Extreme Justice (18 page)

She turned over another card. Ben’s heart sunk.

It was an ace. As if she needed more help.

Diane leaned back in her chair, blowing smoke rings into the air. She had a full house, a killer hand in this game. And much better than Ben’s now very stupid-looking pair of tens.

She treated herself to a new cigar. “It’s been a pleasure, Kincaid.”

Ben threw down his cards in disgust.

“And so,” Gordo said, “once again, Diane proves that she is, in fact, mistress of the universe.”

Earl patted Ben on the back. “Tough break, kid. You played well. You just didn’t get the cards.”

Nice sentiment, but Ben knew it wasn’t true. If he had been the one to put all his chips on the table, or even a big chunk of them, back when he got the pair of tens, she probably would’ve backed off. She would’ve folded, or at any rate wouldn’t have bet everything, and Ben would’ve survived the hand and lived to play another.

It was a matter of strategy, and he had blown it. He lost because he couldn’t bluff, because he wasn’t willing to take a risk.

“Congratulations,” Ben told Diane. “You deserved to win.”

“Darn tootin’,” Diane replied.

“So,” Earl asked, “what you gonna do with all the loot?”

“Gee,” Diane said, glancing at Ben, “maybe I’ll make a donation to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelly to Animals.”

Gordo made a snorting noise.

“Or we could all just get drunk.”

That brought a raucous round of cheers.

Diane stepped out of her chair and began pulling on her leather jacket. “See you next time, Kincaid.”

Ben shuffled away from the table. “Yeah.”

Gordo gave Ben a nudge. “Hey, don’t take it so hard, Benji. At least you still have your health.”

Yes, that’s true, Ben thought, pressing his lips tightly together. But if you call me Benji one more time, yours may be in serious danger.

T
YRONE CROSSED THE
gravel parking lot of Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium, admiring the vivid sunrise. The iridescent rays were just beginning to seep over the skyline, illuminating the Bank of Oklahoma Tower and other downtown skyscrapers, the refineries on the far side of the river, and the miles and miles of woodland beyond. Someday, he thought, once he’d mastered that sax, he was going to come out here and write a song about a sunrise like this.

That was his ultimate goal—not just to play but to write. He wanted to take everything he saw and did and knew and to transform it into music. Think of all he could bring to the music table—life in the gangs, life on the streets, life on the con. Sure, he was young, but he had experiences like no one else in the world. Think what Gershwin did—and what did he know about the blues anyway? Tyrone had lived it. He knew he could compose something special, something that would live forever—if he could just learn how to play.

He heard a scraping noise, a crunching of gravel. He turned, but didn’t see anything.

That was odd. He turned back toward the sunrise. Probably nothing. Still …

He heard the crunching sound again.

“T-Dog!”

A wave of relief swept over him. Earl was standing near the entrance to the club, waving. He waited patiently as Earl waddled out to the parking lot.

“You gonna be around for a while?” Earl asked.

“Nah. Sorry to blow and run, but I got work to do.”

Earl jammed his big fleshy hands into his pockets. “Look, we need to talk.”

“ ’Bout what?”

Earl eyed him carefully. “I think you know.”

Tyrone suspected he did. And it was a conversation he didn’t care to have. “Look, Earl, I have things to do. Places to be.”

“Like what?”

Like the Okarche bus came in at 9:02, but he wasn’t going to tell Earl that. “Just takin’ care of business.”

“Then when will we talk?”

“I don’t know, Earl.” Tyrone started toward his car and opened the door. “Maybe at the next lesson.”

“That’s too long.”

“Well, I can’t do it now.” He slid into the seat.

Earl clamped a solid hand down on the steering wheel. “You’re not goin’ anywhere till you tell me when we’re gonna talk.”

“Earl—”

“How ’bout tonight?”

Tyrone shook his head. “Can’t. Got major plans.”

“You ain’t puttin’ me off, Tyrone.”

“I got plans—”

Earl laid his hand firmly on Tyrone’s chest. “Tomorrow night then. No later.”

“Fine. Tomorrow night. Ten
P.M.
Right here.”

Earl eased off. Tyrone gave him a tiny push, then closed the car door. He shoved the stick into reverse and backed out.

Tomorrow night, he thought, as he zoomed onto Brady. Great. That gave him about forty hours to figure out what the hell he was going to say.

He waited until Earl had disappeared inside the club, then slid the knife back into its sheath.

That had been a close one. He’d been lurking behind the club next to the Dumpsters when the kid came out. He’d started to make his move, but his foot slipped on the gravel and the kid whirled around. He’d have gone for it anyway, but who should stumble by but good ol’ Uncle Earl himself.

He’d had to take cover. Earl could’ve made him, even with the new disguise. He would’ve had to kill them both, and he didn’t want that. The kid, yes—that was necessary. But he was much happier letting Earl boil in the brine. He wanted Earl to suffer. Earl deserved to suffer.

Just as he had suffered.

Well, there would be another time, and sooner than he had expected. Tomorrow night, ten o’clock. That’s what the kid had said. He didn’t know what Earl was so anxious to talk about, and frankly he didn’t care. What they planned to discuss was irrelevant.

Death would be the main topic for conversation.

B
EN CAUGHT GORDO
at his apartment. From the looks of him, he had just awakened, although it was almost noon. Come to think of it, Ben recalled, Gordo had been drinking pretty heavily during the poker game; he was probably suffering the aftereffects. His hair was a mess, his chin was stubbly, and he was wearing boxer shorts and a Metallica T-shirt.

“Benji, what’re you doing here?” he said, showing Ben through the door. Whether he’d been asleep or merely comatose, he didn’t seem particularly disturbed by Ben’s arrival. “Come to return to the scene of your poker Waterloo?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.” Ben ambled around the apartment, again admiring the quality furnishings and tasteful decorations. Under an end table, he spotted a stack of books he hadn’t seen the night before. They were all Elisabeth Kübler-Ross titles:
On Death and Dying
,
Living with Death and Dying
,
Death: The Final Stage of Growth
,
The Wheel of Life: A Memoir of Living and Dying
. All had bookmarks jammed in them. “Mind if I sit?”

“ ’Course not. What’s up?”

Ben cleared a place for himself on the sofa. “I wanted to talk to you about the murder.”

Gordo sprawled out in a big overstuffed chair and propped his feet up on the hassock. “Why me in particular?”

“I’m talking to everyone who had access to the stage the night of the murder. And that means every member of the band.”

“Not just the band,” Gordo corrected. “Don’t forget the lovely Ms. Weiskopf, our stage manager. She was there, too.”

A good point, Ben thought. He ought to have a little chat with Diane, too.

“What’s your interest in this, anyway, Kincaid?”

“I’m trying to prevent Earl from being arrested, and then convicted, for this murder.”

Gordo slapped his hands together. “Damn! That’s right. Scat was spreading the rumor that you’re a lawyer. Say it ain’t so, Joe.”

“It’s so,” Ben said dryly.

“No shittin’? Damn!” He slapped his hands again. “And here we all thought you were just some white piano player who didn’t know what to do with himself. And it turns out you were just slummin’!”

“I was not slumming,” Ben said emphatically. “I quit practicing law because I wanted to concentrate on music. But Earl needs help.”

“I guess that’s right. I heard the cops just about hauled his carcass to the pokey yesterday.”

“Twice. And they’ll be back for a third try. So your help would be appreciated. Did you see the man with the rug?”

“No way. I would’ve said something if I had.”

Ben watched his eyes carefully. This wasn’t a poker game, but he still thought he might learn something. Especially since he was not at all sure he was getting the straight scoop. “Did you see anyone?”

“No one who wasn’t supposed to be there. Earl, Scat, Diane. And you, of course.” His eyes narrowed comically. “You know, you’ve always seemed like a suspicious character, Benji.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Not tellin’ anyone what you really are and all. What’re you tryin’ to hide?”

Ben ignored him. “Did you see the body? Or anything that in retrospect might have been a body?”

Gordo thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I did.” He peered toward the kitchen. “Say, would you like some cereal? I’ve got some Froot Loops.”

“Thanks, I already ate.” He plowed ahead: “It seems to me whoever killed that woman went to a lot of trouble to frame Earl. You know any reason why anyone would want Earl put away for a long time? Maybe forever?”

Gordo thought for a moment. “You know, any man lives long enough, he’s likely to pick up some enemies.”

“I need more to go on than that.”

“You know much about him and Scat?”

“No.”

“Well, neither do I. But I know they go a long ways back. Twenty, thirty years. And sometimes when they’re talking, I get the definite impression that there’s some history there.”

Ben knew what Gordo meant, but it still wasn’t very helpful. “If there was some serious bad blood between them, why would Earl hire Scat to play in his club?”

Gordo shook his head. “I don’t know, man. People do strange things.”

Gordo the philosopher. “Well, I’ll talk to Denny, too. Maybe he knows something you don’t. Do you know where he lives?”

A goofy grin spread across Gordo’s face. “I know where he lives, man, but I don’t think you wanna go there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gordo scribbled an address on a scrap of paper. “I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

Ben took the paper and shoved it into his pocket. “I don’t suppose you know of any grudge Denny might have against Earl.”

“Well, he doesn’t pay us what we’re worth.”

“No one does. I doubt if that qualifies as a motive.”

“Hard for me to imagine, man. Denny is a gentle guy. Very into harmony. Peace. Staying in tune with nature.” Again the grin. “I get the impression you think one of your band buddies is behind this killing.”

“I don’t think anything,” Ben answered. “I’m just checking out everyone who had access to that stage, including you. You weren’t by any chance involved with this death, were you?”

“I’m involved with death on an intimate, daily basis,” Gordo said, settling back into his chair. “But not this one in particular.”

Ben glanced again at the pile of death and dying materials. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

“I’m part of the movement, man.”

“Which one?”

“The death-awareness movement.”

“I didn’t realize there was any lack of awareness of death.”

“Not just that it exists. We’re tryin’ to help people understand what it really is. Do you know much about what happens to us after we die, Ben?”

“I have a friend who believes in angels.”

Gordo shook his head. “Not religious fantasies. The real thing. We’re tryin’ to help people understand what death truly is. To break people away from their childish cliché notions—death as a horror to be dreaded. We want people to understand that death is a natural part of life. That it’s not an ending, but a transition.”

“Like graduating from college?”

“Well, in a way. Problem is, people are all wrapped up in these antiquated ideas they’ve gotten from the media or the medical community. The cure-oriented, interventionalist, life-prolonging regime.”

“You’re against cures and life prolongation?”

“After a point, yes. We’re defying the natural order. Putting off what was meant to be.” He gave Ben a long look. “I gather you find these ideas revolutionary? That’s because you’ve been brainwashed by the establishment. These ideas are not new, and they didn’t originate with me. You’ve heard of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, haven’t you?”

“Right. Five stages of dying.”

“That was the start. In subsequent works, she went well beyond those early ideas. In the movement, she’s considered the Queen of Death.”

“Lucky her.”

“She’s written volumes on this subject. Slowly but surely she’s transforming the world. There are over a hundred thousand death and dying college courses taught every year. These ideas have gained broad acceptance among thanatologists and other death professionals.”

“Death professionals?”

“Hospice workers, clergymen, psychiatrists, doctors, nurses.” He paused. “I gather from your attitude you’ve never done any serious thinking about death.”

“It’s not my idea of a fun Saturday night, no.”

“You should. Take some of these books. You’ll be astounded at how widespread the movement is. Millions of people all over the world have joined.” He pulled a few volumes off a shelf. “Kübler-Ross established a nationwide chain of death and dying centers—they’re called Shanti Nilaya. There’s also the Exit Society, which distributes home suicide guides. There’s the Conscious Dying movement, which motivates people to devote their lives to death awareness. They open Death Centers to help bring people to the movement. And there’s another group that’s trying to initiate two-way traffic with the afterlife.”

“Two-way traffic?”

“Kind of a courier service. They recruit people who are dying to carry messages to those who have already passed on. And of course there are various reincarnation and past-life groups, although that’s really a different cup of tea.” He pulled a brochure out of a drawer. “Here’s a group promoting near-death experiences. You know what they are?”

“Well, my mother gave me
Saved by the Light
for Christmas.”