Honky-Tonk Girl (3 page)

He was on his way to keep a date with a Honky-Tonk Street whore who went by the name of Jean....

CHAPTER FOUR

INTERRUPTED MELODY

Wednesday Night, 11:15 P.M.

Johnny walked out of the joint and turned right, continuing on down the street at a steady pace. Honky-Tonk Street huddled around him warmly with its noise, its laughter and its smells.

It was a street on the wrong side of the tracks, situated between the Negro and Mexican sections and the docks.

Some of the bars ran girlie shows. Pictures of the entertainers looking coy in G-string costumes were plastered boldly out in front of the places. Music floated out from hot, smoky, crowded rooms.

He passed a tattoo shop and a photographer's studio. Every place on the street would be wide open and doing a brisk business until four in the morning.

A strange potpourri of humanity drifted along the sidewalks of the narrow, dirty street. There were sailors and pasty-faced kids dressed in peg leg trousers, hopped up on marijuana, florid-faced businessmen, beggars, hot-dog vendors. And every kind of woman in the books—from sallow-faced chippies to giggling old maid schoolteachers slumming and hoping, with titillating fear, that they'd be picked up.

Johnny walked behind an overstuffed blonde who jiggled along clutching a sailor by the arm as if she were afraid he'd vanish into thin air if she were to let go.

After some time, he shoved his way through the crowd, left the outer fringes of Honky-Tonk Street and walked along the beach.

As he swung along, his trumpet case tucked under one arm, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a glittering pin.

It was not much larger than a half-dollar piece—a little scrap of jewelry made of silver and diamonds.

It was an expensive bit of custom-made glitter. He had found it two nights ago on the floor of Miff Smith's room, a few feet from the bed where Miff's body had lain asprawl in the bloody tangle of sheets. It could have belonged to any one of a number of women who were in the habit of calling at Miff's apartment. But Johnny happened to know whose it was—he'd seen her wear it often enough.

The pin belonged to Raye Cowles, daughter of Sam Cowles, the big boy who pulled all the strings in this town—at least, all the ones worth pulling. Cowles ran the whole show, including Sheriff Botello and the rest of the crooked police force.

That, of course, made it tough. Because daughters of big wheels like Sam Cowles didn't go around knocking off Honky-Tonk Street musicians. Or if they did, nothing was ever heard about it.

Only this time Johnny intended to see that something would be heard about it. Even though all he had on his side was a bent scrap of costume jewelry and a local newspaper publisher who had no use for Sam Cowles....

The police knew Johnny had the pin. Earlier he had called Fred Botello, the sheriff, and threatened to turn it over to the local anti-Cowles newspaper unless the Cowles girl was brought in for questioning. Botello had ground the enamel off his molars. But he couldn't touch Johnny. And furthermore, he knew if he arrested Nickles for withholding evidence, the newspaper would grow curious about the nature of the evidence he had withheld.

So Johnny had at least one weapon against the whole Cowles bunch. But it was a weapon that ticked like a time bomb.

He slowed his pace almost unconsciously and absently studied the faces of the women he passed. He left the park area with its bright lights and big Ferris wheel. The beach grew darker as he walked and he searched the shoreline for a glimpse of the girl he was to meet. He was about to give up when he heard a woman's voice, muffled by the wash of surf.

He turned down the beach. The moon was out, coating the tops of the waves with platinum. Then Johnny saw her, sitting in the shadow of a dune.

She was leaning back against the sand, slowly smoking a cigarette and humming as she gazed up at the stars. Her clinging black satin dress had slid back from her propped-up knees, leaving her white thighs shining faintly in the moonlight, the curves and hollows of her long legs looking like carved ivory.

Harrison was right. She was something, right out of calendar art work. She had the long, curving lines and cameo skin that haunted the sex dreams of every bachelor who'd ever lived.

“Jean?”

Slowly she took the cigarette out of her mouth and pushed it into the sand where it died with a soft hiss. A pulse in her throat quickened. She stretched one long leg out lazily and lifted the other knee a fraction, swinging it in an idle arc. “Yeah, honey. Want something?”

Johnny walked around the dune and sat down beside her. He laid his trumpet case in the sand under his left elbow and lit a cigarette. The glow of his match played over the woman's face.

“You know me?” he asked.

She moved closer. Her heavy perfume mingled with the salty odor of sea air. She smelled of perspiration and cigarette smoke and beer and cheap perfume. Her face was a pale oval framed by the shadows of her black hair that tumbled loosely to her shoulders.

“Sure,” she nodded. “You're Johnny Nickles. You run the band in the
Sho-Tune
Bar. Miff plays—” She caught herself “—played with you.” She shivered. “Give me a cigarette?”

He shook one out of a crumpled package. “Why weren't you in the funeral? Everybody from the Street was there.”

Her fingers trembled, lighting the cigarette. The wind blew out her first match. She turned her back to the surf, huddled over the cigarette and struck another match. Her hair blew around her face. Then she sat back, curling her legs under her. “I don't like funerals.”

She smoked silently for a moment.

Johnny gazed out across the dark surf, thinking about Ruth Jordon, lying on the hospital bed with the knowledge of murder locked in the dark unconsciousness of her mind.

“How long you known Miff?” Johnny asked the girl.

She shrugged. “I don't know. What difference does it make?”

“He used to pick you up regularly. Especially on his nights off. He used to come down here on the beach and meet you.”

“Miff was okay,” she said in a muffled voice. “He was a good guy. I liked him.”

“How often did he pick you up?”

“Listen,” she said, suddenly turning on him furiously, “what damn business is it of yours?”

He caught her wrist and twisted it. “You know the cops are looking for you?”

Her face paled. “No.”

“Why?”

“I tell you I don't know!”

“Is it because you know something about who killed Miff?”

“Leave me alone, damn it—” She gave a little cry of pain. ”He was a guy in my band,” Johnny said through his teeth. “He played fine drums and I liked him. Somebody came along and killed him for no damned reason that anybody can figure out. I'd like to know who it was.”

“Cripe,” she sobbed. “I didn't kill the guy. He was okay to me. What's the matter—you think I did it?” She wrenched her arm away and rubbed her wrist tenderly. Her eyes measured him, smoldering. After a moment, she regained her composure and her voice was low and even when she spoke. “You're a hell of a violent guy, Johnny Nickles. You want to watch that temper—it'll get you in trouble.”

He lit another cigarette from the stub of the one he'd been smoking. He inhaled until the tip was a long, glowing coal. “You might say,” he told her, exhaling, “that I'm a little scared.” His fingers shook.

She looked at him with frank curiosity. “I don't get it.”

He stood up, wedging the trumpet case under his left arm. She rose to her feet too, and brushed the sand off her hips with a graceful feminine gesture. She stood near him, looking up. In the moonlight her eyes were speculative, interested.

“Come along with me,” he said. “I need somebody around to talk to. Somebody who knew Miff, too. That is, unless you got a business appointment.”

She looked away from him. Her lips were stiff. “You don't have to be that way,” she whispered.

They walked across the white sand to the paved sidewalk, then turned back toward town. Johnny strode with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his trumpet case tucked under one arm. It was his habitual manner of walking, shambling, careless, shoulders held loosely, eyes down. He was usually preoccupied when he walked, thinking about music or something he'd read or a woman he wanted to hold in his arms.

Jean walked quickly, with rapid tapping steps in her high heels and tight skirt, to keep up with his pace.

Johnny found a small, dark saloon and they went in and sat down facing each other in a dark booth in the rear.

He ordered a beer for himself, a whisky sour for the girl. For a while they drank silently. Jean occupied herself with a book of paper matches, absently tearing them out one by one and laying them down, one on top of the other.

“Where are you from?” he asked her at length.

“Sacramento—once. Long time ago.”

“More recently?”

She shrugged. “Not important, Johnny. Don't be like all the other men who want a blow-by-blow story of how I got into this business. Don't ask me about anything that happened from the time I left college and we'll get along fine.”

“College?”

Her mouth twisted, one eyebrow arching. “You're surprised? I have a degree. Psychology, UC Berkeley. Isn't that a laugh?”

He shook his head. “After all the years I've been in the music business, nothing surprises me.”

Her eyes were frank and candid. She was about twenty-five, Johnny guessed. Thus far, she had managed to escape the tawdriness and strident, brassy voice and manner of most girls in her profession. The perfume was the cheapest thing about her—that and the satin dress and patent leather pumps. She carried her chin with an air of poise. Her hair was well cared for. Her breasts were saucy and proud under the clinging dress.

She noted Johnny's appraisal with a crooked smile and a quickening of her breathing. “Like what you see, Johnny?” she asked huskily.

“I've seen worse,” he admitted. “You don't look like a Honky-Tonk Street tart.”

She laughed a little. “Maybe it's like the heiress with all the money, education and family who still insisted on walking the streets. Her friends couldn't understand it. The girl had everything—and walked the streets, too. Yep, the bitch explained...some people have all the luck!”

“You have all the luck?”

She picked up the drink and swallowed it. “That's another story,” she said quickly, looking down at the empty glass. Then she smiled at him brightly and held out the glass. “Do something about this, honey?”

He called the waiter.

When her drink had been refilled, they were silent for a while. Then she asked, “What are you scared of, Johnny?”

He stared at her. “Who said I'm scared?”

“You told me. Remember?” She studied his face. There are lines in your face and your eyes are red—like you haven't been sleeping so good. Your playing is off, too.”

Johnny bristled.

But she continued. “I used to come around. Every evening I'd stop at the
Sho-Tune
for a drink, early. You never did notice me. Four, five months ago, you played nice. But lately, it's been ragged around the edges. The whole band. I don't know—it's kinda as if all the guys were looking over their shoulders instead of concentrating on their music—”

Johnny leaned across the table, his face livid. “Listen, you damned bitch. I had a little run of hard luck in the last six months. But Johnny Nickles is still the greatest horn in the country. Remember that!”

She didn't blink an eye. “You telling me or yourself, Johnny?”

She sat there expecting to be slapped. “Don't be sore, Johnny. Sure you play good clean horn, and when you're right it's darned beautiful. I don't know much about things like that, but I've heard them say how great you can be and I like to hear you play. I guess you're just kinda down on your luck. I heard your girl left you when you were back in Chicago. I guess that took a lot out of you.”

She was silent for a moment.

“You want to talk to me about it, Johnny? Whores and bartenders got one thing in common—everybody tells them their troubles. Sometimes I think guys pay for a date with me just so they can be around afterwards in the dark, and talk about how rotten business is or how their wives give them hell. What is it you're afraid of? What happened to Miff?”

He glanced down at his beer. His hand was suddenly shaking and he had to put the glass down on the table. With his handkerchief, he rubbed foam from the back of his hand where a few drops had spilled. “Miff...yeah, and Zack. You didn't know about Zack, our arranger, did you?”

She shook her head.

“That was before we came out to the Coast. He died one night while we were making a recording of an arrangement he'd written. Heart attack. Six months ago.”

Her mouth formed a silent “Oh.” Aloud, she said, “I heard about that record album you made. What do they call it...the
Ghost Album
?”

He nodded.

That's why you really want to find out who killed Miff, isn't it, Johnny?
he asked himself.
Somebody is stalking your band ever since you made the
Ghost Album
. You want to stop them before you all die...one by one.... No wonder you're scared!

Everything, it seemed, had gone wrong from the time they had recorded that damned bad luck album. Before then, Johnny had been riding the crest. He'd finished a good paying six months' run in a big hotel in the East. Then the band had headed West, planning to stop in Chicago for a recording date, after which they'd go on to the Coast where a good job awaited them.

But then things had happened. Zack had fallen over dead in the recording studio while the band was playing. Johnny had gone out and gotten himself plastered. And when he'd sobered up enough to find his way back to the hotel, there was a note waiting for him there from Christine, the beautiful, hot-tempered little brunette who had been his singer and mistress for three wonderful years. She'd decided she was tired of his company and had pulled out with all his money and his brand new Cadillac.