“Hello?”
He continued to sing.
“Um, hello?”
He was either deaf or ignoring me. Considering the fact his song changed the moment I walked up, I sensed this was some kind of game. Glancing at my feet, I noticed the tattered fedora with several bills and some change inside. Rolling my eyes, I realized it was definitely a game. Sighing, I pulled out a five and dropped it in his hat. The second it landed inside, the song changed again.
He began to sing Hall & Oates’ eighties classic, “Rich Girl.”
“Oh, great.”
Grinning, he continued, his fingers gliding over the strings.
“This isn’t funny,” I snapped, my face flushing as the words came out slurred. Taking a moment to collect my thoughts, I added, “Are you gonna answer my questions or am I taking my money back?”
The song changed again.
He began to sing Elton John’s “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” strumming an even tempo beat.
“Oh my God.”
He didn’t get to finish the first verse. The jerk who had been harassing me since the bar strode up. He grabbed the guitar. He broke it against a balcony support pole. I watched as the instrument made contact with the metal and split, splintered shards protruding from its battered body as the fretboard snapped off, being held together only by six quivering strings. At the sight, the smokers began to clap and nod in appreciation.
I stared at the hollowed-out hunk of wood, horrified, then glanced over at the cops, still trying to question remaining stragglers about the incident, and keep revelers from tainting the crime scene. One of the younger officers looked up at the sound, but when he saw who it was and what had happened, he turned his attention back to the crime scene. Both my heart and my head were pounding. I grabbed the jerk’s arm and pulled him across the street.
“What in the hell are you doing?” I hissed, watching the stunned guitarist out of the corner of my eye. He cradled the guitar like it was a dying friend.
“Helping,” he replied, taking another puff of the cigar and sending smoke skyward.
“Helping?” I repeated, the anger welling inside me. “Um, no, you’re so not.”
“You’re cute, but not bright.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he interrupted, “Guy’s a con artist. Playing games. With your drunk logic, you’d keep feeding him money, hoping he’d give you answers.” He studied my reaction. “Told you, babe. You have no idea what goes on down here.”
“Like you do?”
He looked me up and down then shook his head. “You can’t even stand up straight. You think you’re gonna save the day wasted?”
“I’m not drunk!”
“Sure.”
“I don’t want your help,” I snapped, careful to articulate my words. “Just back off!”
Flustered, I tried to storm back over to the heartbroken guitarist, but nearly tripped. Lifts were definitely a bad choice tonight. Somehow, the Fates were forgiving. They allowed me to catch my balance, saving both my dignity and my face from a hard fall. When I looked up again, I saw the guitarist’s face clearly for the first time. He was younger than I initially thought, no older than twenty, but his scruffy goatee and soulful voice suggested a depth of experience beyond his years. When his crystal-blue eyes met mine, he scrambled to his feet, clutching the busted instrument and almost cowering.
“I’m really sorry about your guitar,” I began, holding my hands up. “I need to ask you some questions and—”
“Listen, lady, I’m sorry,” he said, eyeing me warily. “You can have your money back. You can have it all.”
“No, please. That’s not . . .” I felt exhausted. The initial adrenaline I had experienced was wearing off, in its place the fatigue of a long night and too much alcohol. “That guy, the one who was shot . . .”
“Please don’t shoot me,” the guitarist whimpered.
“What? I’m not gonna shoot you,” I groaned, shutting my eyes. “You were here when it happened, right?” He nodded. Forcing myself to focus, I continued. “Okay, was there a girl with him? A blonde?”
He nodded again, clutching the battered instrument like a child’s security blanket. I could tell this guy didn’t trust me and definitely didn’t want to talk to me. The way his eyes shifted left and right, I felt like the cat that cornered a field mouse. I felt bad. Still, I had to press on.
“Please just tell me what happened.”
The guitarist glanced behind me. I followed his gaze and realized the jerk was gone and so were the police, leaving one disinterested officer to “guard” the crime scene. Whatever investigation they had done into the incident was over. Cash had been shot, Natalie seemed to have been kidnapped, and the cops had done nothing but interview a few inebriated tourists who couldn’t care less. I hated thinking the jerk had been right all along. Turning back, I watched the guitarist light up a joint, his hands shaking slightly. His busted guitar rested at his feet.
“Um, hello?” He met my gaze, the anxiety behind his eyes dissipating. “What happened?”
He coughed, covering his mouth with his fist. Smoke flooded the air around him. “To what?”
“To my friend!”
My head was throbbing and my patience wearing thin. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was finding the nearest bed and sleep it off. But I couldn’t. I was experiencing an epic battle between my mind and my body, and it scared me to think what might happen to Natalie if my body won.
11
My efforts to interrogate the conniving guitarist proved futile. While he was more than willing to talk to me after some herbal encouragement, the information he offered was vague at best. He said that he was finishing a medley of Eagles’ tunes when Cash and Natalie stumbled past him. When they paused to listen to the music, two guys joined them. Cash seemed unaffected by their presence. Natalie was spooked.
“Wouldn’t have noticed but she jumped back, knocking over my hat.” He frowned, taking a drag. “My money went everywhere.”
He went on to vaguely describe the two men. He said one was tall with long dark hair and the other shorter, his blond hair almost shaved. At Natalie’s reaction, the blond man became belligerent. This didn’t sound particularly ominous. After a few drinks, people can get rowdy, especially men. I myself have witnessed countless bar fights in New Orleans and in Boston. Something about this fight stood out to the musician.
“They weren’t speaking English.” He coughed, leaning over to spit. “It was some other language.”
“Spanish?” I leaned against a balcony support pole when I found myself swaying. He sniffed and shook his head.
“No, not Spanish.” He stared down at his guitar, frowning. “That was my favorite guitar. That was my only guitar.”
I waited, hoping he would offer up some more insight. Instead, he continued to smoke and stare. Something told me this was another game, another ploy for money. Unfortunately, he was my only prospective source. I couldn’t think of any other options. Taking a deep breath, I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a twenty, offering it to him. His eyes rose slowly, settling on the bill.
“Here.” I frowned as I thought about how the jerk from the bar was costing me money. “Take it. I’m really sorry about your guitar.”
“Twenty bucks?” His gaze shifted between the money and me. “You think I can buy another guitar for twenty bucks?”
“No, but—”
“It cost two hundred!”
Frustrated, I reached into my pocket and pulled out another twenty. Shoving them in his hand while steadying myself with the support pole, I snapped, “Tell me what happened.”
He took a long drag. He stared at the crumpled money. I watched his anger simmer as he exhaled, smoke rising from his lips and nose. Sniffing, he pocketed the bills. “They were speaking
some weird language. Not Spanish. It sounded, I don’t know, German? No. Russian? Oh! It was like that language in that movie with that guy.”
My head throbbed. “The language in that movie with that guy?”
He coughed. “Yeah. You know. That guy who was in that other thing?”
“The guy in that other thing?”
He nodded.
I massaged my temples. Somehow, my euphoric buzz had shifted into semi-hangover mode. “Just tell me what else happened.”
He went on to explain how the blond-haired man argued with Natalie. The more they argued, the angrier she became. Cash was laughing, possibly trying to calm everyone down. He took it all as a big joke. He even patted the angry man on his shoulder. It wasn’t until the man grabbed Natalie’s arm, trying to forcefully remove her that Cash realized anything was wrong.
“It all happened fast, way fast,” he recalled, staring into space. “I only noticed ‘cause this all went down when I was getting my money. Guy grabs the chick. She lets out a scream. Her bud comes to her defense. Tried to push the angry little dude off. That’s when he pulls out this gun, right? Next thing I know, bang! Her bud’s on the ground, and they’re draggin’ her away.”
At the frightful image, my heart began pounding as hard as my head. “Why didn’t you try to stop them?”
“Why should I?” he challenged, taking a last hit. “Guy had a gun. You know how many people are kidnapped, robbed or shot around here? I’m not risking my life. No way.”
I stared at him, baffled. He may have been a talented musician, but he was a lousy human being. Any guy who would watch as two men shot someone then kidnapped another was beyond low. During my moment of reflection, he lost interest in our conversation.
Finishing his smoke, he took one last look at his busted guitar. He sighed, picking it up. I watched him walk away. He blended into the meandering crowd without offering another word. Once he was out of sight, I decided I needed another plan. I stared into the street where Cash was shot, less than an hour ago. On the ground, amidst dirt, grime, and spilled drinks, I thought I saw blood. I gagged.
Cautiously, I stepped away from the building. I looked around. The other stragglers who witnessed the shooting, or at least its aftermath, were long gone. There was no way I could find them or even figure out who they were. They may have been referenced in a police report, but I doubted it. There was too much crime here for that much effort to be put into one random shooting.
I took a deep breath, inhaling various aromas including fried seafood, smoke and sweat. I heard bass thumping from two nearby bars. The sound blended with many others including laughter, cheers, and various Christmas songs. The sights and sounds surrounding me were overwhelming my senses, like being trapped on a merry-go-round run by a deranged psychopath. I needed to get away and clear my head. To think.
I made my way through the crowd, desperate to get away from Bourbon Street. There were several other bars, quieter, less popular ones, on neighboring streets where I figured I could find a place to sit and collect my thoughts. I needed a plan. Right now, the likelihood of me coming up with one was slim. While I couldn’t get much thinking done, I did know one thing for certain: I needed to sober up. Fast.
I walked for a few minutes, not really paying attention to anything or anyone around me. I found myself standing in front of a small, hole-in-the-wall bar I had never noticed before on St. Peter Street called Ru’s Place. It was nestled between a clothing store and the side entrance to a seafood restaurant. With an unassuming dark-red door faded and marred by the years, it almost blended in with the brick structure. I don’t know why, but something about the place struck me. I pushed open the door.
I walked inside and was greeted by the faint smell of musk and smoke, the latter scent a surprise considering Louisiana’s strict ordinances against smoking in public places. For a bar, it was fairly small and reminiscent of the old shotgun-style houses for which New Orleans is famous. It was dark and dirty. Beside the old, room-length wooden counter located along a side wall covered by peeling evergreen wallpaper, there were about ten small tables pushed flat against the right wall.
Mounted in the far corner of the room was an old television. It offered a repeat of the evening news with the sound off. A jukebox with a single strand of plastic garland blared an old R&B classic from the ‘70s that I recognized but couldn’t really remember. Only a handful of patrons were there that early Saturday morning. Running my fingers through my sweaty and matted hair, I took another step inside. For the first time, I noticed the black-and white checkered tile that lined the floor. Staring at it made me feel disoriented. I hurried over to the bar and took an empty seat.
“What’ll it be?” an attractive African American man in his early thirties asked. He was wearing a dark dress shirt and slacks and eyed me as he ran an old cloth across the counter.
I stared at him. “Uh . . .”
If there was one thing I didn’t need, it was another drink. Still, I knew I couldn’t hang out for free. I’d have to order something. I knew a water wouldn’t cut it. I strained my brain to think of something that might help bring me back to a better state of mind. My brother-in-law’s suggestion of a chaser wouldn’t be of much help at this point. Other arrangements had to be made.
That’s when I remembered a certain lounge singer I met when I was handling the Arthur Cross case in London over the summer. With bleached blonde hair and way too much makeup, Dusty Harmony might not have seemed a likely purveyor of the cure for hangovers, but her remedy of aspirin and hot tea did help. My request, however, was not well received.
“You want what?” He narrowed his eyes at me further. His lips morphed into a frown. “What the hell do you think this is? Walgreens? Get outta here!”
“Hey!”
Startled, I turned to see an older African American man emerge from the back room. His short, black hair was peppered with different shades of gray and thick, horn-rimmed glasses suggested his eyesight was failing him. Holding a box filled with bottles of Chivas Regal, he must have been going through inventory and heard raised voices. Placing the box on the bar’s counter, the bottles clanged together in protest.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, Dad.” The bartender sighed. “Just some drunk little—”
“Watch your mouth, boy,” the older man barked. “This here is a lady. Now what’ll it be, miss?” Swallowing hard, I repeated my request. He pursed his lips together. He stared at me. “You want aspirin and tea? Iced tea?”
“Uh, hot tea?”
The man scratched his chin. His fingernails grazed across slight stubble. “I must admit, that is an unusual request.”
“What are you doing?” the bartender snapped, throwing the bar towel down. “Just toss her out. I didn’t get off working eight hours at Harrah’s to come help you cater to drunk girls.”
“I told you once, boy.” The elder man’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Show a little respect.” Turning back to me, he offered a slight smile. “I think I have some aspirin in the back. I don’t have hot tea. If you’d like iced tea, we can manage that.”
I glanced at the bartender. He was both angry and visibly exhausted. I nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I watched as he picked up the box and walked into the back. The bartender, still aggravated, glared at me. When our eyes met, he turned away, busying himself with a stack of napkins. His attitude made me feel awkward and uncomfortable, but there was nowhere else I could go. I needed to get my head on straight. I had no idea what happened to Natalie, but I sensed it wasn’t good.
“Here you are. Brought you two just in case.”
The elder man handed me two aspirin and a tall glass filled with iced tea. Smiling, I accepted them, eagerly swallowing the pills with a gulp of tea. A strong rush of
sugar hit me as soon as the tea touched my tongue. There is no tea quite like Louisiana sweet tea.
Having lived up North for so long, I rarely had a glass. It almost put me into a diabetic shock with its sweetness. Since the man had been so kind, I took another few sips to be polite. The sugar was definitely getting to me. That in itself was almost enough to awaken my senses. What I heard next sobered me up even more.
“What the hell are you doing? Following me?”
I didn’t have to look to recognize the voice, but I did. Sitting on the far right corner of the bar was the last person on earth I wanted to see: the jerk from Funky 504. Although the bar was dark, I could tell there was a strange expression on his face. It was a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Out of all the bars in New Orleans . . . really?
“This is not happening,” I heard myself mutter, shaking my head. I turned away from him. It didn’t take long for me to realize my reaction grabbed the attention of the bartender. Tossing a handful of napkins on the counter, his gaze shifted between us.
“You know her?” The bartender leaned against the counter. His aggravation morphed into mild curiosity.
“Tried hooking up with me at Funky—”
“I did not!”
“I wasn’t interested, but apparently—”
“Oh my, would you just shut up?”
“Everything all right out here?” The bartender’s father re-emerged from the back room. His face offered another concerned expression. When he realized what was happening, his worries faded. He smiled. “Zane, you bothering this pretty lady?”
“You got it all wrong, Ru,” he replied. “She’s bothering me.”
“Mmm-hmm.” The older man’s eyebrow arched. He took my glass and refilled it. “Now why don’t I buy that?”
“I swear.” Zane raised his hand in defense. “Scout’s honor. Girl’s been after me all night.”
Simple Misconception (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 10