Coq au Vin (10 page)

Pressed tightly up against my back, he soaped my hair.

“I've got a surprise in store for you,” said Andre, straining to be heard over the knocking of the old pipes in the shower stall.

“Ha! That ain't no surprise, Geechee. You get one of those just about every half hour.”

“No, not that,” he said. “This is something we have to go outside for.”

“What? Where?”

“It's on the street.”

“What street?”

“I don't know the name of it. We just have to walk till we find it.”

“It” turned out to be a dusty, narrow shop near the Comédie Française. It specialized in music scores and art relating to music. The two older women who ran the place nodded warmly—maybe even conspiratorially—to Andre and let us wander undisturbed all over the shop. I was in hog heaven, oohing and aahing over a photo of Billy Strayhorn arm in arm with Lena Horne, when Andre disappeared up the aisle. I could hear him exchanging hushed words with one of the ladies. In a minute the two of them approached me carrying a framed pen-and-ink sketch.

Andre turned it so that I could see it full view.

“Monk!” I screamed.

“C'est beau, oui?”
the owner said, smiling.

“It's beautiful,” I agreed.

“And it's yours,” said Andre.

“Mine?” I grabbed it out of his hands. “Really
mines?
”

“Yeah, I bought it—in three installments.”

I gave him a dozen kisses.

We were having a great time in there. While the sketch was being wrapped, I continued to browse. I went up and down the rows, flipping through all kinds of memorabilia and photos. It was in the bargain rack marked “Miscellaneous” that I came across the most startling piece of all.

“Andre!” I shouted out.

They must have thought I'd been bitten by a fat sewer rat or something, because all hands rushed over to where I stood.

“What is it?” he asked in alarm.

“Look at this photograph!” I pointed to a shiny head shot of a pomaded black man trying to look pensive and irresistible. “Look at the caption and tell me if I'm dreaming.”

“Jesus Christ,” Andre said. Just that.

“Little Rube Haskins,” I quoted the caption. “It says this is Martine's hero, Rube Haskins—right?”

“Yeah. It does.”

“Man, do you know who this
is?”
I said, my eyes popping. “Take a good look.”

“I don't have to,” he replied. “That's your aunt Vivian's friend. Ez—from Èze.”

CHAPTER 7

Pop!Pop!Pop!Pop!

Not that we had anything much to celebrate, but Andre and I went clubbing that night. Bricktop's.

The joint was jumping.

I had bought that amateur photo of Rube Haskins and we had run home from the music shop to compare it with the one in Vivian's scrapbook. No question about it; my aunt's Riviera companion and the obscure blues genius called Rube Haskins were one and the same man.

Sitting in the apartment, looking in bewilderment from one picture to the other, I got one of those shit! why didn't I think of it before? flashes. The original Bricktop had been a social lion. Everybody who was anybody in jazz-age Paris had passed through her door. Perhaps it was the same kind of thing with the present owner of Bricktop's. He might actually have known Haskins.

“Let's get over there,” I urged Andre. We could talk to the owner before we hit the streets to play tonight.

It was one move that Andre had no trouble endorsing. It seemed safe enough to go and talk to Morris Melon. He was no ex-pimp with a razor-scarred girlfriend, and it seemed unlikely he'd make us pay by the hour for a little conversation.

I wriggled into my long, tight brown skirt with a matching sweater cropped so short that its bottom hem fell just below my nipples. I tucked the Rube Haskins head shot into my purse and Andre and I grabbed our respective axes and headed out into the night.

Like I said, the joint was jumping. In fact, the whole town was bustling. After all, it was springtime in Paris. Folks at Bricktop's were finger popping and flirting, eating and drinking with abandon, and gathering around the pianist to request their favorite song.

The elderly proprietor was just as much in the spirit as his customers. Morris Melon was drunk as a lord.

Leaning on his spiffy cane, he was up near the entrance greeting people as they walked in.

Small man, big voice. “Children!” his basso rang out when we stepped across the threshold.
“Bienvenu!”

“Merci
, Monsieur Melon,” I said as he waved us to the crowded bar. “Will you allow us to buy you a drink?”

“Lord yes,” he agreed, and joined us there.

Andre started out slowly enough, but was soon in high gear with his music and tell-me-about-being-black-in-Paris quiz. We listened attentively while the old man pontificated and reminisced and testified, though I suspect that Andre already knew the answers to most of the questions he posed.

After he had related yet another fascinating anecdote about his life in Paris—and to be fair, his stories
were
fascinating—we zeroed in on the real target.

“Mr. Melon,” I said, “we have a French friend who's wild about a blues singer who used to live in Paris. I'd like to get her some of his records, but I can't find any of them for love nor money. Do you know anything about him? Little Rube Haskins was his name.”

He burst into high-pitched, derisive laughter. “‘Rube' is right,
ma chère
. He was right off the boat. What the children in Chicago used to call a country nigger. To paraphrase that Ozark woman's song—a little bit country, a little bit rhythm and blues.”

“You mean you actually met him?”

“Once or twice. You know what they say—if you stay in Paris long enough, you meet everyone in the world.”

“Did you ever hear him perform?” asked Andre.

Melon rolled his eyes. “Yes, child.”

“No good?”

“Good and bad didn't come into it. He was ridiculous. He could play that guitar well enough, I'll give him that, but his songs about his mule jumping over the moon or some such were so derivative and falsely primitive as to be preposterous. None of the sweetness, none of the heart, the grace of the rural Negro—no blessedness. And I should know, child. I'm a proud country nigger myself. I just found the man vulgar, to be candid. But then again…oh, I don't know why I'm fussing so much. I suppose he was just trying to enjoy the party, like the rest of us. To be fair, he did have a following here for a hot minute. But he was a footnote to a footnote, at best. I can't imagine that anyone let him make any recordings.”

“When did you know him?” I asked. “How long ago?”

“Ah. Well, that's not so easy to say. Fifteen—eighteen—twenty years? Time doesn't mean a great deal to someone like me, you know. Not anymore.” He laughed that marvelous deep laugh again and took the fresh martini the barman handed him.

“Might I just show you something?” I said.

“Of course. Show me everything, dear girl.”

I retrieved the glossy photograph from my bag and held it close to his hand resting on the bar.

“Is that what he looked like?”

“Have mercy!” he said in wonderment. “Yes, that was him. Don't tell me your friend carries his picture around?”

“Well,” I said, “she does adore him. All she's ever heard are a couple of badly recorded tapes of him. She found this in one of the stalls on the Seine.”

He turned the photo over in his hands a couple of times. “The French are peculiar,
n'est-ce pas?”
he said philosophically. “Wonderful—but peculiar. And would we have it any other way?”

After a moment's appreciative laughter, Andre asked, “What happened to Haskins, Mr. Melon? We heard he died young.”

“Umm. I think that's true. Died young and died tawdry, if I'm remembering it right. Let me see—must have been a drunken brawl somewhere—no—it was a jealous husband—or a woman scorned—something like that. He was shot to death in a car perhaps. Something absurd like that. He didn't have the decency to just choke on a pig's foot.”

I couldn't help it: I let out a shriek of laughter.

“Oh, I'm mean, child,” Mr. Melon said. “I'm just terrible, ain't I?”

Melon slid smoothly from his barstool, cane and all, when a party of five came barreling in, shouting their greetings at him.

I had to get in just two more quick questions before he took his leave of us.

“By the way,” I said, “did you happen to know any of Rube's lady friends? One in particular called Vivian?”

“Oh dear, I don't think so.” He pursed his lips then. “The only Vivian I recall from those days was a young man, not a young lady. A British chap, and the less said about him the better.”

“Last question,” I said. “Any idea if Rube Haskins was his real name? I mean, did you ever hear people call him by any other name?”

He shook his head “Just ‘fool.' You two children should have some of that St. Emilion before you leave tonight. It's delicious. Ask Edgar to pour you some.”

“He's something, isn't he?” Andre said when Melon was out of earshot.

“He's a stitch. But I wouldn't want him to read me. He's got one sharp tongue.”

“What now?”

“Yeah. You got that right. What now? We know for sure now this is Haskins. But where does that leave us? How did he go from Ez to Rube—or vice versa? And which one was he when Vivian went picnicking with him?”

Andre began to speak, but he stopped short when Morris Melon reappeared at the bar.

“Is it true what I hear, children?” he asked us excitedly.

We looked at him blankly.

“That's right, play it coy, babies,” he laughed expansively. “Don't be so modest! Some friends tell me you two are the talk of the town. They say
le tout Paris
is buzzing about the duets you've been performing. You must favor us with something.”

His slow, steady clapping caught fire and before we knew it the whole restaurant was filled with coaxing applause.

After a brief consult with the pianist, we started with the old Nat Cole arrangement of “Just You, Just Me.” A real up number. Everybody seemed to enjoy it. Then the old musician removed himself to a table and left us on our own.

Andre's beauty obligato for me on “Something to Live For” seemed to come out of nowhere. Gorgeous. I was inspired, and tried to return the favor for his solo work on “I Didn't Know About You.” Someday you've
got
to hear that on the violin. We closed with “I Didn't Know What Time It Was.”

I guess we killed. Applause like thunder. The waiters began to anoint us with complimentary drinks.

Andre and I recaptured our places at the bar and Morris Melon hurried over to clink his glass with mine. “You children are too beautiful to live,” he cried in delight. “I want you to promise you'll come and play for us at least once a week.”

Andre began to stutter.

“I won't take no for an answer,” Melon pressed. “We'll feed you right, offer you our finest wines, and you can put your own tips bowl out on the piano.”

Andre and I looked at each other and shrugged. We nodded okay at the old man.

“Babies,” he said, grinning, “I couldn't be happier.”

If you don't know what boulevard St. Germain looks like at four in the morning as you sit outdoors at the Deux Magots…I won't spoil it for you by talking about it.

We had received all those strokes from the fabulous Morris Melon; the street crowds had been supergenerous; we'd stopped at one of my old haunts, an all-night place, for a perfect little meal; I was actually living on rue Christine, my street of dreams; the low sky was showing Paris pink around the edges; and, not least, this beautiful man I was in love with, was in love with me, apparently to the point of stupidity.

Again, heaven seemed almost within my grasp. But I couldn't be happy. I couldn't rest. We were no closer to finding Vivian. She was, if anything, slipping further away.

“You gotta do something for me tomorrow,” I said, turning to Andre.

He polished off his almond croissant. “You mean today, don't you, sweetheart?”

“Right. Here's the thing: Vivian knew this guy Rube Haskins.

“Check.”

“Only he had a different name.”

“Check.”

“And he was murdered—maybe over a woman, maybe
by
a woman.”

“Check—Wait a minute. You don't think your aunt was the woman—or the woman scorned?”

“The pig's foot, so to speak. Of course I don't know that she had anything to do with it. But at any rate, it had to be in the papers, right? There has to be some kind of investigation when anybody gets murdered. And Haskins was a public figure, even if he was a really minor celebrity—Mister Footnote. We have to find out if the police ever got the whole story. If they arrested anybody. Maybe somebody from his family came over here to claim the body. Maybe Vivian's name turns up as just someone the cops contacted for information.”

“Maybe,” he said. “So what is it you want me to do?”

“The murder happened, what, almost twenty-five years ago. I'm going to make a run to the library tomorrow, and make a phone call or two to some of the newspapers. I'll comb through the back issues. Not
Le Figaro
, it's too proper and conservative. But the tabloid types. That stuff's got to be on microfiche now, just like in the States. I'll try to find one of those books in English—you know, those music encyclopedias—
Who's Who in American Music
, or something like that—and see if Haskins's bio is there, and maybe his real name: Ezra Something, or Something Ezekiel—or whatever.

“What I need you to do is try to find back issues of the most obscure kind of music magazines you can think of. Canvass all your street player buddies and ask them if they own such things, or where to start looking. Maybe one of those music journals did a memorial piece on Haskins. Hell, maybe something a little more mainstream—like an early issue of
Rolling Stone
. Those shouldn't be too hard to find. Anything you can think of, no matter how nutty it seems. It's worth a try.”