The Devil's Music

by Stephen Mertz

  “Any echoes around the cop shop?”

  “Naw. I asked, but all the guys who worked that case are long gone; retired, transferred or dead. Take it from me, Kilroy. That case is not only cold, it’s dead and buried.”

  I said, “A couple of things don’t add up.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “All right. Why did the Garnett kill go down in that particular alley?”

  He frowned uncertainly.

  “Where would you have liked it to have gone down?”

  “Hell, Joe, I don’t have any answers at this point, only questions. And that’s the first one. Was it just a coincidence that a man was murdered that night when Stomper’s band was playing, or is there something there? Does that fact have significance because the killer wanted to send a message? And if so, about what and to whom?”

  Joe lifted an eyebrow.

  “Whom?”

  “Question number two. How did the pair in that white Mustang track us down at that Denny’s? The only person I’m aware of who knew that Stomper and I were meeting Carl there this morning was Carl.”

  Joe took a sip of his Coca-Cola.

  He said, with a small chiding smile, “For a peeper without a client, you sure are busy.”

  “Then we’re back to being friends?”

  “Stop it,” Joe said. “Just watch your back, amigo. And next time, try to let me know in advance before the shooting starts.”

  10

  The

  Travelers’

  Rest

  Hotel

  The promiscuous apostrophe notwithstanding, the name of the place operated by TJ and Jenna suggested a haven awaiting the road-weary pilgrim at the end of a long day; evocative of a peaceful setting, perhaps along a stream. What used to be called a motor court was today perhaps a pleasant, rural bed and breakfast.

  Not so.

  This Travelers’ Rest Hotel was a two-story brownstone that had fallen on hard times, much like the neighborhood surrounding it. A seedy stretch of Larimer, west of downtown. The hotel shared the block with pair of pawnshops, a TV repair shop, two bars, a tattoo parlor and three porno pits. The hotel name was in faded white, the lettering having gone gray across a plate glass window that revealed a small lobby.

  I stepped inside, expecting the mustiness of an aged building to assail me. Instead, an aseptic tidiness assailed the senses, subtly underscored by a lingering trace of recently applied disinfectant. Two elderly Hispanic gentlemen were playing a game of chess at a table set near the window. The lobby was modestly furnished with thrift store furniture, with a prominent crucifix at eye level on each wall along with framed versus of Scripture. Short of an archway that led deeper into the building was the front desk.

  A man stood behind the desk. He was in his mid-fifties. A lean black gent in an out of style but neatly pressed gray suit. Receding hairline. Bland features.

  “Yes sir, may I help you?”

  I had the suspicion this was the man I was looking for. For all his talent, Stomper Crawford was an extremely minor figure in the hierarchy of the blues. There had been few photographs published of him and none I had ever seen of his band members. But the Travelers’ Rest gave every indication of being a mom and pop operation, and pop would likely be clerking the front desk at midday. I wanted to keep this encounter on the light side. This wasn’t business even if circumstance was unfortunately shaping it into a murder case. I was holding onto the notion that my visit here was an errand of friendship. I didn’t flash my PI credentials.

  I said, “I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can help me.”

  “Maybe I can.”

  “I’m looking for TJ Dixon.”

  “And who might you be, sir?”

  The response was civil, neutral.

  I said, “I’m here as a favor to Stomper Crawford.”

  He hadn’t expected that. An eye blink or three told me as much, and so did his hesitation.

  “Is that right? Stomp Crawford, you say.”

  “My name’s Kilroy. I’m a fan, TJ. I’ve listened to those records you cut with Stomper more times than I can count. When you switch your drumming to a mambo beat for Stomper’s solo in the middle of Goin’ Down Louisiana, well man, that is something else.”

  That’s what it took to break the ice with TJ Dixon.

  He chuckled, unabashed pride radiating from him.

  “You got that right,” he said. “We was one heck of a band. I’ve got my drums stored, though. The wife, she made me do it. You got a wife, mister?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The wife says we can’t have that kind of racket in a hotel but yeah, I miss working my traps. Course, ain’t much work for musicians anywhere these days since people started listening to that disco stuff.”

  “Dark days for musicians,” I agreed. “Disco sounds like toned down James Brown to me. Music that gets people dancing is okay, but it’s been hard on the club scene, hasn’t it?”

  “Darn tootin’ and no mistake.” We were talking man to man now. He rested his elbows on the front desk and bent forward in confidence.

  “But I got myself out of that mess, thanks to my Jenna and the good Lord. Now, what’s this talk about Stomper?”

  “How much do you know about why he disappeared?”

  “Don’t know nothing about that. Not sure I want to know. What’s this business all about, mister? Why are you here?”

  “Stomper’s back in town,” I said. “He wants to put the old band together. He wants you back on drums.”

  “Is that right?”

  I added, “I just came from Olga. She sends her greetings. She told me how to find you.”

  He said again, softer than before, “Is that right?”

  A black woman of slight build emerged from the archway. She carried a plastic laundry basket loaded with rumpled sheets. She gave the impression of having been busy with something else before being distracted. She set the laundry basket on the corner of the desk and regarded me squarely and not too cordially.

  She was slight of build, but there was a focus and a concentrated energy about her demeanor. There could be no doubt who this was, either. She wore a bandanna around her head and a silver crucifix around her throat.

  “What’s this about Olga?” she demanded, centering her eyes on me, “And who’s this?”

  TJ appeared relieved at her arrival on the scene. His demeanor remained calm but I noted that he swallowed loudly before he spoke.

  He said, “Uh, my dear, this is Mr.–.” He smiled vaguely. “I’m sorry, sir. I forgot your name.”

  “Kilroy,” I said with a nod in Jenna’s direction and with Thomas Joseph what I hoped was my best salesperson smile. “Stomper Crawford is back in town and he–”

  “Stop right there,” she snapped. “We want nothing to do with that man. We are well rid of him and the evils of his world. Isn’t that right, Thomas Joseph?”

  Another audible swallow from TJ.

  He said, “That’s right, Mr. Kilroy. I reckon you best tell that to old Stomper for me. Every now and then I get the itch to work those drums. Forgive me, Lord, but that’s the truth. But me and the Mrs., we’re walking the righteous path these days.”

  Jenna said, “Hallelujah and thank you, sweet Jesus.”

  If the old boys playing chess across the lobby overheard any of our conversation, they weren’t letting on.

  TJ said to me, “That life we was living back in our honky-tonk days when I was playing with Stomper, we done cut all that loose. I heard where Olga done the same, God bless her.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, “but she’s thinking of rejoining the band, and Stomper sure would like to have you back behind the drums.”

  But TJ was on a roll.

  “They live like there’s no tomorrow with their fornicating and their drink and their drugs,” he said as if reading from an invisible script before him. “And then, ding, that old alarm clock goes off and you know what that
means, don’t you? It’s tomorrow, by gum! Stomper, he wants to put the old band back together but see, I’m done playing them old lowdown blues. That’s the Devil’s music. Ain’t that so, Jenna?”

  Jenna couldn’t seem able to stop eyeing me with a thoughtful expression.

  “That’s true enough, husband. But you know the Lord, He often works in strange and mysterious ways His miracles to perform.”

  This caused TJ’s expression to cloud with uncertainty, which I sensed was not the first time.

  “What is that you’re saying, wife? I sure wouldn’t mind playing some behind Stomp. You know I’m a strong enough man to resist temptation.”

  “I know you are, TJ.” Her eyes narrowed and met mine. “Mr. Kilroy, you seem a capable man.”

  “I try to be. I pull it off most of the time.”

  “Do you carry a gun?”

  Something akin to alarm animated TJ’s features.

  “Jenna–”

  “Mr. Kilroy,” she repeated, “do you carry a gun?

  For an answer, I held back the lapel of my jacket so she could catch a glimpse of the .44 where it rested snugly in its shoulder holster.

  TJ said, “Oh Lord, are you saying there is a way for me to play drums again if the Lord’s willing?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, TJ,” said Jenna. “That is, if Mr. Kilroy is willing to consider a proposition.”

  “But is it right to be dealing with the Devil?”

  It was time for an executive decision. TJ Dixon was a terrific drummer, true enough. But in this marriage, there could be little doubt as to who was the power player. And my mission, after all, was to acquire this man for Stomper’s band.

  I said to Jenna, “What are you proposing?”

  11

  Jenna said, “It’s about my niece, Chantel.”

  “How old is Chantel?” I asked.

  TJ said, wanting to remain part of the conversation, “The child is only sixteen. We’ve been letting her have a room here in the hotel, me and Jenna, ever since the girl’s mama died.”

  “Keeping an eye on her,” said Jenna, “and lately we haven’t been doing such a good job of that.”

  TJ patted his wife on the arm.

  “Now, now, wife. You know we done the best we could.” His eyes engaged mine across the lobby’s front desk. “Chantel, she’s a wild child. Bad friends. High times. Too much, too young.”

  Jenna said, “She’ll come home. Poor child never had a chance. But her whole life is ahead of her and I aim to see that it’s a good life.”

  I said, “Tell me how I can help.”

  Jenna said, “First, I’ve got to tell you about my sister. See, little Chantel, she never had a chance and neither did me or her mama, who was my sister Alida.”

  “Was?”

  TJ said, “Alida died of a drug overdose two years ago. The Medical Examiner couldn’t determine if it was accidental or suicide.”

  “Doesn’t matter what it was,” said Jenna. “Only thing matters, my sister’s gone and the Good Lord chose me to watch over her child. There are those who could say Chantel doesn’t have a chance, looking at the bloodline she’s come from. But I climbed out with the good help of Jesus, my Lord and Savior. I broke the chain. I broke that cycle of being a lost soul and that’s what I’m passing on to my niece. My sister, Alida, I don’t know as to how some of us bring our woes into this world right from the start but she was touched in that way. I’ve only got my own choices to the blame for the way my life has gone. But there’s an old photograph of me and Alida and our sister, Rose when we was all little girls. Our daddy had taken off long ago by then and somebody, likely mama, caught a picture of us three little girls sitting side-by-side on a couch. Me and Rose, she’s a police officer in El Paso now, we were just staring at the camera looking like normal kids. But Alida... her little mouth and her little fists are clenched tight as can be like she’s raging with anger on the inside. And now she’s gone. Gone to where ever we’re all heading sooner or later.”

  TJ said quietly, “Your sister’s in heaven, praise the Lord.”

  I said, “Where is Chantel?”

  “That’s just it, you see,” said Jenna. “Chantel has gone missing.”

  “As of when?”

  TJ said, “It’s been three days and we are right worried. We’re pretty sure the girl is hitting the crack pipe and the next step after that is smack. The crack keeps them juked all day; I’m going to be the person in Chantel’s life that should have been there for me and they need heroin just to slow down. We found a burnt spoon she left behind, part of her kit.”

  Jenna nodded, saying, “It don’t look good but the Devil ain’t going to do my family like that. I’m going to be the person in Chantel’s life that should have been there for me and her mama when we was Chantel’s age.”

  I said, “You want me to locate her and bring her home?”

  “That’s exactly what we want,” said Jenna without hesitation..

  “What about the police? Have you contacted them about this?”

  Jenna sent me a look that said maybe I was crazy.

  “I want to spare that girl that sort of grief, not send her more than she can handle! Chantel’s a good girl. She’s just fallen in with bad company. Real bad company. We get her away from that bunch, she’ll see the light soon enough.”

  I said, “If she’s underage and you’re her guardians–”

  “She is and we are,” said TJ. “But wait a minute, wife. What I’m hearing you say to this fella is that if he brings back Chantel, it will suit the Lord if I go ahead and rejoin Stomper Crawford’s band. Is that right?”

  Jenna could hardly miss the hint of skepticism in his tone.

  “Are you questioning me, husband?”

  “No, dearest. But Mr. Kilroy, he deserves to know what he’s buying into before he agrees to anything, ain’t that right?”

  I said, “I do tend to do better work when I know what I’m doing.”

  Jenna considered that for maybe six or seven seconds.

  She said, “Chantel had her sixteenth birthday just a couple of weeks ago, and that’s when one of her girlfriends, a dirty little something I had no use for right from the start, this so-called friend introduced her to her friends, and they partied, and now they’re Chantel’s posse. There’s a dive called Flash where she was starting to hang out a lot before she decided to stay away from us. You’ll find her down there is my guess.”

  “Tell him the rest,” said TJ, and then to me said, “I asked around some when we found out that’s where she was spending time. There’s a bad boy down there calls himself Libra. A bad actor all the way, Mr. Kilroy. Reason I say that is, sure, I want to play with Stomper. You seem like a right nice fella, Mr. Kilroy. I don’t want to see you get killed.”

  Jenna said to her husband, “He’s not going to get killed. Look at the man, Thomas Joseph. We are sending him against neighborhood punks who have established dominance over other neighborhood punks.” Her eyes challenged me. “Are you afraid of punks, Mr. Kilroy?”

  “Ain’t afraid of nobody,” I said in my best tough guy voice, adding a little extra husk for effect.

  “And there you are,” she said with a decisive nod to her husband. “I want Chantel home and safe. Mr. Kilroy is an avenging angel sent to do the Lord’s work on our behalf. Do we each understand the proposition, gentlemen?”

  TJ’s eyes shifted to me, seeking sympathy.

  “I do my best to accommodate my wife’s close contact with the Almighty. Thank you, Mr. Kilroy.”

  I said, “I’ll bring this young lady home where she belongs but let’s keep our terms straight. You may find this hard to believe, but I’m no angel. I’m a private detective. And while we’re leveling straight from the shoulder with each other, I’ve got to take this opportunity to do some detecting.”

  “Detecting about what?” Jenna asked.

  “TJ told me that you folks don’t know anything about why Stomper took off missing.” />
  Wariness dropped like a veil across Jenna’s features.

  “That’s right. We don’t know nothing about that business. What about it?”

  “I heard you used to hang out at Leon’s when Stomper’s band was playing.”

  The same wariness veiled TJ’s features, though with him it wasn’t so easy to tell. Like most anything else, drummers come in all shapes, sizes and temperaments. This drummer was not the manic, Keith Moon – crazy type drummer. TJ was more the cool, collected type like Charlie Watts of The Rolling Stones, saving his energy for when he needed it sitting behind the drums. Not an easy guy to read beyond his obvious devotion to his spouse.

  He said, “We don’t talk much about those days, Mr. Kilroy. What is it you’re driving at?”

  “I’m driving at the fact that Stomper disappeared right after a man was murdered in the alley out back of that club while his band was playing.”

  “Well, of course we know about that,” said Jenna. “That was where some street punk went down, and the police never did find who did it. That was a long time ago. What’s it got to do with today and what we’ve been talking about?”

  I said, “There had to be gossip around the club about what happened, both the murder and Stomper taken off.”

  TJ said, “Y’know, I remember some drunk crazy talk about Stomper having something to do with that killing, but that was hogwash. Like Jenna said, the police never did pin it on no one and, shoot, they never gave much of a damn no how. Just another no account nigger done got himself capped down in the Five Points. Do you know how that goes, Mr. Kilroy?”

  “I know.”

  Jenna said, “Then why you poking around in that mess? Digging up bones, is what you’re doing. Ain’t no call for it, so why you stirring up a ruckus now?”

  Decision time.

  I wanted Jenna and TJ to be straight with me, but how straight should I be with them? See what I mean? Jenna was right, really. For the people who had been on the scene of the murder, that had been a long time ago. If the potshots someone had taken that morning at Stomper even were connected to the murder of Mousie Garnett, how likely could it be for that case to tie-in in with these two? Maybe it did all tie in together, but it was too soon to tell. I was supposed to be here recruiting a drummer for Stomper’s band. Discussing white Mustangs and a drive-by shooting could scare them off from a deal that was already getting more complicated by the minute. I would get to work at getting to the bottom of that shooting before the first gathering of Stomper’s reunited band.