Authors: Dave White
I swiveled on the seat, looking around the crowd. Most of the patrons were black, dressed in shirts and ties, applauding at solos, cheering. It was a festive crowd, drinks spilling, people snapping fingers, bobbing their heads to the music, talking into each other’s ears, and smiling. Over the bar, one TV showed the first inning of the Yankees game on the West Coast.
The song ended, the crowd erupted into applause, but not rock concert applause; there was only clapping. Tracy nodded, then gestured toward the rest of the band, giving them a moment in the spotlight. She was a natural, able to be at the center of the stage, but making sure everyone else with her got their share of the limelight. She took another bow, and freed the microphone from the stand, all while smiling.
My brain seemed to connect to her movements. I remembered her in the bar; she drank vodka cranberry. Always with one guy or another. I remembered doing lines with her. Seeing her brought the guilt of cheating back.
“Thank you,” she said. The applause quieted. “Thank you very much. We’re going to play one more before we take our first set break, but don’t worry, we have two more sets for you. But before we end, I’m going to play a ballad written by a friend of mine. It’s called ‘Bernie’s Song.’”
The drummer counted off and the ballad started. Slow, mournful, she played through the notes, and the crowd got into it, swaying with the music, smiling, eyes closed. I turned toward the bartender, called her over. I ordered Tracy a vodka cranberry, had it delivered to her while she played.
Tracy took a solo, running her fingers up and down the saxophone, knowing each place to touch for maximum effect. The solo started slowly, quietly, building toward a climax, her body moving in rhythm with the notes, swaying and bouncing. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and watching it was hypnotic. She drew me in, until it seemed there was no one else in the bar. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her face smooth and red as she breathed into the horn. Everything about her screamed intensity, nerves tight and ready to jump through her skin, an electric current connected between her and the instrument. She finished the solo with a jarring run through the notes, pulling the saxophone from her mouth dramatically, and the crowd erupted again. I joined them.
As the guitar player took his solo, she noticed the drink in front of her. She picked it up, took a sip, and then glanced around the crowd. I followed her eyes, and scanned in each direction she looked. They finally locked with mine. She smiled and winked at me. I smiled back and felt my face flush. I finished my beer, and I noticed my palms were sweating.
The song ended, faded out, and the crowd once again showed its approval. Tracy thanked the audience once more and placed her saxophone on a stand. She picked up her drink and walked in my direction, stopping only to accept compliments from various audience members.
Tracy said, “I didn’t think you’d show up.” She placed the drink on the bar, leaned on it as I sat.
The jukebox had started up in the time it took for her to walk over. Between the music and the crowd noise, I had to lean in close to hear anything. Tracy was wearing a perfume, just enough of it, that when I leaned in to talk I got a hint of orange.
“I appreciate good jazz.”
“You saying I’m good?”
“I’m saying you’re very good.”
“We’re a little out of time tonight.” She smiled. “New drummer.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
The guitar player walked by and told Tracy he was going outside for a smoke and some fresh air. She said they were going back on in twenty minutes and to take his time. A few other members of the crowd walked by and looked Tracy up and down.
“Did you really come here to listen to jazz?” I smiled.
“So, I have you to thank for the drink?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“So, who’s Bernie?”
She finished off the drink, and said, “Who?”
“The song you just played. ‘Bernie’s Song.’ Who’s Bernie?”
“I didn’t write the song. A friend of mine did.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“No. This guy’s married. I think he said he wrote it for his brother-in-law. Maybe his father-in-law. Or his dog. I forget.”
“What do you have in store for the next set?”
She finished her drink. “A little of this, a little of that.”
She looked at her empty glass, rattled the ice around. “It’s good to see you again, Jackson.”
She walked away.
I ordered another beer and relaxed for a few moments. No sign of Hanover, nothing going on with my case. For the first time since Gerry died, I felt I could enjoy my drink. I liked people watching in a crowded bar, and this bar was interesting, because it was an older crowd. There weren’t the drunken frat boys falling over women or puking in the corner. There weren’t empty bottles spilling on the floor. The place had an air of class. Everyone was talking casually, smiling, laughing. No one screamed, no one threw anything. There wasn’t even a bouncer, like the threat of someone getting cut off wasn’t even a possibility in this place. I felt myself begin
to relax, some of the tension that had been growing between my shoulder blades started to loosen.
A woman sitting across the bar caught my eye. She was next to a man who was standing with his back to the bar. She had a glass of white wine in her hand, caramel skin, and dark black hair that hung loose over her shoulder. She was talking, I guessed, to the man next to her, though she wasn’t looking at him. She sat upright, drinking the wine with her pinky off the glass. She held the glass up in front of her, in the light glancing at the wine, like she knew what she was doing. A wine taster, I thought. Or maybe a wealthy lawyer, out on a free evening.
I finished my beer, tried once to make eye contact and failed. As I put my pint glass back on the bar, my cell phone buzzed. I pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. Artie. I got up from the bar, left a three-dollar tip, and moved out the door to the street. The bass player tossed his cigarette into the street. I nodded at him, then answered my phone.
“Artie,” I said.
“Hey. Where are you?” He talked loudly, over the sound of the music, clinking glasses, and yelling frat boys at the Olde Towne Tavern.
The bass player checked his watch and went back inside. “In Sayreville.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Watching Tracy play.”
“Oh.”
I watched two cars drive by the bar before either of us said anything. Artie finally broke the silence. He tried to sound casual, but I could sense his anxiousness. “How are things going with Gerry?”
The past surrounded me. Gerry telling jokes. Tracy sitting in the Olde Towne Tavern years ago. The evidence in Gerry’s apartment. It wasn’t the man I knew. It wasn’t a man I wanted to know more about.
“I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t look into it.”
“You can’t—what the fuck, Jackson?”
“The police can do it. They’ll do it better than I can.”
For a while all I could hear was the ebb and flow of noise at the tavern. I didn’t want to tell Artie what I’d found. It would ruin Gerry’s memory.
“We’re doing some good business tonight, and I’m going to use that to help Tracy pay for the funeral,” Artie said. “Gerry’s insurance won’t cover the whole thing. So, by the time I get everyone out of here, clean up, and get home, I won’t be back until at least four. No way I’ll be up in time to help her deliver Gerry’s suit to the funeral home. The least you could do is go with her tomorrow morning.”
I took a deep breath. Behind me the music started up again, an upbeat tune, muddled by the concrete barrier between me and Tracy.
“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll be there.”
I drove down the street slowly, looking for parking, only to find Bill Martin standing outside my apartment building. Before I lived here, when I was still with Jeanne and we could afford living on the top floor of a two-family, Martin and I chased an informant into the building. He was running from us, refusing to betray a friend like we had wanted. When we caught him I remembered thinking that the informant shouldn’t be hanging around an apartment building like this one. That it was well kept, nice, and, since no one was watching us with their doors open, the neighbors minded their own business.
Now, as I found a rare spot on the street and put the car into park, I doubted Martin wanted to find anyone other than me. I still had my Glock on me, but if I decided to leave it in the car, he’d see me. I did leave my phone in the car. It needed charging.
Through the windshield, Martin watched me undo my seat belt. I opened the car door and stepped out.
“Hey kid,” he said, stepping away from the building toward my car. Hands in his pockets, he leaned on the hood. Like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like meeting me here wasn’t a big deal.
“What do you want, Martin?”
“No ‘hello’?” He kept the smile on his face. Very casual. “Remember the days we used to just sit in the car and talk about music?”
“I remember you liked the Hollies.”
“Yeah, great band.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
He laughed. “I thought you’d tell me I’m lucky to still be on the force.”
“I didn’t think of that. You want to start over?”
“No. Not really. James told me you stopped by your buddy’s place today.”
“Had to feed the cat.”
Martin curled his lip and nodded. “There is no cat. Did you take a look around when you were there?”
“I used the bathroom.”
“Probably checked the closet, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you saw what I saw.”
“Why didn’t you put it into evidence?”
“At the moment it’s all circumstantial. You know, maybe he caught lots of colds. But your buddy doesn’t seem like he was the cleanest guy. Had some baggage.”
I didn’t answer. It was warmer here than in Asbury or even Sayreville, and I wanted to unzip my jacket. However, I didn’t want to risk showing off the Glock, give Martin a reason to put me away.
“Listen. I know you don’t like me. I don’t like you. Given the chance, you slip up, I’ll put you away just for the hell of it. But let me do my job. Stay out of this,” Martin said.
“As much as I think your sloppy handiwork will screw this up, don’t worry. I’m not working the case.”
Martin’s eye opened wide. His body tensed like he was going to leap off the car and beat the shit out of me. It was real anger. I had seen it for years on the force. A smart-ass junkie or pimp or mugger would insult Martin, and he’d nearly take their head off. A couple of times those guys had come to the precinct in handcuffs and with black eyes and cut lips. But this time Martin was able to hold himself back. Didn’t stop me from taking a step away, however.
After a deep breath, Martin stepped off the hood of my car. Leaned in toward my face. This time I held my ground. His breath smelled like onions and cinnamon Trident. “You fucked up years ago. You could have been a good cop. Now you’re just a fuckup. It’s about time you got smart and let me do my job.”
“You’re going to give out parking tickets?”
I thought I had pushed him far enough. His face turned beet red and he gritted his teeth together, baring them. I thought he was going to take a swing at me. I wanted
him to. That would give me the opportunity to swing back, something I had wanted to do for years.
But he stepped away. Looked at my Honda. I heard him breathing hard, working the muscles of his mouth into a sneer. “One of these days, I’m gonna tell you something. Man, it’s going to blow your mind.”
“Yeah?” I said, not knowing what else to say.
He pointed to my car, and I could see a little glimmer of metal in the streetlight. “Looks like you might have kicked up a stone or something on the highway. You could try to buff the scratch out, or a dab of the right paint will take care of it.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
“I only ever wanted to help you, kid. No matter what you wanted.”
“Sure you did.”
“We’ll get the guy who got your buddy. We’re cops. We’re the good guys.”
He stepped into his car, parked on the corner, and started it up. As he pulled away, I realized I’d been warned off two different cases by two different people in one day. It was something to put on the résumé. Too bad Martin didn’t come carrying cash. I would have taken it from him just as easily as I had from the hoods. I made it up to my apartment and found my bed.
***
Six in the morning, someone was buzzing on the intercom. I stumbled out of bed, in boxers and a T-shirt, and found the speaker. I asked my visitor to identify himself.
“This is Detective Daniels, Mr. Donne. Detective Blanchett is with me. Can we come up?”
“Sure,” I said. “Apartment Two Thirty-seven.”
I hit the buzzer and went to find another shirt and a pair of jeans. Minutes later, I was opening the door for the two detectives.
Daniels had one of those Styrofoam trays with three cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in her hands. Blanchett looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep since I’d last seen him, bags under his eyes, unshaven. Daniels looked great. Her eyes were sparkling and aware, pressed suit, crisp and professional.