Authors: William Bernhardt
Extreme Justice
A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Seven)
William Bernhardt
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media
Ebook
Dedicated to Harry Chapin
“There only was one choice…”
The greatest thing in the world
is to know how to be one’s own self.
—
MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE
Part One - Just Another Night in Babylon
Part Two - Remember When the Music
Part Three - Murder and All That Jazz
Part Four - Freeing the Camels
Part Five - The Meaning of Jazz
S
HE HAS NEVER
looked more beautiful than she does right now, completely naked and absolutely forever still. He cannot take his eyes off her, cannot part with the sight of her chocolate brown skin, her proud high cheekbones, her smooth velveteen neck. His eyes scan her immaculate body, radiant in the light of the twelve candles encircling her. She is an impeccable creation, a masterpiece; and now, he supposes, she is his masterpiece.
She is not as young as she once was, he thinks, then chastises himself for having such an unkind thought. Still, he cannot block out the unbidden image of the girl who once inhabited that body—young, fresh, innocent. Time is a cruel master; it keeps no secrets. And yet he is struck by how well she has held her beauty, how her deepening lines suggest character and grace more than age. Surely maturity is as valuable as innocence. Perhaps more so. Or perhaps he is simply being romantic because, no matter how much he tries to deny it, he cares for this woman deeply.
He is amazed that she can remain so rivetingly attractive with her eyes closed. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said the eyes are the doorways to the soul? The eyes, more than any other feature, are what make a woman lovely. And yet here she is, those vivid brown eyes concealed, and still every bit the beauty. Her face is still the face—it may not have launched a thousand ships, but in its own way, it moved men to commit acts even more extreme, even more dangerous.
He wonders: would it be in bad taste to take a picture? He decides to do it—he is the arbiter of taste here, now. He takes his Polaroid and snaps the shot, the flash turning the tiny room inside out, making it an X-ray reversal of what had been before. The square photo juts out suddenly, vulgarly, urging to be released.
He checks his watch and waits as the requisite minute passes and the photo develops itself. His eyes return to the woman lying before him, like wayward puppies making their way home. He loves the way she cut her hair. Short in the back and on the sides, but full in the front, creating a peekaboo effect as the long bangs dangle flirtatiously over one side of her face. A touch of glamour, a hint of mystery. Now that he thinks of it, he realizes that describes not just her hair but her. Her persona in a nutshell. Her elusive charm.
The photo is finished, but it is awful. It does not do justice to her splendor. It is too dark in here, and the candles made everything look greenish-yellow and grainy. He tosses the snapshot aside. It seems film is of no help to him on this occasion. He will have to remember everything himself.
He approaches her quietly, gently, as if afraid he might disturb her peaceful sleep. She is so beautiful! As he draws close, he is overwhelmed by a sudden surge of energy; it courses through him like an electric shock, like a frisson of passion and memory.
Did he dare touch her? Did he dare not? he answers himself. This is his last opportunity; he cannot let it pass untaken.
Gently he lowers his hand. His fingers trace the lines of her face, the soft sensual pout of her lower lip, her elegant neckline. He feels the old stirrings, just as he did before. The old affection returns to him; or perhaps it never left.
His hand moves onward, brushing over her collarbone, tracing the mounds of her shoulders, drawing a line down the tender valley between her breasts. He bends down and kisses them, unable to restrain himself any longer. It is a sweet, cold kiss—just as he remembers it. He can see the soft push of her ribs under her skin, see the soft curve of her hips below a nearly nonexistent waist. God, how he wants to pull her close, how he wants to press himself against her, to roll her over and brush his lips against her back, to curl one leg between hers, to feel the soft cushion of her backside against his groin.
It is becoming too much for him, not just the yearning, but the sorrow, the heartbreak. How had it come to this? They had made beautiful music together, and he didn’t mean that just as a cliché—they really had. But that was all past now. All gone. And all that remained was, well, what he saw before him now, in the fierce glow of candlelight.
He casts his eyes one last time upon her perfect face. It is almost as if he had set her in stone, sculpted her, preserved her visage for all eternity. The only thing missing was her smile. She had such an infectious, vibrant smile. It warmed his heart every time he saw it.
Yes, the smile is important, he realizes. He would have to add the smile.
Almost without thinking, he bends down and presses his lips against hers, presses hard. He is kissing her for all time now, kissing like there is no tomorrow, which of course for her there isn’t. Sweet angel, he thinks, squeezing her tightly. Now you can be in heaven where you belong. Where you have always belonged. One more kiss, this time a chaste address to the cheek, and then he pulls away.
He stands over her for a moment and then ritualistically extinguishes each of the twelve candles, leaving the room in darkness. It is time to get on with it. He has much work to do.
He presses his fingers to his lips and blows her a kiss, casting it out into the black void.
Farewell, angel, he says aloud, even though he knows she cannot hear. I love you so much. I always have. I wish I hadn’t been the one who had to kill you.
But I was.
Just Another Night in Babylon
Chapter 1
B
EN KINCAID WAS
playing the piano and singing with such enthusiasm that he neither saw nor heard the man sitting at the foot of the stage desperately trying to get his attention.
“ ‘I know I’m going no-oh-where …’ ” Ben belted out his song in a high-pitched adenoidal voice that seemed part Bob Dylan, part Sonny Bono. “ ‘… and anywhere’s a better place to be.’ ”
Unfortunately, the man offstage couldn’t stand it any longer. He stood up and barked, “Stop!”
Ben did not hear him. “ ‘I come back with my pa-ay-per ba-a-ag … to find that she was gone …’ ”
The man slammed his fist down on the nearest table, rattling two beer mugs and a centerpiece candle. “Stop already!”
Ben froze. He stopped singing. He stopped playing. For a moment he even stopped breathing. “Earl? Were you talking to me?”
Earl Bonner let out a sigh of relief. “I was.”
Ben nervously fingered the sheet music propped up before him on the piano. “But… I’m not finished yet.”
Earl pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “Not finished? You’ve been compin’ chords for somethin’ like ten minutes already!”
Ben swallowed. “It’s a long song.”
“That ain’t no song, son. That’s more like an opera.”
Ben scooted to the end of the piano bench. “It’s a story song, Earl. It takes a while to lay out the plot, develop the characters—”
“What’re you talkin’ about? Plot? Characters?”
“See, it’s a Harry Chapin song—”
“Harry who?” Earl ambled to the foot of the stage. “Ben, did you happen to notice on your way in what the name of this here club is?”
Ben cleared his throat. “Uh … Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium?”
“Right. And what do you suppose the most important word in that name is?”
Ben looked down sheepishly. “Jazz?”
“You bet your sweet mama’s pajamas. Jazz.” He pronounced the word as if it had about sixteen syllables. “Now what in the name of Thelonius Monk does what you were cuttin’ have to do with jazz?”
“Variety is the spice of life.”
“Maybe in vaudeville, but not in Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium.” He reached out. “C’mere, Ben. Walk with me.”
Ben pushed himself to his feet. “Should I bring my music?”
“Definitely not.”
Ben jumped off the stage and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the huge black man’s right arm. Earl steered him toward the exit doors on the east side of the club. They stepped out into the sunlight of a bright April day.
The club was located on the North Side of Tulsa in the heart of Greenwood, the city’s jazz district. Several clubs, studios, shops, and bars flanked Uncle Earl’s on all sides. In one direction, just a few blocks away, Ben saw the time-honored Mt. Zion Church, a cherished historical icon for the black community in North Tulsa. In the opposite direction, he could see the skyline of the ultramodern, spanking fresh campus of Rogers University. Quite a contrast.
“Now you look here,” Earl said, spinning Ben. around like a top. “I know you can play jazz. You’ve been handlin’ yourself real nice these past few months, ’specially considerin’ you’ve got the only white face in the combo. You’ve got a smooth two-hand rhythm style; you know how to make that piano sing like a canary. So what was that all about?”
Ben shrugged awkwardly. “I just thought if I was going to audition for a solo spot, I might try something … different.”
Earl peered at him with eyes like daggers. “You mean somethin’ that means a little more to you than jazz?”
“No, no,” Ben answered, a bit too hastily. “I love jazz. I do. I mean—”
“Some of your best friends are jazz players?”
“Well—yes, they are.”
Earl laid his hand firmly on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to turn grapes into wine. “Look here, Ben. I like you, so I’m gonna take a minute to tell you what’s what. Savvy?”
Ben nodded.
“Jazz ain’t somethin’ you do jus’ ’cause you can, or ’cause you need work, or ’cause you like hangin’ out in clubs. If you want to be a jazzman, you got to feel it deep down, in the core of your soul. In the marrow of your bones.”
“I could feel that.”
Earl grinned. “I don’t think you’re listenin’ to me, son. It ain’t somethin you could do. It’s somethin’ you do ’cause you ain’t got no choice. It’s a part of you, like an arm or a leg. You got to listen to that jukebox thumpin’ away inside your chest. I mean, really listen!” He paused, licking his broad lips. “Look, son, I don’t know what you did before you came to my club, but I bet it wasn’t playin’ jazz licks.”
“True.”
“Personally, I never thought no white boy had any business playin’ jazz anyway. Some of you do a pretty nice imitation, but it ain’t the same, you know? It ain’t the truth. To be a real jazzman, you got to suffer. You got to hurt. You got to hurt so bad you got to work your axe just to send all the pain away for a little while.”
“Maybe I should’ve worn a cast to the audition.”
“I think I’m not makin’ my point.” Earl swayed when he talked, as if he was speaking to the beat of some unheard syncopated rhythm. “Let me ask you a question, Ben. Do you understand the meaning of jazz?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Do you get it?”
Ben squirmed awkwardly. “Mmm … well … maybe you could explain it to me.”
Earl held up a finger. “Now you see, that’s the problem. It’s like ol’ Satchmo said, ‘If you gots to ask, you’ll never know.’ ”
“Not even a hint?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin. Sure, it’s about sufferin’, but everyone suffers. It’s more than that. It’s about findin’ the answers, findin’ some peace within yourself. It’s about knowin’ who to trust, who’s lookin’ out for you. It’s about harmony, about findin’ out what really matters in the cosmic scheme of things. It’s about learnin’ to believe.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Look, it ain’t somethin’ I can explain. It’s somethin’ where you just wake one morning, and all of the sudden you know.”
