He jerked another go-ahead signal nod at the blond gorilla.
The big man went to work on the room methodically. He pulled down the stacks of records, smashing them under his heavy feet. Hundreds of dollars worth of discs were crushed under his heels. Tears filled Johnny’s eyes as he watched priceless original King Oliver and Ellington records, and the first records Blind Joe Mamba had cut, crushed to pieces on the floor. As a final touch, Gene Hargiss-Jones opened Johnny’s trumpet case, took out his shiny new Martin and bent it into scrap metal across his knees. He looked like a child gleefully enjoying an orgy of destruction in a playhouse.
When it was all over, Botello turned to Johnny and said, “You see boy, you’re in trouble, serious trouble. Now, I’d advise you to pack up quietly and get out of town. The next time we have to pay you a visit you won’t have any fingers left to work the valves of your trumpet.”
They walked out abruptly, leaving Johnny in the midst of the shambles. He got to his feet with effort and stumbled into the bathroom, weaving from one wall to the other. In the bathroom, he sprawled out and got rid of everything he’d eaten for the past week, it seemed.
For a long time he was too weak to do more than just lie and retch on the cold bathroom floor. Then he managed to crawl back into the bedroom and fall heavily across the bed—out cold.
CHAPTER NINE
MADE IN HEAVEN
Thursday Morning, 11:00 A.M.
They were pouring scalding acid in his eyes. That was the first sensation he became aware of. He threw up an arm to protect his eyes and a groan issued from far back in his throat. The slight movement of his arm set little demons to work all over his body, tearing and ripping at his screaming nerves. He moved his eyelids a fraction again. The crusted lashes parted and again the burning acid scorched his eyeballs. He closed the lids tightly and turned his head away from the window and the shaft of morning sunlight that fell agonizingly across his aching eyes. With his head turned that way, the ray warmed a spot on the back of his head.
Johnny lay quietly for a long time, wishing he could sink back into the merciful oblivion where there was no pain, no need for effort. But a mounting thirst that made a stinging anthill out of his mouth and a smoldering furnace out of his stomach, kept prodding him back into consciousness. When he looked down he saw that he was still fully clothed even to his shoes, exactly as he had fallen across the bed last night. His clothes were a sorry, torn and blood spattered mess. They were stiff and caked and they smelled. When he moved his lips, he felt the pull of dried, crusted blood on his cheeks.
He lay still gratefully, realizing full well that he would not be able to put off much longer the need for movement. But this was a day Johnny Nickles didn’t care to face.
You’re washed up, he thought. Hell, Johnny Nickles, you’ve had it. Everybody knows you’re washed up. Blind Joe Mamba, the guys in your band, Ruth Jordon. Christine saw it coming, too. She said to herself, this Nickles guy is heading for a fall. So she got out fast.
You ought to pull out. Give the guys their notice, pack the few things you have left and head East. Start all over again somewhere. Get out of this cesspool while you still have your hide. Guys like Cowles are too big for you to fight.
Yeah, but how about the shadow that’s following the band? Maybe it would keep right on following you back East. And how about the chick in the hospital, Ruth Jordon? The kid’s sitting on a charge of dynamite and there’s nobody around to tell her about it but you. And how about Miff? Are you just going to breeze out and do nothing about him? Hell, you loved the guy! He would have done anything for you, cut off his arm. Are you going to walk out and do nothing about it, just because a crooked politician and his stooges snap their finger at you and rough you up a little?
Johnny stopped kidding himself. He could no more pull out now than he could give up his music.
He got to his feet as quickly as he could. The room swam. Every movement was agony. It felt as if they’d busted a gut where they’d kicked him last night.
He staggered across to the bedroom, shedding his torn clothes on the way. He filled the tub with hot water and slid into it with a grateful sigh. The warm water soothed his bruised, aching body. He was a mass of welts and blue spots, from the chin down. He grunted and told himself he looked like the tattooed man in a circus.
After soaking in the tub for a half hour, he got out dripping, took a look at himself in the mirror and shuddered. One eye was swollen nearly shut. There was a gash across one cheekbone and a long purple bruise on his chin. But his lips were untouched. He fingered them with a prayer of gratitude. Injury to his lips could have shot his embouchure to hell permanently. Not that he could do any blowing now with his guts in the shape they were in.
He scrubbed the dried blood off his face. Then he tried to shave but his hands were shaking so much he gave it up after nicking himself in a few places.
He completed a clumsy first aid job with tape and iodine, then returned to the bedroom to dress. He had one good suit left, a gray sharkskin with an almost invisible blue pinstripe. He’d picked it up in a little shop on Fifth Avenue on his last trip to New York. First, he slipped on fresh underwear and a hand tailored shirt, tied a maroon knit woolen tie in a bold Windsor knot and put on his shoes. He’d just stepped into the trousers and slipped wide suspenders over his shoulders when he heard a knock at the door.
Shakily, he poured a small shot of bourbon into a tumbler and gulped it down. Then he went to the kitchen, shoved a pot of yesterday’s coffee on the stove to warm and searched the refrigerator for tomato juice.
The knock sounded again, louder and more impatient.
Johnny swore. He slammed the refrigerator door shut, walked through the living room, through the broken wreckage of his record collection and unlocked the front door.
A tall, loose-jointed man stood outside, chewing on a match stick. He grinned around the match. “Hi, Johnny. Looks like you had an argument with somebody. Looks like you lost.”
It was Harrison, the city detective.
“What the hell do you want?” Johnny asked.
The tall man ignored him. He pushed his way into the room. A long, silent whistle formed on his lips. “All hell busted loose here, didn’t it?” He sucked at the match. “Looks like you had prowlers.” He grinned again, causing the match stick to jiggle. “You ought to report things like that to the police, Johnny.”
Nickles told him where he could go. Then he asked once more what the detective wanted.
“Want?” As if it had nearly slipped his mind, the man said, “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I have a little present for you, Johnny. From the Department.”
He held out his hand. In it was a small blue envelope. In the envelope was a train ticket.
“This time of year, the weather in California gets unhealthy for curly-haired trumpet players. We wouldn’t want you to take down sick, Johnny. Better use this right away. I’d say...no later than this afternoon—”
The match tilted to a forty-five degree angle, he winked, placed the blue envelope on a card table and sauntered out.
* * * * * * *
After Johnny had downed some hot coffee, he went directly to the Herald newspaper offices. The publisher, George Swenninger, occupied an office on the top floor of the building. A youthful-looking, wiry man in his early forties, Swenninger was hard at work in shirt sleeves and loosened necktie as Johnny entered his office. There was a bottle of milk, a half-eaten sandwich and a general confusion of papers on the publisher’s desk.
He swore a blue streak when Johnny told him what had happened. “Damn, I wish you’d told me about that pin before today! I could have rammed it down Sam Cowles’ throat and given him a belly ache that would have sent him running out of town.
Johnny shrugged. “I don’t want to run him out of town—I just want to find out if it was his daughter who put a bullet in Miff. I guess I made a mistake,” he admitted, “but I knew after I gave the thing to you it’d lose its value as a weapo
n. With it, I could threaten Cowles and the sheriff into some action, I figured. But once it was publicized, the damage to them would be done.” He shook his head. “Anyway, there’s no use crying over spilled milk. They have it now.”
The newspaper man rose to his feet angrily and began to pace the floor. “It’s a hell of a note when private citizens have to take a beating at the hands of the police and can’t do anything about it—when a great musician like Miff Smith can be murdered and the police look the other way. I’m ashamed, Johnny. I’m ashamed right down to my guts for the town I live in.”
Nickles lit a cigarette. “I know how you feel about this setup. I figured you were the one man in town I could turn to.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. His brain was still numb and slow witted from the shock of last night’s beating. “Look, you’re interested in running a skunk out of town—and I’m trying to find a killer who’s stalking my band. Finding out who killed Miff Smith might be the answer to what we both want. I think Cowles’ daughter Raye is as likely as anybody, but maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, the reason I’ve come to you is to see if you have any leads on this thing that haven’t been publicized. You’re in the know about what goes on in this town as much as anybody. I can’t go to the police. Can you give me anything?”
“All the help I can, Johnny Swenninger sat down and took a crumpled cigarette out of a package. He pondered for a moment. “You know, I’ve been very interested in this case. For one thing, Miff was a terrific musician and jazz happens to be a hobby with me. For another, I smelled Cowles’ hand in this, the way the police were trying to hush it up.
He stood up again suddenly, with a quick, energetic movement, and went to a file cabinet, opened a drawer, and came back in a moment with a folder. After rustling through a few papers he took one out, sat back in his swivel chair and studied it. “Johnny, how much were you paying Miff?”
“Flat scale on this job,” Johnny admitted. “Things haven’t been so good for the band the last six months. Sideman pay down there is seventy-five a week.”
Swenninger bit his lip. “What would you say if I told you that Miff was depositing several hundred dollars more than that twice a month regularly in a local bank for the past few months?”
Johnny blinked. The news hit him with stunning force. “I’d say he was either luckier at dice than I thought—or you’ve made a mistake. Miff wasn’t making money anywhere else but with the band.”
“Evidently he was. I checked his bank account.” Swenninger leaned across his desk. “Look, Johnny, we both know Miff was a hell of a good guy. If he had his weaknesses, it only means he was a human being like the rest of us. It doesn’t alter the fact that he was one of the greatest drummers ever to sit on a bandstand. But we’ve got to face some facts. One of them was that he was getting substantial sums regularly from some source other than the band—he wasn’t making enough on your band to account for the deposits. He didn’t have any other job or known source of income. And he wasn’t that good a poker player.”
Johnny couldn’t grasp it. “We had some money coming in from our records, but I gave that to the boys in one lump payment, and Miff went out and bought a car with that. Where could this other money have come from?”
“Well, it could have come from a number of places. But just offhand, I’d say that Miff was blackmailing somebody.”
Swenninger’s statement hung heavily in the quiet office like the echo of a dull shot. In the silence, the heavy rumble of presses rumbled up from somewhere below.
Johnny shook his head, unable to fathom the problem. “I guess Miff was always in hot water for money, all right. But I can’t quite buy that.”
“It’s something we have to consider. It might be the answer to the whole thing. Miff was getting money from somebody, they got tired of paying...blooie! It’s an old, old story.”
“But who?”
“Raye Cowles, maybe, since you found her pin there. Or one of his other mistresses. Did you know them all, Johnny?”
Nickles shook his head.
Swenninger stood up. “Why don’t you check quietly into that angle? There isn’t any more you can do about Raye Cowles for the time being. I’ll see if I can find out where she’s hiding. Meanwhile you’d better steer clear of the police.”
Johnny grinned. “Don’t worry. I have an invitation from them to leave town.”
* * * * * * *
This time of day, Honky-Tonk Street was deserted and slatternly-looking, like a blowsy old whore with all her paint and glitter removed. A newspaper blew across the street and fluttered to a stop in the gutter. Somewhere, a lone jukebox was playing a Negro blues lament.
Johnny walked into the Sho-Tune bar. It was darker and mustier than ever, in the daytime. The stale odor of last night’s smoke and beer hung in the air. Everything was hushed and inky black inside.
He walked up a flight of stairs and knocked at the door of the apartment occupied by Norman Norman, the fat, greasy owner of the bar. Somebody stirred behind the closed door. Presently, the door opened and Norman’s good-looking platinum blonde wife, Hazel, stared out at him. She was holding the front of a loose-fitting dressing gown together with one hand, while, in the other hand she held a drink and a cigarette. Hazel, at least twenty years younger than Norman, was an ex-stripper who had married the saloon owner for his bankroll. Well aware of that, Norman kept a jealous eye on her, rarely letting her get downstairs near the band or the customers at night. The fellows in the band had all been laying bets that Miff was getting some of that, but Miff had never admitted it. Johnny, in fact, had once warned Miff to lay off her because, if Norman were to find out, the band would lose its job.
Now he asked Hazel if Norman was around.
She shook her head and hiccoughed softly. “I’m all alone, Johnny. C’mon in.”
She was pleasantly tight. She led the way into the cluttered apartment and sat down on the couch, crossing her good-looking legs. The robe fell away just above her dimpled knees.
“Where is Norman?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t know. Who the hell cares?” she pouted. She took a swallow from the glass thoughtfully and regarded him for a long moment before she spoke again. Then she said, “Issa helluva deal. Ain’t it, Johnny? About Miff. He was a helluva swell guy!” She began to cry softly. “I keep thinkin’ about him,” she sniffled. “All day I sit in this damned place. At night I can’t go anywhere because Norman won’t let me—”
Johnny looked at her thoughtfully. “You liked Miff, huh?”
“He was a helluva good guy,” she repeated. She took another drink and lost her grip on the robe.
Johnny could see why she had made good money as a stripper. She was built for it.
“Issa lousy life, Johnny,” she confided. “I married that fat sonuvabitch b’cause I was tired a takin’ my clothes off in front of a lotta starin’ bastards. I thought he’d show me a good time. Instead he keeps me cooped up in this lousy hole all day. She got up and walked unsteadily over to Johnny’s chair, then sat down on the arm of it. When she leaned toward him, her hair fell in her eyes and she blew at it. “You want to know somethin’, Johnny?” she whispered in a highly confidential air, “I’d like to have some kids. Ain’t that a laugh?” She actually blushed. “No kidding, that was the real reason I married th’ greasy sonuvabitch. I figured he had plenty of money to raise ’em right. I wanted half a dozen. Then I found out I can’t have any on account of him!” She swallowed the rest of the drink.
She had given up all attempts to hold her robe together. It was all she was wearing, Johnny saw, and there was no longer any question about her platinum hair—it was dyed that way.
She blew at a strand of the hair again and leaned closer to him. Her eyes were half-closed. “I’m lonesome, Johnny,” she whispered. It was an invitation, there was no mistaking it.
But Johnny wasn’t having any. All he wanted from her was information. If Miff really had been getting blackmail money, maybe it was from her. He was going t
o try and find out.
“You and Miff—you were pretty good friends?” he asked.
She frowned. She wasn’t that drunk. Immediately she clammed up. “Stop talkin’ about Miff. It makes me sad—” She slid off the arm of the chair, into his lap. He had to play along with her to keep her talking. It wasn’t really hard to do. He slipped his hand inside her robe.
Just then a back door clicked and she scrambled off his knees, hurriedly pulling the robe together.
Norman Norman, looking greasier than ever from the heat of the day, came in, mopping his forehead. Seeing Johnny, he stopped with a scowl.
“What the hell are you doing here, Nickles? You know I don’t talk business up here.” He frowned. “What happened to your face? Looks like you got in a fight.”
“That’s what I came to see you about. I won’t be able to play for a couple of nights. I’ll have a substitute down to front the band.”
Norman took a cigar out of his pants, bit the tip off and studied the frayed end closely. “Well, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ve decided to cut down expenses and let the band go anyway. You know, things have been slow as hell. Figured I might run a jukebox downstairs for a while, sorta cut down on my expenses.”
The room was absolutely silent for a moment.
Then Johnny came to his feet, his eyes narrowing. “That’s for the birds. You fat bastard, you’ve made a mint off my band! When we started here six months ago you weren’t drawing flies. Now you’re filled every night!”
“Now listen, this is my place. If I don’t want to run a band, I don’t have—”
“You haven’t got brains enough to know what you want!” Johnny swore. “But Sam Cowles has!”
Norman’s face turned a dirty yellow.
“Yeah, Sam Cowles,” Johnny went on, playing a shot in the dark for all it was worth. “He told you to fire my band. Didn’t he?”
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