re just looking for some information, if you can help us. Now, I understand that at your estate sale last week, you sold a duffel bag with some music manuscripts in it, and—”
The transformation in the woman’s appearance chased Alan and Tom a step backward. Eyes sizzling, cheeks flaming, she shed a decade of decay and raised her cane threateningly. Sunlight reflecting off the heavy ring on her right hand caught Alan’s attention. It was silver-colored metal, but didn’t look like silver. The upper surface was etched with a monogram filled with something black.
“Is it youse that gots my music?” she screeched.
Alan extended a protective hand. “No, we didn’t buy it. But we’re looking to find it, and I’m hoping you can tell us—”
“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’,” the woman howled. “Wasn’t me sold that music! Wouldn’t never have been me. I’d’a never, ever sold that music. And I tell you this—when I find out which one of my shit-ass nephews copped it, he better never get inside six inches of ground around me, ’cause that’ll be where he dies.”
She swung her cane like a broadsword, underlining the threat. “Now, get your fucking shoes offa my porch and keep ’em off. Bastards, alla youse!”
The glass in the little window in the door rattled as the door slammed.
“Jeez, Alan,” Tom said. “You think she didn’t like us?”
“What gave you that idea?” Alan snorted. “Charming lady. Interesting ring, though. ‘A L’. If she’s A. Nowlin, I wonder who ‘L’ is. Someone else we could talk to, maybe?”
Tom shrugged. “More likely her maiden name.”
“I suppose. Grasping at straws, I guess. She sure didn’t give us much to go on.”
***
Elvira sighed and shook her head as she pushed the basement door open. Her normally erect posture drooped. She snaked her way onto the stairs, balancing the tray carefully as she descended. The place smelled of mold and damp. Slowly, she moved along the dirt floor, bending to be sure to not knock her head on a beam.
She was getting too old for this stuff, but what was she going to do about it? What else could she have done, turned him away, right into the hands of that redneck honky son of a bitch sheriff, with his dogs and his guns and his way of handling troublemakers?
Wouldn’t do that to nobody, ’specially not him. But how long this gonna go on?
She turned the corner, saw him sitting on the edge of the cot, staring at his feet. “Gotcher dinner,” she called.
“Huh. What we got tonight, huh?”
She forced a smile. “Some nice po’k chops an’ collards. An’ I made my banana cream pie—cut you a nice big piece here. Think that’ll do?”
The “Yeah” was sullen, but it was followed quickly by, “Sorry, Momma. That sound good…real good. I jes’ don’t…” He waved his arms, taking in the dark, damp space. “Alla this jus’…you know?”
“I know. I sure do.” She set the tray on the little table next to the cot. “But that don’t make no never-mind.” She put hands to her hips. “You jes’ can’t be sneakin’ outa here. You gotta promise me, you won’t be doin’ that no more.”
He’d already shoveled in a mouthful of pork, chewed, swallowed. “Well, I be sorry. Damn, I really is. But sometimes I get to thinkin’, well, maybe I can make things right, an’ not have to live the rest of my life like some kinda animal, hidin’ in the basement. An’ it jes’ take me right over.”
“Oh, hush, now, Jack. Don’t you be a damn idiot. You ain’t never gonna be able to set it right, not with the temper you got. Keep sneakin’ outa here and what you gonna find is trouble and death. Ol’ sheriff, he gonna send you right back to that place, no trial or nothin’. Now, promise me, you ain’t gonna let that happen. Promise.”
Another mouthful of pork dispatched. “I promise.”
***
As Alan and Tom got back into the rental car, Tom’s cell phone went off. Alan stifled a laugh at the outrageous melody. “Is that Saramae? Better not let her find out what you’re using for her ringtone. ‘Pussy Cat Rag’? She’ll scratch your eyes out.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “It’s not like she’ll recog—” He interrupted himself and answered the call. “Saramae? Whoa, slow down! What’s the matter?…He did what?…that bastard. Well, we’re headed back now—soon’s we get there, I’ll give you a call. But don’t worry. Alan’ll fix it. Huh? Oh yeah—we already found the Italian antique dealer…yeah. Tell you all about it when we get there.” He hung up. “Saramae says the police arrested JJ. She doesn’t know why.”
“And you think I can fix it? Without even knowing what it’s about?”
“You’re gonna try, right?”
“Of course I am.”
“Then it’s in the bag.”
Alan laughed. “High praise, Thomas.” He thought for a second. “Did you give her your number?”
“No. I got hers, but I didn’t give her mine. Wonder how she got it.”
“Wonder what else she got, too. And if I were you, I wouldn’t count on her not knowing that tune.” Tom opened his mouth, but Alan added, “The odds are in your favor, but this is Sedalia, and if there’s any place in the country where anybody you meet might be a ragtime fan, this is it. ‘One never knows…do one?’”
Tom fumbled for a retort, then closed his mouth with a snap remembering how quickly Saramae had picked up on Fats Waller’s famous tagline when he had used it on her. After a second, he made a show of changing Saramae’s ringtone to one of the generic sounds.
Ten miles down the road, Tom broke the silence. “Alan?”
No response. The old man stared through the windshield as if he were hypnotized by the sight of Route 50 speeding endlessly under their car.
“Alan!” Louder this time, accompanied by a gentle poke in the ribs. “Shut the damn window for a minute so you can hear me.”
“Oh…sorry. Sure.” He pushed the button; the window closed. “What’s up?”
“You looked like you were a million miles away. You thinking about what to do to get JJ out of jail?”
Alan nodded, but it was a silent lie, at least in part. What he’d really been thinking about was that ragtime ringtone. Not that he was envious of his grandson’s teenaged goatishness—kids are supposed to be that way, and besides, with the chemo, though you know your libido has gone straight down the toilet, the odd thing is, you don’t care. It doesn’t seem to matter. Next to the fatigue, the intestinal cramps, the numbness and tingling in your hands and feet, and that goddamn chemo brain, “a little chemical castration,” as the doctor had called it, is inconsequential.
And what was bothering him most right then was the memory loss. He wasn’t demented; he knew that, could still solve problems, could get himself where he had to go, could play the piano. But he had lost so much of his ability to bring up memories when he needed them. Over sixty-five years, he’d heard that particular version of “Pussy Cat Rag” so many times, but now he could not remember the name of the performing group. Like losing a basic piece of his past.
He cleared his throat. “Actually, Tom, I was trying to remember who it was playing “Pussy Cat Rag” on your cell phone.”
Ready to come back with “Alan, you’re kidding me, right?” Tom caught the expression on his grandfather’s face and regrouped. “Polk Miller and his Old South Quartette,” he said simply. “Imagine what it must’ve been like to hear them in person?”
Alan nodded, then the distress broke through. “Yes, I can. But Tom—I couldn’t remember their name. I’ve been trying to think of it since your phone went off.”
“Well, okay, Alan, it’s the chemo. We know that—”
“It’s not okay, and it doesn’t really help to know it. Tom, my brain is like a chunk of Swiss cheese. How can I trust myself to remember what I need to do to get JJ out of the clink? And find the music and the guy who killed Mickey. If I can’t keep all this stuff straight in my head, I could screw up the whole business and maybe even make matters worse. Could get one of us killed. I’m starting to think it might be better for me to back out and let the cops do what they need to do. Maybe see if they’ll let us go back home.”
“And just forget about a duffel bag full of Scott Joplin music.” Each word tinged with acid. “What’s with you, Alan? All of a sudden, you don’t sound like my grandfather.”
“Tom, watch your mouth—”
“I’ll be your memory, Alan.”
“What?” The car swerved over the center line; Alan quickly corrected the path.
“I said I’ll be your memory if your notebook isn’t enough to keep you straight on details. There’s still nobody to match you on figuring out what to do with problems. You tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll feed it back to you whenever you need it. Hey, listen: have I ever forgotten anything you ever taught me?”
Silence.
“No, I haven’t. So you teach me what I need to remember, I’ll keep every bit of it on file in my head, and we’ll get that music back.”
Alan sighed. That’s the kind of teenaged balls I regret losing. “Okay.” Another sigh. “Deal. Get back on your phone there and call Harry Feffer, my lawyer, back in Seattle.” He reached into his pocket and passed his notebook to Tom. “His number’s on the inside back cover. We’ll ask him a few questions.”
***
A little after five, Alan, Tom, and Saramae sat in the Sedalia Police Station waiting room. The hardback chair was murder on Alan’s back; electric shocks flew down the outside of his thighs. With some misgiving over the monitoring camera mounted in the far corner, he took a Vicodin from his pocket stash, limped to the water cooler, and swallowed it. Then he walked slowly around the room until the pain began to melt into a more tolerable mild ache.
At 5:27, Detective Parks came through a door to the rear, nodded to the small group, and made a come-in gesture. But when everyone stood, he shook his head and pointed at Alan; then, before the old man could say anything, added, “Just you.”
“Go ahead,” Tom whispered. “You’ve got your notebook—take notes. That should make him a little nervous.”
Alan followed Parks down a dreary hallway, walls painted a uniform gray. Neither man spoke. When they came to an office door on which a nameplate identified the space as Parks’, the detective opened the door and stepped aside to let Alan go in ahead of him.
Two chairs—hardbacked, of course—had been placed opposite the gray metal desk, behind which was a huge corkboard decorated with photos of Mickey’s house and body. As Alan moved toward the chairs, the door to the office opened again, and a sergeant led JJ inside. The young man’s expression would have curdled milk. But when he saw Alan, the pianist saw hope light in his eyes. Moment of anxiety: I can’t let him down.
Parks plopped into a swivel chair behind the desk, flipped the switch on a small recorder on the desk, then leaned back and folded his hands over his paunch.
“You wanted to talk to me, Mr. Chandler?”
Alan pulled out his notebook and a pen, flipped the notebook open. “I do. I want to know why you’ve arrested Mr. Jackson.”
“I don’t need to tell you that. I have my reason.”
“I’m sure you do, but I want to know what that reason is.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Alan tapped fingers on the edge of the desk. “All right, then. Let me put it this way. What have you charged him with?”
“Any way you put it, I’m not obliged to tell you. I can’t have you interfering with my investigation.”
“All right. Have you charged him at all? And before you tell me you don’t have to tell me, let me remind you that a person who is not being charged is free to leave at any time he chooses. I’m not so foolish, Detective, that I’ve come here on my own. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve spoken to one. If you force me to do it, I will call him again. I have to think you’d rather deal with me, but I won’t mind being wrong.”
Neither Alan nor JJ missed the glance Parks shot toward the recording machine.
That’s one record that’s never going to see the light of day.
“Short and simple, Detective. Is Mr. Jackson in custody, or have you just requested him to stay?”
Short pause. “I have requested him to stay for further questioning. It would be in his best interest to do that.”
“Good.” Slowly, Alan got to his feet. “Then I can assume he’s neither been declared a suspect nor a reluctant material witness. Is that right?”
Parks nodded.
Alan looked at the recorder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes. That’s right.” Words dripping with venom.
“Good. Thank you, then. Come on, JJ. Let’s get on our way. We’ve got a lot to do.”
The detective sat forward in his chair. “That what you want, Jackson? You want to go off with this guy against my wishes?”
“Yes, Sir. I believe I do. Sorry, but I think he be better company.”
JJ got up, stretched, walked to the door. From near the desk, Alan motioned him through. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Then he turned back to Parks. “If that boy turns out to have anything to do with the theft and murder, I will be shocked. But if I do see or hear anything that might in any way change my opinion, you will be the first to know it. That’s a promise.”
“You want a nice shiny little deputy badge? That’s not the way this game is played, Mr. Chandler.” A clipped monotone.
Alan bit back the impulse to snap back “Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges!” and waited until his back was turned before he allowed himself a short-lived smile.
Where the hell did that line come from…oh, right! The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Take that, chemo brain!
The smile returned, just a little broader.
The paperwork was slow—Alan was quite sure the police were taking far more time than they needed for every page of it—but he was firmly, even aggressively polite. When he and JJ strode into the waiting room, Tom broke into a huge grin, and Saramae jumped up and down, clapping her hands in a rapid rhythm.
“You done it,” she squealed, then gave Alan a big hug, and over his shoulder, fist-bumped JJ.
Alan worked loose of the girl’s embrace. “Let’s get out of here before our luck changes,” he said. “Almost eight o’clock—get some dinner and make some plans. We’re in this for good now.”
“Kehde’s again?” Tom asked.
“Nah, let’s go to Little Big Horn,” Alan said. “Also good barbeque, but a little different menu for a change. More important, the tables are a lot farther apart. Still have to keep our voices down, but every advantage we can take, we will.”
***
Everyone was hungry, and the pork and brisket were dispatched in record time. Alan wiped a napkin across his mouth, then looked across the table at JJ, sitting next to Saramae, and sporting a subdued look Alan wouldn’t have thought the young man had in him.
“In a way, you’re the key right now,” Alan said. “They did question you some, didn’t they?”
“Huh! They sure did, fo’ three hours. Same things over and over, like between what they heard and what they got on their damn recorder wasn’t enough. Probably tryin’a get me to say something different about something, then hang me up.”
“Did they?”
“Hell, no. Ain’t the first time cops’ve tried to get me to spill.”
A small headache blossomed between Alan’s right eye and ear. “JJ…could you tell from their questions why it was you they decided to pull in
? Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to charge you, but there must’ve been a reason why they were looking at you.”
“Yeah, well, start with what color I am.”
“Damn it, JJ. Fine, you’re black. So are how many people in Sedalia? Of all those black men, why was it you they brought in? Tell me that.”
Saramae had been looking at her cell phone, but suddenly, she slammed it into her cavernous purse, sat up straight, and delivered a solid punch to JJ’s upper arm.
“Tell him what you can,” she barked. “Wasn’t for him, you’d be eatin’ shit right now down at the station, and the same tomorrow and the next day. If you can’t see he’s your friend, you’re about the dumbest thing on this planet. Hear?”
Alan held his breath. He’d have sworn JJ squirmed in his seat. The young man’s lips contorted at the left corner. “I hear ya,” he said, very softly. “Yeah, I gonna trust you, but you gotta trust me jes’ a little bit more. ’Fore I can say why they grab me, I gotta talk to my Granny. I do that, an’ then I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Deal?” He extended a hand.
Alan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, and extended his hand to shake JJ’s. “Deal. You can talk to your Granny when we’re done talking here?”
“Yeah, man. I gotta get ready for work, but I’ll talk to her. Don’t matter what she say, I’ll tell you what happen, but it be her problem just as much as mine, so she gotta know I tellin’ you.”
“Okay.” Alan nodded, one sharp motion. “One thing—we’d better not have you be alone right now. That detective was pissed off beyond reason, and he’s going to have every cop he can get to be watching for you. Wherever you go, wherever you are, even inside, you have to make good and goddamn sure you have somebody with you. You with me on that?”
“Be a fuckin’ fool if I wasn’t.”
“Good. Now. Tom and Saramae, can we get you to start looking for facts and clues here? Stuff we can build on?”
“Yeah.” Tom held up an index finger. “I’ve been thinking about that.”