Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  She exhaled slowly and looked once more at the puddle of blood near the dead man.

  “We can talk in my car if you prefer, or back at headquarters.”

  “No, no, I just want to get this over with.” She shook back her hair. “When I finished my last set at the Black Cat, I headed out the back door to go home. My car’s parked on the street. It’s the black Honda. I can give you the license plate number if you want.”

  “No,” he said, tapping his pen on his notepad. “But I still don’t get it. Why didn’t you go out the front door? It would have been safer. Were you meeting someone in the alley?”

  Maggy shook her head. “I was avoiding a drunk named Frank. He keeps asking me out. When I wanted to leave, he was leaning on the wall beside the front door waiting for me. I knew he’d ask me out again and rake his eyes all over me. I didn’t want to end my night like that, so I went out the back door. It should have taken five minutes for me to get to my car. I’ve done it before.”

  “So tell me again your story of what happened in the alley.”

  “It’s not a story,” she said, and repeated the details of how she’d tripped over the man’s dead body in the alley.

  His right eyebrow rose. Did he know she was holding out on him, or was he a control jerk getting his thrills grilling her?

  His hard mouth turned downwards. “You look like you do need sleep,” he said. Was that compassion in his voice? A compassionate cop? Maybe he thought she was crazy, or too exhausted to be of much help. Whatever.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said as he fell into step beside her. “What do you have against cops?”

  Her shoulders tightened. This guy was good. “Not much.” Just everything.

  The look in his eyes said he didn’t believe her, but that was his problem. No doubt he would check her out and find his own answer. All she wanted to do was wash the dead man’s dried blood off her body and out of her mind.

  They reached her car. She put her guitar case in the back seat and then got in the front. After she closed the door, the inspector tapped on her window. She rolled it down.

  “If you remember anything else tonight that may help us learn more about the victim, or the murderer, call me. Otherwise, I want to see you in my office tomorrow morning at nine to make a formal statement.” He handed her his card.

  “But I can’t.”

  “You will,” he said. “Your memories will come back a piece at a time. Traumatic events steal them for a while.” He grimaced. “But they have a nasty way of coming back to haunt you.”

  “Bloody cops,” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear. He stepped back as her old engine sputtered into life.

  ***

  With a trembling hand, she unlocked the door to her houseboat in the Shady Lane Marina at Granville Island. The memory of the dead man in the alley wouldn’t leave her. His eyes had touched her in an unsettling way. Had she done right by him? Should she tell the cop his dying words? Hell no. The last thing she needed was to get involved. Especially with the police.

  After toying with the inspector’s card for an hour, she threw it in her recycling bin and went to bed. She’d see Gravel Cop tomorrow. Dead tired, she fell into a restless sleep. The memory of the dead man’s blood, pooling in the dark night, kept calling to her.

  2

  Music in the soul can be heard by the universe. Lao Tzu

  Logan Daniel’s gut wrenched. What kind of mess had his brother Jimmy gotten into this time? He paced the floor of his ex-wife’s Kitsilano condo.

  Sasha, his five-year-old daughter had a cough that sounded worse than anything he’d ever heard. Her doctor said to do the usual: have her drink lots of fluids and rest. Logan had added ice-cream to list, but she still hacked away, a sound so deep and hoarse it worried him. She sat on the couch eating a bowl full of her favorite ice-cream, Rocky Road with a little spoon. Watching her suffer sucked.

  Where the hell is Kate? His bitch of an ex-wife promised to return an hour ago. He put his hand to Sasha’s feverish head. Still hot as hell.

  Knowing Jimmy waited for him at the Black Cat Blues Bar made the time pass more slowly. He had no idea why his brother wanted to meet with him, or why he picked a dangerous part of town, but the edgy sound of his voice told him it was urgent.

  Logan opened the window two inches for fresh air and a damp chill flowed into the room, biting into his bones. He began to pace back and forth. There was nothing else he could do.

  “Daddy.” Her voice cut through his worry. “Come sit with me, Daddy.”

  An hour later Sasha fell asleep, nestled in his arms watching a princess movie. With his free hand he checked messages on his mobile phone.

  What’s going on? Why did Jimmy want to meet at the Black Cat? Why the cloak-and-dagger crap? And where the hell was The Bitch?

  Logan had never been to the Black Cat, but he’d heard the music was good if you liked Chicago-styled blues, the food okay and the clientele eclectic. A good place for secrets in the shadowy side of town. Worry gnawed at his gut. But Jimmy was a grown man who could take care of himself.

  Sasha coughed and he rubbed her back. Bundled up in his arms, so perfect, so vulnerable, he felt almost swallowed up by how much he loved her. The world was too imperfect for her. He kissed the top of her head and rocked her in his arms.

  Jimmy had stopped answering text messages at three in the morning. It wasn’t like him to not respond. Logan tried calling, but his calls went through to voice-mail. A cold lump settled in his chest. He shook his head. This was no time to let his imagination take over. Jimmy probably got lucky and busy and, well . . . lucky.

  But that heavy sense of foreboding wouldn’t leave Logan. Jimmy could be reckless. He was the one who was always looking for “The Big Break,” the one that would give him enough money to go away and leave the drudgery of a regular job. Logan knew it was just a matter of time before he split.

  Maybe he had been a fool to bring him into the security business to start with, but his little brother rocked at being a PI, and Logan liked having him around, covering his back and sharing the load. They’d always been close. His gut churned.

  Where the hell is Jimmy? Why didn’t he call?

  When Kate finally came home, he shot past her without a word.

  ***

  The sign said, “Closed,” on the door of The Black Cat Blues Bar. The flashing lights which came from behind the building called to him and in a couple of minutes he found the alley. Two cop cars and an ambulance blocked the end where it met the road. The whole area was lit up with police lights. Forcing himself to breathe, he walked closer. Crime scene tape surrounded a large area. No. No . . . it can’t be. A body lay on the ground behind the tape. Logan’s stomach fell like a rock into a deep, fathomless well. With a certainty he didn’t want, he knew what lay behind the tape . . . a scene that would haunt him forever.

  3

  Without music, life would be a mistake. Friedrich Nietzsche

  “I killed a man . . . I killed a man.” Gilbert Harris stumbled through the deserted back alleys towards the docks. Bile rose in his throat. As he swallowed it down it burned the lining of his esophagus. The dying man’s face stuck in his mind. The metallic smell of his blood lingered in his nostrils. No one had told him what it would be like after the kill.

  Should he have stayed and made sure the asshole was dead? With all that blood he had to be dead by now. Had to be.

  And who was that figure coming toward him. It looked like a woman. Did she see him? The moment he struck the fatal blow he had the eerie sense he was being watched. But then again, it felt like the whole fucking universe was watching him. Gil shook his head. It had to be his imagination. He had cased out the alley ahead of time. It had been empty.

  His heart raced. His breathing was erratic. I’m in shock. That’s all. He would feel better soon. But with every step his feet grew heavier and more awkward, as if they didn’t belong to him. His hands trembled and his muscles twitched. Would
he be able to get away?

  Gilbert pushed on. Escape. He had to escape. Sweat poured down his face. Sirens blared in the distance. He gasped for air.

  The horror of what he’d done pushed in on his mind. Daniels’s face contorted with pain would not leave him. If only the asshole had cooperated, told him what he knew. The man would still be alive. Gil didn’t want to be a murderer.

  The asshole’s laughter had really done it. It made him feel two inches tall. Daniels shouldn’t have called him a foolish old man. Gil had had enough of people sneering at him.

  But now, on top of all his other failures, he’d taken a life.

  Gil reached his destination, his fishing boat at the docks. It felt as thought hours had passed, but his watch told him it had taken twenty minutes. He jumped on board and unlocked the cabin door. How could he ever right this wrong? Was there such a thing as redemption? Shit, that only happens in the movies.

  Once inside the cabin he went straight to the head and puked his guts out, feeling the weight of the cross he wore on a chain around his neck. It hit his chin as he leaned forward. “Fucking hell.”

  When he finished upchucking, he poured a glass of water. Time. All he needed was time. He lifted the glass to his mouth, but his hand shook so violently the liquid splashed over the sides and covered his blood-soaked hands. “God dammit.” Focusing on his breathing, he willed it to slow down, but it would only work for a breath and then it would speed up again. He had lost control of his body, his mind . . . his fucking life.

  His cell phone rang. Cops? His system went into overdrive.

  The screen display said: Mother. Oh fuck. That was all he needed. He’d been late with her money. She’d yell and insult him. He snickered. What would she think if she knew her only child had become a murderer?

  4

  Music can change the world because it can change people. Bono

  Maggy groaned as the first streaks of light filtered through the window above her bed. Coffee. She shook her head as if that would rid her of the memories of the night before. Today had to be a better day. Her mouth tasted like a compost bin. It felt as though a metronome swung back and forth inside her skull. And her feet ached from stupid, new shoes that pinched her toes. Coffee. She had to get moving. At least as far as her coffee pot.

  A big cup of java would help her pull herself together. Peterson, the detective with the gravel voice, expected her in his office in a few hours and she had to fit in her dog walking job first.

  Coffee . . . her elixir for dealing with all of life’s crap. Well, that and red wine. She wanted to be clearer when she dealt with the cop this time. Otherwise he’d keep pestering her, thinking she knew something, which she didn’t. Well, almost didn’t. She grumbled.

  She dragged herself out of bed and descended the ladder to the main floor of her houseboat. The kitchen area was in the right corner. She ground a cup of beans, poured the grinds into her filter machine and hit the “on” button. When the familiar swooshing started, and the smell of fresh coffee intensified, an expectant feeling of calm flooded her senses. It was the best part of the morning.

  While she waited for the pot to fill, she hooked up her phone to speakers. A moment later Diana Krall’s voice filled the room. “The boy from Ipanema walked slowly . . .” Good music, coffee and . . . hope. The day was improving already.

  A familiar tapping came from the door. Joe. Rather than knock, he used his white cane to tap a rhythm to identify himself. She smiled as tension drained from her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how hunched up she’d become.

  Opening the door wide she waited until he crossed the threshold and then gave the old man a long hug. They had grown close in the year they had known each other. Joe lived in a room above the Black Cat Blues Bar. He was her boss’s cousin and her mentor in all things to do with the blues.

  He sniffed the air. “Coffee, cinnamon and oranges.” His warm baritone voice reverberated through her heart. Last month he had turned seventy, but his mind was sharp and his ear even sharper. He used his cane to walk to her kitchen table. She cleared a few sheets of music out of his way and waited for him to speak.

  “Your voice dripped honey in your last song.” Joe raised his chin. “Stirred my soul.”

  That was a high compliment coming from Joe. He knew the blues better than anyone she’d ever met. Listening to his feedback was like mining gold.

  “It felt right,” she said. She had emptied herself into that last song, the old classic, “I Just Want to Make Love to You.” “Maybe I should finish every night with it.”

  A smile slid across his narrow face. “I tell ya, it would keep a lot of men warm for the night.” He sat back with a bawdy laugh only he could get away with.

  She eyed him. Joe liked her singing, but he hadn’t come all the way here to talk about that.

  “You just keep getting better every night, baby,” he said.

  She gritted her teeth. No matter how many times she complained about him calling her “baby”, it kept falling out of his mouth. Time to change the topic and get down to what he really came for. “I’m okay Joe.”

  He nodded slowly, as if in disbelief. “It was one hell of a night.” Reaching across the table he touched her face. His fingers traced her features slowly, leaving a trail of warmth behind.

  When he finished she said, “Today’s another day. I’m fine—really.”

  “You found the man. I heard there was a lot of blood.” Joe lowered his voice. “That’s gotta mess with your head.”

  Yeah it did, but talking about it with Joe wouldn’t help. He had enough problems of his own. She touched his arm. “I’m okay.”

  “Something you’ll remember till the end of your life.”

  Oh dear. Here he goes again. “I hate it when you talk about the end of life, Joe. Let’s talk about the weather.”

  “Nothing much to say. It’s November—all it does is rain.”

  Joe’s fingers tapped with the beat of Diana’s song, “Peel Me a Grape,” playing in the background. Maggy placed her hand over his. His skin had an alligator roughness. It probably had something to do with his meds. “Did you see the doc yesterday? It was so busy at the bar last night I didn’t get a chance to talk to you about that.”

  His lips compressed into a thin line.

  “Joe?”

  “Doesn’t matter what he says. I’m doin’ fine.”

  “Stubborn old goat.”

  “Hush, child. You worry about other people too much.” He removed his hand from her grasp. “I’ve lived longer than you. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You need medical help.”

  “I’m doin’ fine, Maggy.” But his glassy-blue eyes looked more fragile than a thin sheet of ice on top of a spring pond, cracking and melting in the morning sun. And the trembling in his hands told another story.

  “Joe . . .”

  “Don’t waste your time worrying about an old music man. Get out there and live your life. Sing. Have some fun. Find a good man to love. Have a family. In the end that’s the only treasure worth having.”

  Talking about love again. He sounded lonelier and older every day. She took a deep breath and leaned towards him. “Tell me about the meds.”

  “Diana’s voice is sexy,” he said in that low, bedroom voice of his. His chin moved with the beat.

  Another day, another impasse with Joe. How could she get him to take better care of himself? She got up and poured them each a mug of coffee. Placing his mug in front of him with a thud she leaned towards him and said, “You’re impossible.”

  He laughed. “You’re not the first woman to tell me that. Don’t worry, Maggy. Everything will work out—always does.”

  Platitudes from a sick man. She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the clock on her microwave. She had to get moving. “Whatever you say, Joe.”

  “Oh, before you rush away, I have a message for you.”

  “What?”

  “A man phoned the Black Cat. He said he wants
to meet with you at the library at ten. Said it has to do with the murder. He said he thinks you’re in danger.”

  “Me? In danger?”

  Joe drank down his coffee. “I’m just the messenger, and I sure as hell don’t like that role. I don’t like you messed up with murder. But that was what the man said. Maybe you should tell the police.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t worry, Joe. I can handle a librarian.”

  5

  Music is the divine way to tell beautiful, poetic things to the heart. Pablo Casals

  Rain dripped off the edges of Maggy’s umbrella, dampness seeped into her bones and she shivered. Shrouded in clouds, the coastal mountains hid their beauty. Hell, everything hid its beauty on a rainy Vancouver morning in November.

  As she walked along the city street, the eyes of the dead man nudged at her conscience. She couldn’t get him out of her mind. Adjusting her ear buds, she turned up the volume on Janis Joplin. But it didn’t work. Music usually made her feel better, but not today. The dead man’s eyes stayed with her, her own version of a tell-tale heart, every step of her journey. Maybe, she should tell the cop, exactly what had happened in the alley. And then maybe the image of the corpse would pass on.

  She squeezed her right hand into a fist, the one that had held his. There were no traces of his blood left on her skin, only the tingling sensation of a connection remained. Shit. She hadn’t asked to be a witness to his death, and didn’t want to be burdened with his spirit.

  Meandering through the crowds on the sidewalk, she decided to focus her mind on the living. She had just finished her second interview with the cop. Good lord, that man knew how to interrogate. His questions seemed endless, designed to trip her up. The last thing she wanted was to get tied up in the middle of a murder investigation. She didn’t even know the dead guy. He wasn’t her problem. At least, she didn’t want him to be.