by Phil Swann
Chapter 3
Mom died of cancer when I was four. Pop passed my first year away at college. He was working on the tractor one day and just dropped dead of a heart attack. It shook me to my core, and I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten over it. What I’m getting at is, I’d known death in my life. I’d known death, but I’d never seen death. There’s a difference.
I stood outside Ken’s house and waited for the police to arrive. It felt like it took forever but probably wasn’t much more than five minutes from the time I made the call to when the first patrol car rolled up. It was only then I looked down the street and noticed the black Caddy was nowhere in sight. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about my silly game of cat and mouse with Fat Tony’s boys. It seemed a bit trivial now.
I can’t remember exactly what I said, if anything. I only recall ushering the officers into the house and out onto the patio. Before I knew it, the house was filled with cops, some in uniform, some not. I must have answered the same questions a dozen times. Who are you? Who owns the house? Where’s the owner? What’s your relationship with him? What’s your relationship with the deceased? Why are you here? I answered all the questions honestly except one. You can probably guess which one that was.
I was living out a scene I’d watched in countless Hollywood movies, and let me tell you, they pretty much nail it. Guys in gloves looking through everything, an old guy taking pictures, a young guy dusting for fingerprints, a bunch of other guys standing around pointing and speaking in hushed tones. I needed some air and got permission to step outside. I was standing by Ken’s beige Buick when a hard-looking man in a dark suit came up to me. He appeared to be in his early fifties and was probably ex-military based on his buzz cut and rigid posture.
“Mr. Callaway, my name is Clegg. You hanging in there?”
His deep baritone voice was startlingly pleasant. He could have easily had a splendid career spinning stacks of wax on the AM dial.
“I’m fine,” I answered.
“I’m sorry about Miss Starr. Were you two close?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’d never really thought about the depth of my and Lydia’s relationship before. “We were mostly just work friends, I guess.”
“At the Sands?”
“Yes.”
“Where you’re a musician?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s a dancer?”
“Yes…I mean, no. She’s a Copa Girl.”
“Were you two dating?
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“So you’ve never been to her place?”
“No.” I probably answered a bit too emphatically. “I don’t even know where she lives…lived.”
Never letting his eyes let go of mine, Clegg removed a notepad from inside his jacket and scribbled something down. It was a smooth move I’m sure he’d perfected over many years of being a cop. “I understand you and Mr. Baldwin are good friends.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
I explained my relationship with Ken. Clegg listened and wrote in his notepad whenever I said something he found interesting. It was quite unnerving.
“So, this blind date you set Mr. Baldwin and Miss Starr up on, how’d it go?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Really? You mean your buddy didn’t call you the next day and give you all the juicy details? That’s what we do, isn’t it?”
“We do?” I responded.
“We guys, we talk about women. That’s what me and my buddies do, anyway.”
“No. We never talked about it.”
“And Miss Starr?”
“No. I mean…”
“Go on. She said something?”
I felt like I’d walked into a trap and had no idea why. I had nothing to hide, but for some reason, Clegg’s questions were getting to me. I took a breath and recounted the exchange I had with Lydia. “All she said was she wanted to talk to me about Ken. I asked her if anything was wrong, and she said there wasn’t. We both had to go to work, so we agreed to talk later.”
“And did you?”
I shook my head.
It was then I saw a gurney being rolled out the door. A sheet covered the body, but that didn’t make it any less horrifying. “I can’t believe she drowned.”
“She didn’t,” Clegg said. “Her neck was snapped. She was thrown in the pool after she was dead.”
“You mean she was—”
“Yes, Mr. Callaway, Miss Starr was murdered. Coroner estimates time of death between four and six this morning.”
Murdered? The word swirled around my head. People I knew didn’t get murdered.
Clegg continued, “Mr. Callaway, where is Ken Baldwin?”
“I don’t know. He travels…wait, you can’t think Ken had anything—”
“Just trying to find out who would want to hurt Miss Starr.”
“Well, not Ken. Besides, it’s obvious what happened here, isn’t it?”
“Okay, tell me what happened,” Clegg said, leaning on the car.
“It was a burglary.”
“A burglary?”
“Well…yeah. It’s like I said, Ken travels a lot. Lydia came over, she didn’t know Ken was gone, the door was open, and she walked in on a robbery.”
“Did you notice anything missing in the house?”
I looked toward the house. “I don’t know…but that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point, Mr. Callaway?”
I was getting frustrated, and my usual easygoing temperament was being severely tested. I was sure that’s what Clegg intended. “The point is, there was a burglar, Lydia walked in on him, and he killed her.”
The hotter I got, the cooler Clegg seemed to become. He reached into his pocket. “Well, that’s certainly a theory. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, give me a call. And, of course, if Mr. Baldwin contacts you, call me immediately. Got it?”
I took the card and nodded.
“Just one more thing, your name.”
“What about it?”
“Is Trip short for something?”
“No, it’s a nickname. I’ve had it since high school.”
“Clumsy kid?”
I sighed. “I was the only kid in marching band who could triple tongue ‘Bugler’s Holiday.’ The band director started calling me Trip, and it stuck.”
“I see. So what’s your real name?”
I cringed. “Cecil Edwin Callaway. But I’m changing it. Legally. Soon.”
Clegg nodded, wrote it down in his blasted notepad, and walked away. Ten minutes later, I was told I could leave. I couldn’t get away quickly enough.
As if by design, the cheerful afternoon sun had given way to a blanket of gray depression hanging over the entire city—or was it just over me? I left the top down on the Falcon and almost immediately wished I hadn’t. Not because of rain but because the air was so thick and cruddy it was like driving through peanut butter. A refreshing shower would have been welcome, but for rain there needed to be clouds, and there were no clouds above me, only blah. It was still early in the day, but I needed a stiff drink and friendly face like never before. For that I knew where I needed to go.
West Las Vegas has been the proverbial other side of the tracks for as long as Las Vegas has been Las Vegas. Meaning, it was where all the colored people live. Time was when the three and a half square mile area bordered by Washington on the north, Bonanza on the south, H Street on the west, and A Street on the east was nothing but dirt roads lined with shanties and outhouses. But ten years ago in ’55, two white guys named Alexander Bisno and Louis Rubin saw a business opportunity. Back then, The Strip, like all of Las Vegas, was completely segregated. Black people could work at the hotels, but they couldn’t patronize them, much less stay as guests. Even headliners like Lena Horne, Nat King Cole, and Pearl Bailey weren’t allowed in front of the house, as it’s referred to. They entered through
the kitchen and left the same way after their shows. Unable to rent rooms at the whites-only hotels, they were relegated to boarding houses on the Westside. There’s a famous story Westsiders tell about the day Sammy took a dip in the swimming pool at the New Frontier. The manager threw him out and drained the pool. And Sammy was starring in the hotel’s showroom. His name was on the marquee.
Enter Bisno and Rubin. The two moguls dropped a bucket of money and built a first-class establishment just off Bonanza called the Moulin Rouge. It was America’s first interracial hotel. The Rouge boasted a hundred and ten rooms, a gorgeous showroom, swimming pool, restaurant, dress shop, a bar—the works. It showcased the world’s top black entertainers and was an instant sensation. Even white stars like George Burns, Judy Garland, Jack Benny, and Frank would drop in after their shows on The Strip to gamble and perform. Eventually, the audiences got so big, management added a third show to accommodate demand. The impromptu performances were supposed to have been amazing.
Unfortunately, the Moulin Rouge only lasted about six months. The reason for its untimely demise is still hotly debated among the locals. Some say it was poor management, others say it was lack of support within the colored community, but most blamed strong-arm tactics perpetrated by the bosses on The Strip who didn’t take too kindly to the Moulin Rouge cutting into their profits. I’m not sure anyone will ever know the truth. I’m not sure anyone’s brave enough to find out.
Be that as it may, the Moulin Rouge represented a sea change for Las Vegas. The Strip eased up on its whites-only policy, and in 1960, a year before I arrived, the entire town was desegregated. After that, smaller establishments began popping up all over the Westside offering locals new places to go and musicians new places to play. One such spot was a cool little jazz club on B Street called The Jam Jar. The owner was a man named Luther Beaurepaire. Born and raised on the bayou, Luther worked as a cook at the Sahara back when its biggest draw was taking people onto the roof to watch the billowing mushroom clouds from the A-bomb testing going on north of the city. Luther bounced from the Sahara, to the Flamingo, to the Dunes, to eventually the Moulin Rouge. When it closed, he decided it was time to open his own place. Luther ran The Jam Jar with his daughter Betsy, a sassy Creole beauty about my age. Without the Beaurepaires, I never would have survived in this town, and certainly wouldn’t be where I am today. Remember that phone number I had when I first stepped off the bus? It was Luther’s.
I turned onto B Street and was happy to see only two cars in The Jam Jar’s gravel parking lot. An overwhelming feeling of well-being washed over me. I was home.
Though not much to look at on the outside, basically a white concrete building with a small neon sign, the inside was quite nice. Leather booths and chairs, red candle globes on every table, and dark paneled walls adorned with photographs of the greats—Pops, Bird, Ella, Art, and so on. We regulars attributed the interior design to Betsy, not Luther. Luther knew two things: good music, which he blamed on a misspent youth running the streets of the French Quarter, and cooking, a talent bordering on the mystical. In short, Luther Beaurepaire was the Michelangelo of the wooden spoon.
“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Betsy announced as I came through the door. “Thought you’d gotten too good for us.”
“Not a chance, Bets,” I said, kissing the ebony goddess on the cheek.
“Haven’t seen you in weeks. Thought you might have taken up with one of those highfalutin gals on The Strip.”
“Still the foot-loose and fancy-free rake I’ve always been. Besides, you know you’re the only girl for me. When you going to marry me anyway, Bets?”
Betsy’s laugh was so infectious it could make a mortician smile. “Don’t you wish? Besides, the state of Nevada might have something to say about that.”
“And if the state of Nevada don’t, I will,” came a gruff voice through the swinging kitchen doors.
To say Luther Beaurepaire was a large man would be the understatement of all understatements. At six-five, two hundred forty pounds, more Hercules than human, would not be hyperbole. An intimidating specimen with biceps the size of my thighs, his round, bald head was only upstaged by a wrinkled, pockmarked face that looked like a nicely broken in baseball glove. An unfavorable glance from Luther could send Cassius Clay whimpering into the corner. But it was all for show. In reality, Luther Beaurepaire was a big, brown, cuddly Gus without a mean bone in his massive body.
“Come on, Luther,” I said as the enormous man came around the bar. “You wouldn’t stop her from marrying a man because of the color of his skin, would you?”
“I don’t care if you’re white, black, yellow, or purple, no daughter of mine is gittin’ hitched to a musician. My baby’s saving herself for a respectable gent. Like someone in the insurance game. Now there’s a profession a man can have a future in.”
Betsy rolled her eyes.
Luther opened his gigantic arms and gave me a big bear hug. “How you doing, son? Everything okay?”
“Not really,” I confessed, wincing slightly from Luther’s exuberant embrace.
“Well, then, it sounds like you could use a cold one,” he declared, releasing me.
“Actually, I was thinking of something a bit stronger.”
Luther raised an eyebrow. “Rye it is.”
I took a seat at the bar, and Luther poured me a shot, as well as one for himself. He handed me the glass, and we both threw back. Luther made a face, let out a long “ah,” and then smiled. “Go on now, son. I’m listening.”
That was Luther’s way. If you had a problem, you spit it out. No dancing around it, just put it out there. He offered no guarantee he could fix it, only that you’d feel better after getting it off your heart, into your head, and out your mouth.
I told my story, omitting the Fat Tony stuff out of embarrassment, and Luther listened without comment. When I got to the part where I found Lydia’s body, he shook his head. I told him about calling the police and the questions Clegg peppered me with. He nodded as if to say he’d been there himself.
After I finished, he put his large hand on my shoulder. “I’m very sorry, son. Losing a friend can be like losing family.” He paused and then said, “You need food. I got a pot of gumbo on the stove and some ribs smokin’ out back. What’s your pleasure?”
I started to decline, but Luther would have none of it.
“Ribs it is, then. Betsy,” he called out. “Get Trip a plate of ribs and throw a heapin’ of red beans and rice on the plate too. For this you’ll want a cold one, trust me.”
I didn’t argue the point.
Luther pulled a chilled mug from the fridge. “So, this Ken Baldwin fellow, why does that name sound familiar to me?”
“He knows Eddie,” I answered.
Luther gave no reaction as he drew a perfect mug of golden libation.
I further explained, “Ken’s the guy I knew in college who comes in here to listen to Eighty-Eight Eddie play. He recommended me to Eighty-Eight, who recommended me to you.”
“He’s how we found you?” Luther said, placing the mug in front of me. “I guess we owe that boy a big ol’ thank you then, don’t we? You’re still one of the best buglers who’s ever come through this joint.”
Wisecracks aside, Luther really did love musicians, and musicians respected him to no end. That’s why The Jam Jar was practically a rite of passage for any new musician in Las Vegas. Luther’s compliments meant something. “Thanks, Luther,” I replied.
He offered a nod as Betsy set a plate the size of Montana on the bar.
Luther handed me a napkin and a plastic bottle. “Make sure you put some of this sauce on those ribs. It’s a new recipe I’m trying out.”
I took the bottle and squeezed a generous amount onto my mound of meat.
Luther said, “Betsy, you know that white boy who comes in here to listen to Eighty-Eight play? His name is…uh…”
“Ken Baldwin,” I mumbled, gnawing on a rib while trying to keep my white shirt from b
ecoming a Jackson Pollock painting.
Betsy didn’t even have to think. “Sure, he was in here last night.”
As casually as I could, I put down the rib and wiped my mouth. “Last night?”
“He was with two other men. They sat at Mr. B’s usual booth over there.”
“Do you know what time he left?” I asked.
“Sometime after two thirty.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain. They were still here when Eighty-Eight started his last set, but when I came around to give last call, they were gone. Didn’t leave a tip, either. I remember because Mr. B usually takes good care of me.”
I’m not easily rattled, but I’ll admit this shook me. The math was uncomfortably easy. When Lydia left the Sands, Ken was definitely in town. I didn’t say anything, but Luther must have caught the look on my face.
“Is that a problem, Trip?” he asked.
I shook my head. “To be honest, Luther, I don’t know.”
There was no upside to dragging the Beaurepaires into my drama, so I changed the subject and went back to the ribs. I traded lighthearted barbs with Betsy and asked Luther how things were going at the club. Luther’s no idiot and knew what I was doing, but he went along with it anyway. I was distracted and only half-hearing anything he said, but I refocused when he asked, “Trip, you’re off tonight. Why don’t you drop by and sit in with Eighty-Eight and the boys? The regulars would love to hear you blow again.”
I admit it, that very thought crossed my mind the instant I walked into The Jam Jar. I love sitting in, and the idea of returning home the conquering hero was catnip to my ego. “That sounds like fun, Luther,” I said. “Can we play it by ear until I see what the evening has in store?”
“Of course. Just know you’re always welcome here, Trip.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said that to me, but hearing it at that moment meant a bit more. I smiled and got up. “I should hit the road. I’ve taken up too much of your day.”