by Phil Swann
“Darn tootin’ you have,” Betsy hollered from across the room.
I replied to her by sticking out my tongue.
I reached for my wallet, but Luther stopped me. Then he put his big hand on my shoulder again. “Look, son, I don’t know this Ken fella, but I do know you, and you’re the one I care about. Your friend was murdered. You watch yourself, you hear?”
I heard.
I left The Jam Jar feeling considerably better than when I arrived. That’s not to imply everything was hunky dory in Trip’s world. It wasn’t. Lydia was still dead, and though I firmly believed Ken had nothing to do with it, the fact remained he was in town, and that was disturbing. Now came the quandary of what to do with the information. Call Clegg or try to find Ken myself first? What was the right thing to do?
On the one hand, Ken and I really weren’t that close of friends, despite Clegg’s assertion to the contrary. Yes, we knew each other in college. Yes, he’d helped me out when I moved to Vegas. And yes, when I first arrived, we hung out a lot together because I didn’t know anybody else in town. But as I became more settled, things changed. Nowadays, if Ken and I saw each other every couple of months, it was noteworthy. So, yes, Ken was a friend, but not the kind of friend one happily puts his posterior on the line for. It’s not like he was Luther or Betsy to me.
On the other hand, Ken was a friend, no matter to what degree I categorized it. And there’s one thing friends of Trip Callaway can always count on—the benefit of the doubt. Truth was, I didn’t know for certain what Ken’s involvement in Lydia’s death was, but I was certain he deserved a bit of discretion from me before allowing Clegg to go all Sergeant Friday on him. I owed him that much. In the perfect scenario, I’d find Ken, tell him what happened to Lydia, and he could walk into LVPD himself and explain things. Somehow, that just felt like the right thing to do.
So there it was, the moment I made the decision that would change everything. Had I known what I was getting myself into, I might have made a different choice. But I didn’t. I decided to be a friend. I decided I was going to locate Ken before the police did. I had no idea how I was going to do that, but as I always say, “Life is like jazz, it’s best when you improvise.” Okay, I really didn’t say that, George Gershwin did, but it’s still true. I just wished I’d remembered George never played Las Vegas.
Chapter 4
At this point, I’d love to tell you how I sprang into action. How I became a regular Phillip Marlowe intent upon locating my friend and restoring truth, justice, and everything good back into this pitiful world, but I promised to be frank in this narrative, and that recounting would be the farthest thing from it. The reality was, I had no idea where to start looking for Ken and found myself becoming more and more conflicted the longer I drove around in circles—literally in circles. I must have cruised up and down The Strip six times over the course of an hour. I considered dropping into the Sands to make sure someone had been notified about Lydia’s death, but convinced myself the police had already performed the unpleasant task as part of their investigation. Of course, I didn’t know if they had or not, but the likelihood provided me with a plausible enough rationale not to stop. So, I just drove, questioning the wisdom of finding Ken on my own with each click of the odometer.
The problem was, I knew almost nothing about Ken’s life. I didn’t know where he worked, who his friends were, or if he had any hobbies. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how little I knew about the man at all. For instance, he once told me he was from Chicago…I think. I was sure he told me both his parents were dead, but when and how they died or if he had any other family, I had no idea. How was this possible? How could I have known someone for as long as I’d known Ken Baldwin and still know so little about him? This required some serious self-examination. Could I really be the kind of person people don’t open up to? No, was the answer, self-exam over. I am not that kind of person. For instance, I knew a lot about Luther’s and Betsy’s personal life. Furthermore, I could offer up some juicy personal tidbits about most of my band mates, more than a few Copa Girls, and several waiters, bellhops, and bartenders in town. I wouldn’t, of course, but I could. Maybe it was just my wholesome, all-American face, but people always tended to tell me things. True, I didn’t always listen to them, but they did tell me things. In fact, I bet if a poll was taken of all the people who knew me, they’d all say the same thing: “Trip Callaway is a guy you can talk to.” So, no, it wasn’t me, it was Ken. His life was a mystery because that’s how he wanted it to be.
Satisfied my character was on solid footing, and still with absolutely no idea what to do next, it occurred to me perhaps I should check in with Clegg. What if ol’ velvet voice had already located Ken and I was putting myself through all this for nothing? It was more than possible. So, I pulled over at an Esso station, found Clegg’s business card in my pocket, and dropped a dime. He answered on the first ring.
“Clegg here.”
“Hello, sir. It’s Trip Callaway.”
“Mr. Callaway, have you heard from Ken Baldwin?”
That answered that question. “No, I was calling to find out if you had.”
“No,” he replied.
“I see.”
There was a sustained silence, and I realized if the conversation were to continue, it’d be up to me to continue it. “Sir, I know you can’t talk about the investigation, but since Lydia was my friend, and I’m the one who found her, I thought—”
Clegg interrupted, “I’ll tell you everything I know.”
That was unexpected.
He continued, “There was only one set of fingerprints at the scene, and we’ve determined they belong to Mr. Baldwin. Also, there was no forced entry into the house and no sign of a struggle. None of the neighbors saw or heard anything last night, and all report to having little to no contact with Mr. Baldwin. It seems your friend isn’t the most neighborly of neighbors.”
No surprise there, I thought. “Have you informed the Sands about Lydia?”
“The appropriate people have been notified. We’ve also contacted Miss Starr’s family in Alabama.”
That hit me as hard as one of Sal’s haymakers. I don’t know why, but I never thought of Lydia as having family. Maybe it was because I didn’t have family myself, or maybe it was because life in this town just didn’t encourage that kind of thinking. “How about Ken’s work? Have you talked to them?” I asked.
“Yes,” Clegg answered succinctly.
“And who is that? Ken never told me where he worked.”
There was another noticeable pause, and I could swear I heard wheels grinding in the cop’s head. “An aerospace company out of Burbank, California.”
“Burbank? Which one?”
Brief pause. “A company called Lockheed. Ever heard of them?”
“I think so. They build airplanes, right?”
“Right. They said Mr. Baldwin was not on a business trip. That means he’s somewhere else. Any ideas where that might be?”
This time it was me who didn’t respond.
“Mr. Callaway? Are you still there?”
“Sorry…yes…I’m still here.”
“Mr. Callaway, I can’t emphasize how important it is we locate Mr. Baldwin. You understand why, right?”
“Yes…why?”
“Because, Mr. Baldwin could be a victim too, or in grave danger.”
That thought hadn’t occurred to me. “I’ll let you know if I hear from Ken.”
“Make sure you do,” he ordered. “Is there anything else?”
“No, sir. Thank you for your time.”
And with that, we hung up.
I almost came clean with Clegg right then and there. The reason I didn’t was simple, Luther and Betsy. It brings me no pleasure to say this, but the history of colored folk versus the police in this town wasn’t a good one. I know, I know, Las Vegas isn’t Mississippi, but still, the last thing Luther and Bets needed was for the police to invade The Jam
Jar asking owner and patrons alike a lot of questions no one had the answers to. It wouldn’t be unheard of for everybody to be rounded up and escorted downtown. That kind of thing could be devastating to a place like The Jam Jar, and I wouldn’t have it. Trust me, things like that happened on the Westside. So, that’s why I didn’t tell Clegg about Ken being in the club. However, I did promise myself if I still had nothing by night’s end, I’d go back to The Jam Jar, explain the situation to Luther, and ask him what I should do. Luther being Luther, I was sure he’d insist I tell the police everything, consequences be damned.
I stepped from the phone booth, extended my arms out in front of me, and shook as hard as I could. Everything inside me felt wrong. My entire disposition, usually gay and groovy, was totally out of sorts—a condition I was rarely afflicted by and therefore utterly unaccustomed to dealing with. I surveyed my surroundings and saw the sun was taking a header in the west, and as if by some Divine right, the city was awakening to its nightly luminescent gaudiness. I know I’m sounding like I don’t approve of my adopted home’s penchant for flamboyance, but that’s not really true. For though I’m not a sequin jacket kind of guy myself, I fully understand that a main ingredient in show business is the show, and for better or worse, that’s all the bountiful smorgasbord of neon eye candy is ever attempting to do—put more show in the show business. But sometimes, like on this particular evening, when I’d had a day like I’d had on this particular day, the copiousness of that meal could be a bit hard to swallow. Nope, I wasn’t myself.
Be that as it may, it was still no reason to dispense with the basic rules of fashion. It was rapidly approaching the shank of the evening, and I wasn’t dressed anywhere close to appropriately. I needed to head back to my digs toot sweet and change into more suitable evening attire. Besides, I’d hatched a plan where to search for Ken, and though it was a long shot, it was at least a shot. It came to me while I was talking to Clegg. I’d been so focused on what I didn’t know about the man, I’d totally ignored what I did know. Ken liked jazz, and The Jam Jar wasn’t the only game in town. That was information I could run with. See, when it comes to jazz clubs in Las Vegas, I was very well known and highly respected—hey, it’s not bragging if it happens to be the truth. That being the case, if the folks who ran these establishments had seen Ken, they’d have no reservation in telling me so. I’d bring my horn along since I was certain I’d be required to sit in on a few numbers, but that was the price one paid for being a hotshot Vegas musician. Also, by bringing my horn, I could end the evening at The Jam Jar blowing a tune or two with my old pal Eighty-Eight Eddie. I’d take the opportunity to ask Eddie if he’d heard from Ken too, but I knew I needed to tread carefully on that front. Eddie, or Eighty-Eight as he’s more commonly known, is a Jam Jar institution, and like I said, I didn’t want The Jam Jar anywhere near the whole Ken Baldwin business. Therefore, I would need to be subtle. Yes, I can do subtle.
I hopped back into the Falcon, fired the girl up, and pointed her toward Villa de Trip. Mercifully, traffic was light, and within minutes I was home. As I pulled into my parking space, I couldn’t help but ponder the absurdity of this thing called life. The sheer lunacy for any of us to believe the way things are in any particular moment are the way things will be five minutes later. When I pulled out of my parking space hours earlier, my day-to-day was pretty run of the mill. Sure, I had a little issue with Fat Tony, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Beyond that, my life was quite peaceful, quite manageable, and dare I say, quite predictable. Little did I know, or could have even imagined, how different things would be upon my return to said parking space. In the blink of an eye, everything had changed. A friend had been murdered, and another friend was the prime suspect in the heinous act. It was all too much. It was all too absurd.
When I opened the door to my apartment, I was tempted to walk straight into my bedroom, pull a blanket over my head, and pretend the day had never happened. But that’s not the kind of man Mr. Callaway raised, so I didn’t. Instead, I went to my record player and dropped the needle on some Oscar Peterson, specifically, On The Town with the Oscar Peterson Trio—a landmark record, in my opinion. I shed my shirt, answered nature’s call, and then grabbed a beer from the icebox and toothpick from the cupboard. The beer was recreational, the toothpick medicinal. A hunk of Luther’s barbequed brilliance had taken up residence in my back molar, and it was irritating the daylights out of me.
I popped the tab on my brew and walked into the bedroom. That’s when I noticed the window that sort of closes was more unclosed than usual. That should have been a gigantic red flag all was not right, but for some reason it wasn’t. I simply walked across the room and shut the window—or shut it as much as it ever shuts. When I turned around, the closet door swung open. I dropped my beer and nearly swallowed the toothpick.
The scrawny, callow-looking man just stared at me. His face was drawn, and he was drenched in sweat. Behind his thick, horn-rimmed glasses were two very tired, bloodshot eyes. It was Ken. And he was holding a gun.
Chapter 5
“Hi, Kenny,” I said.
“Hi, Trip,” he responded.
“Whatcha doin’ with a gun?” I asked.
“I need it,” he answered.
“Oh, okay,” I said back.
Granted, not the most scintillating repartee. No doubt others would have handled the situation far differently. Bogie would have just stared him down. Cary would have uttered the perfect pithy witticism. Mitchum would have simply walked across the room, taken the gun away, and slugged him in the chops. I did none of those things. Instead, I said, “Hi, Kenny.” “Watcha doin with a gun?” and “Oh, okay.” Downright pathetic.
In my defense, I had had quite a day, and turning around to see my friend holding a gun on me was…well, I’m not sure even Bogie could have risen to the occasion. Also, it was obvious Ken was far from being on solid footing. His eyes kept darting from me to the window, to the front door, and then back to me again, as if he was expecting someone to come bursting in at any moment. His white, buttoned-down shirt and black trousers looked like he’d slept in them, and he was shaking like a wet dog—and not to be crass here, but he smelled like one too.
I regained my vocabulary. “Kenny, where have you been?
He sat down on the bed, placed the gun on the nightstand, and ran his hands through his thinning brown hair. His voice was tight. “I need your help, Trip.”
“Ken, what happened at—”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Ken, you have to tell me what happened at your house last—”
“I need you to go see Lydia. Tell her I’m okay and nothing has changed. Tell her I’ll contact her soon. Will you do that for me, Trip? Will you go see Lydia?”
Holy Toledo, he didn’t know.
While making sure the gun on the nightstand stayed on the nightstand, I crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to him. I had no idea how to tell him, so I just said the words as gently as I could. “Ken, Lydia is dead.”
Initially, he gave no reaction, and I wondered if he’d heard me. But after a second or two, he whispered, “Dead?”
“She was murdered, last night, at your house. The police are looking for you. They think you might have had something to do with it. You didn’t, did you, Kenny?”
I was not exactly sure what a person who was catatonic looked like, but if it was what I thought, then that was how Ken looked. He stared straight ahead and said nothing, his face devoid of any emotion. Then, as if someone opened a spigot on Hoover Dam, his eyes filled with water, and a guttural wail, one like I’d never heard before, came out of the man’s body.
“Oh, God, no! It’s all my fault. Lydia, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Let me be honest, I don’t do well with men crying. I don’t like it and don’t think it’s right. I firmly believe that after the age of…let’s say fourteen, we fellas should leave the waterworks to the gentler sex. It’s just the way w
e Callaway men are. Even at Pop’s funeral, neither me nor Uncle Clem nor Uncle Willie cried. We left it to the womenfolk. I’m sure it was noticed and appreciated by all. Pop would have been proud.
Having said that, I did do my best to comfort Ken as he sobbed. I didn’t know what to say, so I just put my hand on his back and patted. Yes, it was quite awkward, and I hope to never have to do it again. Once he calmed down, I asked the question. “Why is it your fault Lydia’s dead, Ken?”
He didn’t answer, so I asked again. “Kenny, why is it your fault Lydia’s dead?”
Ken took a long breath and exhaled. He rubbed his sleeve over his wet face and dropped his head. “I can’t tell you, Trip.”
“You have to tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t,” I replied, not hiding my irritation.
“No, I really can’t tell you. I’m not allowed.”
“What do you mean you’re not allowed? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I need to use your telephone.”
Before I could catch him, Ken darted into the living room, had the phone in his hand, and was dialing. I started to ask who he was calling, but he raised his hand for me to be quiet. He turned his back to me and spoke so softly I couldn’t hear what he was saying. After only a few seconds, he hung up and turned back around.
“Can you drive me somewhere, Trip?” he asked.
“Ken, what’s going on?”
“I need you to drive me somewhere. Will you?”
“No. Not until you start talking.”
“But, I need—”
“I’m not taking you anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
Ken made a fist, put it to his forehead, and fell onto the sofa.
This time, Bogie had nothing on me. I sat down and fixed my stare on him. At least a full minute went by without either of us saying a word. When Ken finally did speak, it was…well, I suppose you could describe it as wistful.