by Dave White
She slowed a step. The buildings on our right were cracked and broken, rotting wood holding them up. It was quiet, not another soul around. To our left the waves crashed a little louder.
“I was the reason you two separated?” I nodded. “Among other things.”
“But you got back together?”
“When I cleaned up.”
“I’m a different person now. I don’t do coke anymore. I’m with a guy. I’m happy.”
“I’m different, too,” I said.
She nodded. “You know what’s funny? That guy Pablo, he and I became best of friends. We broke up that night. But we’re really close. He married one of my best friends. What about you? The woman you were with?”
“Jeanne passed away.”
The waves seemed to crash a bit harder, louder. Made it hard to hear.
“I’m sorry,” Tracy said. “Thanks.”
I was suddenly aware of how easy it was to talk to Tracy. I was able to let myself go and give up information I usually kept close to the vest. Not to mention how easy she was to look at.
Then, “I should call Pablo. I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“You mention him more than your boyfriend.”
“Pablo’s a good friend. I miss him.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes. I had asked my questions. The waves continued to crash, hypnotic. We reached the end of the boardwalk and turned around, continuing to walk in silence.
Eventually she said, “I love it here at night. It’s not as dangerous as they say. I come here alone before a gig, just to listen. It’s like a concert of its own, the water crashing around like that. I find it inspiring.”
“It is soothing.”
She gave me one of those smiles you give a small child.
“So, where in Sayreville are you playing tonight? I might come and listen.”
She sighed. “You won’t appreciate it.”
“You hardly know me.”
We were back at the intersection. She walked away from me, toward what I assumed was her car. Unlocked the door, pulled it open. Turned back to me.
“Thanks for walking with me. If you are really going to listen, it’s a place called Jacob’s Jazz. I don’t know the name of the road it’s on, but you can Google it. That’s how I found it.”
“I’m glad we met up,” I said.
She closed the car door and drove off into the darkened streets. I exhaled a deep breath, turning over in my brain some new information, thankful that I hadn’t been shot at.
Chapter 16
It took Bill Martin hours to get through to the Madison police detectives. He would dial, get put on hold, and hang up in frustration. Finally, a Detective Blanchett got on the phone. He sounded exhausted, but gave Martin the rundown on Donne.
“Did you arrest him?” Martin asked.
“No. We couldn’t hold him on anything,” Blanchett said. “To be honest, I don’t think he did anything. Just wrong person to follow, wrong time.” A pause. “Why are you interested?”
Martin expected the question.
“Guy’s a scumbag. He fucked up our whole department a few years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised he was caught up in a murder or two.”
“Oh. He doesn’t have the best record as a PI either, does he? Been involved in a lot of shit.”
“Follows him around. Too bad you couldn’t put him away.”
“Sorry I can’t help you out.”
Martin laughed and said, “Maybe next time.”
Hanging up, he thought, I’m glad he got out. Leave him to me.
When he came back to his office with a cup of coffee, Jesus Sanchez was sitting at his desk.
“How’d you get in here?” Martin asked. Get the fuck out of my seat, he thought.
“What you mean?” Jesus balanced a pen on his outstretched index finger. “I just walked in. How you think?”
Martin shook his head. Just what he needed. He finally gets an important case, and this known drug dealer just strolls right into his office. He could almost hear Kevin Haskell yelling for his demotion. “This is a hell of an office you got here. I only got some litter and empty boxes at mine.” Jesus laughed like he was one of Johnny Carson’s writers. “Then again, my office be a street corner.”
Straightening his tie, Martin thought it was a good time to look professional. Christ, what if someone wanted to check on him?
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Man, it’s time I help you out. I talked to Michael Burgess.” The pen fell from Jesus’s finger to the ground. He bent to pick it up.
Martin didn’t want to wait, moved around the desk, grabbed Jesus by the collar, and yanked him up.
“Yo, man, what the fuck?”
“Worry about the pen later.” Martin was nose to nose with Jesus, but he kept his voice calm. Talking as if he were a happy telemarketer. “Tell me what Burgess said.”
“He said he would talk to you. Though I don’t know why.” Jesus pulled himself from Martin’s grip and straightened his collar. “Must be my charming personality.”
Jesus told him to expect a phone call from Burgess to set up particulars. He actually used the word particulars, which told Martin that Burgess must have told him to say that. Didn’t matter. This case was finally getting somewhere.
“Thanks, Jesus.” Martin patted him on the back.
Jesus stood to leave, made it to the door, when a thought hit Martin. As much as he hated to admit it, Donne was not a stupid man. He would make connections. In fact, Martin wanted him to. He wanted to cross paths with Donne again. But he didn’t want Donne ahead on the case.
“Just do me a favor. If Jackson Donne runs into you, you tell him none of this. You do not connect him with Burgess.”
Jesus shrugged. “Whatever, yo.”
As he left, Martin thought about it. He didn’t trust Jesus any farther than he could throw him. The guy was an informant and a drug dealer, plain and simple. He’d bend to anybody.
Martin had to talk to Donne himself. Before Donne even thought about going to Jesus.
Chapter 17
Jacob’s Jazz was on a small street off Route 535. I didn’t Google it; I called information and they gave me the address. A small bar, smoky and loud, with a ton of people standing in the back and sitting at small tables. I grabbed an empty stool at the bar as a small guy in thick black-framed glasses stepped away.
After ordering a Brooklyn lager, I turned to see Tracy fiddling with her saxophone as her bass player soloed. The drummer, stationed directly behind Tracy, was using brushes, the song slow, melodic, even with the solo going on. A guitar player strummed chords. Tracy was the only woman onstage. When the bass player finished, he got a round of applause from the audience as Tracy picked up the melody again. I didn’t recognize the song.
I swiveled on the seat, looking around the crowd. Most of the patrons were black, dressed in shirts and ties, applauding at solos, cheering. It was a festive crowd, drinks spilling, people snapping fingers, bobbing their heads to the music, talking into each other’s ears, and smiling. Over the bar, one TV showed the first inning of the Yankees game on the West Coast.
The song ended, the crowd erupted into applause, but not rock concert applause; there was only clapping. Tracy nodded, then gestured toward the rest of the band, giving them a moment in the spotlight. She was a natural, able to be at the center of the stage, but making sure everyone else with her got their share of the limelight. She took another bow, and freed the microphone from the stand, all while smiling.
My brain seemed to connect to her movements. I remembered her in the bar; she drank vodka cranberry. Always with one guy or another. I remembered doing lines with her. Seeing her brought the guilt of cheating back.
“Thank you,” she said. The applause quieted. “Thank you very much. We’re going to play one more before we take our first set break, but don’t worry, we have two more sets for you. But before we end, I’m going to play a ballad written by a
friend of mine. It’s called ‘Bernie’s Song.’”
The drummer counted off and the ballad started. Slow, mournful, she played through the notes, and the crowd got into it, swaying with the music, smiling, eyes closed. I turned toward the bartender, called her over. I ordered Tracy a vodka cranberry, had it delivered to her while she played.
Tracy took a solo, running her fingers up and down the saxophone, knowing each place to touch for maximum effect. The solo started slowly, quietly, building toward a climax, her body moving in rhythm with the notes, swaying and bouncing. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and watching it was hypnotic. She drew me in, until it seemed there was no one else in the bar. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her face smooth and red as she breathed into the horn. Everything about her screamed intensity, nerves tight and ready to jump through her skin, an electric current connected between her and the instrument. She finished the solo with a jarring run through the notes, pulling the saxophone from her mouth dramatically, and the crowd erupted again. I joined them.
As the guitar player took his solo, she noticed the drink in front of her. She picked it up, took a sip, and then glanced around the crowd. I followed her eyes, and scanned in each direction she looked. They finally locked with mine. She smiled and winked at me. I smiled back and felt my face flush. I finished my beer, and I noticed my palms were sweating.
The song ended, faded out, and the crowd once again showed its approval. Tracy thanked the audience once more and placed her saxophone on a stand. She picked up her drink and walked in my direction, stopping only to accept compliments from various audience members.
Tracy said, “I didn’t think you’d show up.” She placed the drink on the bar, leaned on it as I sat.
The jukebox had started up in the time it took for her to walk over. Between the music and the crowd noise, I had to lean in close to hear anything. Tracy was wearing a perfume, just enough of it, that when I leaned in to talk I got a hint of orange.
“I appreciate good jazz.”
“You saying I’m good?”
“I’m saying you’re very good.”
“We’re a little out of time tonight.” She smiled. “New drummer.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
The guitar player walked by and told Tracy he was going outside for a smoke and some fresh air. She said they were going back on in twenty minutes and to take his time. A few other members of the crowd walked by and looked Tracy up and down.
“Did you really come here to listen to jazz?” I smiled.
“So, I have you to thank for the drink?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“So, who’s Bernie?”
She finished off the drink, and said, “Who?”
“The song you just played. ‘Bernie’s Song.’ Who’s Bernie?”
“I didn’t write the song. A friend of mine did.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“No. This guy’s married. I think he said he wrote it for his brother-in-law. Maybe his father-in-law. Or his dog. I forget.”
“What do you have in store for the next set?”
She finished her drink. “A little of this, a little of that.”
She looked at her empty glass, rattled the ice around. “It’s good to see you again, Jackson.”
She walked away.
I ordered another beer and relaxed for a few moments. No sign of Hanover, nothing going on with my case. For the first time since Gerry died, I felt I could enjoy my drink. I liked people watching in a crowded bar, and this bar was interesting, because it was an older crowd. There weren’t the drunken frat boys falling over women or puking in the corner. There weren’t empty bottles spilling on the floor. The place had an air of class. Everyone was talking casually, smiling, laughing. No one screamed, no one threw anything. There wasn’t even a bouncer, like the threat of someone getting cut off wasn’t even a possibility in this place. I felt myself begin to relax, some of the tension that had been growing between my shoulder blades started to loosen.
A woman sitting across the bar caught my eye. She was next to a man who was standing with his back to the bar. She had a glass of white wine in her hand, caramel skin, and dark black hair that hung loose over her shoulder. She was talking, I guessed, to the man next to her, though she wasn’t looking at him. She sat upright, drinking the wine with her pinky off the glass. She held the glass up in front of her, in the light glancing at the wine, like she knew what she was doing. A wine taster, I thought. Or maybe a wealthy lawyer, out on a free evening.
I finished my beer, tried once to make eye contact and failed. As I put my pint glass back on the bar, my cell phone buzzed. I pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. Artie. I got up from the bar, left a three-dollar tip, and moved out the door to the street. The bass player tossed his cigarette into the street. I nodded at him, then answered my phone.
“Artie,” I said.
“Hey. Where are you?” He talked loudly, over the sound of the music, clinking glasses, and yelling frat boys at the Olde Towne Tavern.
The bass player checked his watch and went back inside. “In Sayreville.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Watching Tracy play.”
“Oh.”
I watched two cars drive by the bar before either of us said anything. Artie finally broke the silence. He tried to sound casual, but I could sense his anxiousness. “How are things going with Gerry?”
The past surrounded me. Gerry telling jokes. Tracy sitting in the Olde Towne Tavern years ago. The evidence in Gerry’s apartment. It wasn’t the man I knew. It wasn’t a man I wanted to know more about.
“I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t look into it.”
“You can’t—what the fuck, Jackson?”
“The police can do it. They’ll do it better than I can.”
For a while all I could hear was the ebb and flow of noise at the tavern. I didn’t want to tell Artie what I’d found. It would ruin Gerry’s memory.
“We’re doing some good business tonight, and I’m going to use that to help Tracy pay for the funeral,” Artie said. “Gerry’s insurance won’t cover the whole thing. So, by the time I get everyone out of here, clean up, and get home, I won’t be back until at least four. No way I’ll be up in time to help her deliver Gerry’s suit to the funeral home. The least you could do is go with her tomorrow morning.”
I took a deep breath. Behind me the music started up again, an upbeat tune, muddled by the concrete barrier between me and Tracy.
“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll be there.”
Chapter 18
I drove down the street slowly, looking for parking, only to find Bill Martin standing outside my apartment building. Before I lived here, when I was still with Jeanne and we could afford living on the top floor of a two-family, Martin and I chased an informant into the building. He was running from us, refusing to betray a friend like we had wanted. When we caught him I remembered thinking that the informant shouldn’t be hanging around an apartment building like this one. That it was well kept, nice, and, since no one was watching us with their doors open, the neighbors minded their own business.
Now, as I found a rare spot on the street and put the car into park, I doubted Martin wanted to find anyone other than me. I still had my Glock on me, but if I decided to leave it in the car, he’d see me. I did leave my phone in the car. It needed charging.
Through the windshield, Martin watched me undo my seat belt. I opened the car door and stepped out.
“Hey kid,” he said, stepping away from the building toward my car. Hands in his pockets, he leaned on the hood. Like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like meeting me here wasn’t a big deal.
“What do you want, Martin?”
“No ‘hello’?” He kept the smile on his face. Very casual. “Remember the days we used to just sit in the car and talk about music?”
“I remember you like
d the Hollies.”
“Yeah, great band.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
He laughed. “I thought you’d tell me I’m lucky to still be on the force.”
“I didn’t think of that. You want to start over?”
“No. Not really. James told me you stopped by your buddy’s place today.”
“Had to feed the cat.”
Martin curled his lip and nodded. “There is no cat. Did you take a look around when you were there?”
“I used the bathroom.”
“Probably checked the closet, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you saw what I saw.”
“Why didn’t you put it into evidence?”
“At the moment it’s all circumstantial. You know, maybe he caught lots of colds. But your buddy doesn’t seem like he was the cleanest guy. Had some baggage.”
I didn’t answer. It was warmer here than in Asbury or even Sayreville, and I wanted to unzip my jacket. However, I didn’t want to risk showing off the Glock, give Martin a reason to put me away.
“Listen. I know you don’t like me. I don’t like you. Given the chance, you slip up, I’ll put you away just for the hell of it. But let me do my job. Stay out of this,” Martin said.
“As much as I think your sloppy handiwork will screw this up, don’t worry. I’m not working the case.”
Martin’s eye opened wide. His body tensed like he was going to leap off the car and beat the shit out of me. It was real anger. I had seen it for years on the force. A smart-ass junkie or pimp or mugger would insult Martin, and he’d nearly take their head off. A couple of times those guys had come to the precinct in handcuffs and with black eyes and cut lips. But this time Martin was able to hold himself back. Didn’t stop me from taking a step away, however.
After a deep breath, Martin stepped off the hood of my car. Leaned in toward my face. This time I held my ground. His breath smelled like onions and cinnamon Trident. “You fucked up years ago. You could have been a good cop. Now you’re just a fuckup. It’s about time you got smart and let me do my job.”