Out of the Blues (17 page)

S
alt hit the buzzer to allow admittance to the Homicide waiting room. Warily eyeing the premises and giving Rosie sideways glances, the band ambled in. “Please, have a seat,” Rosie said. Bailey presented himself with a little bow in front of Rosie's desk and shook hands while the others glanced around at the photos of police commanders hanging on one wall and the large blue-and-gold department logo, a rising phoenix encircled by the words “PRIDE, PROFESSIONALISM, PROGRESS” on the opposite wall. Rosie's red dress was a brilliant contrast to the dull grays and blues of the room.

Salt introduced them. “Rosie, this is the Old Smoke Band, and they're here to give statements in the Pyne case.”

“Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Bailey Brown and these supposed gentlemen”—Bailey swept his arm back toward the men—“are with me.”

Instead of picking up the phone, Rosie opted to treat them to a view, all six foot three of herself in the tight dress, as she stood. “I'll go tell Sarge you're here.” She turned to go through to the inner office
area, providing the men with an unobstructed view of her posterior, greatly enhanced by new butt padding.

As soon as the door closed behind Rosie, Blackbird whistled. “Whew, that is a lot of he/she.”

Salt smiled. “It's not your grandfather's police department anymore.”

Mustafa sniffed the air. “What is that smell?”

Blackbird inhaled. “Fish sauce. Smells just like Saigon. Smells like a war I was once in.”

Goldie cracked his knuckles. “I'm invokin' my right to remain silent. If you-all know what's good for you, you-all will do the same.”

“Hear that, Pops?” Bailey laughed. “Pops ain't said five words in three years. Aaw, Goldie, we got nothin' to be silent about. We got nothin' to hide.”

“Since when did that matter with black men and the poleese?” answered the sax man, slumping into a battered chair.

Rosie returned. “Sarge is ready. In the conference room.”

“Come on back,” Salt said to the band, holding the interior door open.

Bailey led the crew. As the band passed, Rosie took out a compact mirror and made a show of touching up her lips. They assembled around Salt on the other side of the door. “Where's the beautiful girl receptionist they got in all the movies?” Mustafa asked, pointing his thumb toward the outer office.

“They wouldn't let us in to see Dan. How is he?” Bailey took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“Nothing's changed. Still touch and go. This way.” Salt led them through the cubicles, past detectives poring over paperwork in their small spaces, past empty desks covered in files, stacked, waiting for the return of their murder men. The band seemed diminished under the office lighting, out of their element, like a song played off-key,
wrong. “In here, guys.” Salt showed the way into the conference room, where Sergeant Huff, Wills, and several other detectives sat waiting with pens and notebooks ready.

“Please have a seat, gentlemen,” Wills said. “Make yourselves comfortable. Does anyone need water, coffee, or a soda?” He addressed the room, but his eyes stopped for a half second longer, smiling, on Salt.

Huff had a carton of Asian carryout in front of him, chopsticks clicking as he cleaned out the bottom of the box.

The band went to the far end of the table. Thing One, wearing a tie-dyed tie, picked up and relocated to sit beside Goldie. “You the sax player, right?”

“Yeah, how'd you know?” Goldie stretched back and straightened his suit jacket.

“Google. Listen”—the detective leaned in close to Goldie—“I played sax back in high school. Been thinking about taking it up again. I still got my horn. You guys gonna be around for a while, maybe I can sit in with you some.”

Goldie looked away, turned toward Bailey. “See what I tell you. Man says we gonna be here awhile.”

Sergeant Huff pushed the empty carton to the center of the table and looked around for something to wipe his greasy fingers on. “Okay, people, let's get this show on the road.” Finding nothing, he rubbed his hands together. “My name is Sergeant Huff and I'm in charge of this case. We got a man shot a couple of nights ago, your guitar player. Man comes all the way across the country, stopping in lots of cities and towns, and then gets shot in my town, and I wanna know why. So the way this works is my fine detectives here are gonna take a sworn statement from each of you. And if I understand right, you-all have to leave in a few days?”

Bailey, at the opposite end of the table, leaned forward, his big arms stretched out, hands open. “Sergeant, my name is Bailey Brown.
I guess you'd say I'm the leader of this group. Right now we're all pretty torn up about Dan, but they won't let us in to see him at the hospital. His girlfriend is flying in tonight. Nothing much for us to do except make our engagements. We all got mouths to feed, and if Dan's gonna get paid, we have to make money for us and for him. So other than that, the best way we can help Dan is to give you every bit of information we can. We've talked and we can't come up with any reason for Dan being a target. But we'll leave that to you to figure out and help you any way we can.”

“Good enough,” Sergeant Huff said as he stood. “It doesn't matter to me who interviews who. You guys pair off any way you want. I'll be in my office if you need anything.”

Thing One slapped Goldie on the back. “As one sax man to another—let's blow.”

Goldie rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Brown?” Salt said, standing up.

“Of course, Detective,” Bailey stood.

Wills and the other detectives paired up with Blackbird, Pops, and Mustafa, each person differently prepared to hear or tell of events relevant to the shooting of Dan Pyne.

—

T
HE
DOOR
to the Blue Room was closed. Salt pulled at the corrugated metal and found it unlocked. Inside, Man sat reading at a small round table in the far corner facing the door. As Salt approached, he looked up and with one hand closed a worn Quran.

“I didn't know you were religious,” Salt said, pointing at the red cover.

“Naw, just trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. Some brothers in the West End all up in this shit. Don't make any more sense to me than the Bible.”

“Rules to live by.”

“Ain't all about no shall and shall nots. I can tell you that for sure.”

Salt pulled up a chair and sat down a few feet to the left of Man so she could see the door. “What about rules for your boys? Can they lie to you, steal from you? What about murder?”

“Rules never kept anybody doin' what they supposed to do anyway. Police got rules; churches, banks, all kinds of business got rules. I don't see rules keepin' folks from doin' what they want.” Man tapped the Quran. “Just words. My boys loyal. They won't lie to me or steal from me 'cause they loyal.”

Salt leaned toward him. “And if they aren't?”

He shrugged.

“What about you being loyal to your boys, say, Stone? You took him in when he was young, to get him away from Tall John. You might be the closest he's ever had to family.”

Man looked out into the room. “That was a long time ago.”

“I'm sure Stone could give the feds something more, something on you to help get his time cut.”

“That's what I'm talking about. Stone loyal.”

“The other night, right before the shooting, you met up with Tall John. Someone else books the music, runs the Shack and the Blue Room, but you're the moneyman here, aren't you? You're the contact with John Spangler.”

Man leaned back and put his feet on the table, close to the Quran. “Me and John is just business. I'm going to go legit in the club business.”

“With John Spangler? Legitimate? You're fooling yourself, Man.”

“How else I'm going to go legit? You know how it is. How else I'm going to go straight?” Man let his chair fall back to the floor with a thud.

“Here's the truth. Stone gave a sworn statement that John Spangler,
ten years ago, gave an intentionally hot dose to the bluesman Mike Anderson. Stone can get his time cut if I can verify that information. The statute has run out on Spangler's abuse of Stone and the drug dealing. But the statute hasn't run out on murder.”

“You doin' it again. Why you bringin' this shit to me? Puttin' me in the middle?”

“You're already in the middle.”

“And why you trying to help Stone? He got convicted of trying to kill you.”

“We're both in this, Man. I didn't choose it either. But you're right. It's not about rules. The other night—” Salt stood up and walked to the spot on the floor, the sealed cement, still stained with Dan's blood. “The other night, right here, Dan Pyne was shot. I'm loyal, like you. I'm loyal to doing my job. Just like you know everything about what happens in and around The Homes, I know you know, or can find out, who shot Pyne, and I'm going to count on your loyalty to Stone to find corroboration for his information on Spangler.”

Man stood. “I'm sick a' you always comin' to me with shit. Last time you was all on me about who killed Lil D's mama. You put my boys in jail. Why you all on me? I'm tryin' to break out of this shit.”

Salt turned toward the door, then stopped. “One thing.” She went back to the table and picked up the Quran. “Something you said, Man—it's not about the rules, it's about finding the truth. That's what I'm after.” She respectfully put the book on the table and left the Blue Room.

—

P
EOPLE
ON
their lunch hours hurried past the downtown hotel where Melissa was staying. Only the top third of their bodies was visible above the café curtain rail. Salt alternated watching people
outside and glancing at the entrance to the café. Melissa had agreed to meet her at noon. It was twenty after.

“Are you sure I can't get you anything?” the waiter asked again.

Melissa appeared behind him. “I'll have a Bloody Mary,” she said, sliding into the booth. “Your dime, right?” She looked at Salt.

“Sure. Would you also like something to eat?”

“If ever there was an occasion to drink my lunch, this is it, don't you think?” The singer's face was made up with eye shadow and lipstick, more hard-looking than Salt remembered from the Notelling. Melissa glanced briefly at the waiter. “Just the Bloody drink.”

Salt's stomach growled. “I'd better eat. The breakfast special, if it's still available.”

“One Bloody Mary and one special.” The waiter left them.

“Melissa, I'm sorry about Dan. Thank you for meeting with me today.”

“Did I have a choice?” She picked up the stiff napkin and patted her nose. “You were with him when he was shot. Right?”

“Yes, at the Blue Room,” Salt answered, her blood sugar dropping, hoping the breakfast would come soon. Her patience grew thin when she was hungry.

An old man wearing a dirty jacket peered in the window right next to the booth, his hand held over his eyes to cut the glare. Melissa picked up a knife and struck the window with the handle, startling both the man and Salt. “Bum,” Melissa said.

Salt shook out her napkin and placed it in her lap. “He's probably just hungry.”

“Look, Detective,” Melissa said, pointing the business end of the knife at Salt. “Can we get on with this. For God's sake, tell me how someone could shoot Dan right in front of a cop and still get away.” She threw the knife on the table just as the waiter arrived with her drink, which she picked up as soon as his hand left it. “Why don't
you go ahead and get me another one,” she said to the waiter while facing Salt. “Hotels are stingy with their alcohol.”

Salt brought the water glass to her lips, giving the waiter time to leave. “I didn't see who shot Dan. The room was crowded, and after he was shot I was doing CPR, trying to keep Dan alive.”

Melissa emptied her drink. “CPR, the last kiss. Kind of romantic, in the broader sense. Poetic actually. How was it for you?”

Salt folded the napkin and said, “Excuse me. I need to find the restroom.” She slid from the booth just as the waiter was returning with Melissa's second drink.

In the ladies' room Salt splashed her face with cold water. Her skin looked pale. She lifted the coil of hair that covered the scar at her hairline. Today the scar was red-looking. “She might have something you need,” she reminded herself.

The breakfast was there when she returned to the table. She was so hungry she nearly choked on the first bit of eggs, barely tasting them. She tore the toasted bagel into bite-sized pieces.

Melissa drained the tomato juice–stained glass. “I'd weigh a ton if I ate like that.”

“Are you sure you don't want to eat?”

“I'm still thirsty,” she said, looking for the waiter.

“Melissa, do you, did you know John Spangler?” Salt began.

Melissa slumped down in the booth. “That was a long time ago.”

“But you knew who he was? Dan and I saw him outside the Blue Room right before Dan was shot.”

“I knew Spangler. Okay. He was Mike's dealer.” Melissa tipped her glass to Salt. “Happy?” she said, and then lowered it to the table with a thunk. “I was a dumb kid back then.”

A siren made its way through the city toward the hotel. “You were already performing?”

“Yeah, I was sitting in with different bands when I could. I'm a singer. I don't like the way you say ‘performer.'”

“Was Mike encouraging? Did he help you get gigs?”

“Most of the time I wasn't even sure if he knew I was there. It was like he'd look around and say, ‘Hey, Melissa's here.' He got more sex from the guitar than me. And if one of his blues buddies came around, I ceased to exist. And then there was the coke and heroin.”