I couldn’t be arrested for having no visible means of support, but I’d feel awfully stupid if I lost it. I headed for the bank.
Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
51
I enjoyed the feeling of peeling a bunch of Cs off my bundle before I deposited it. The state of my bank balance was a whole lot healthier than my state of mind when I left, as in no longer at zero.
Reggie had asked me to lay off his boyfriend, or at least his crush, and the deal was that I got to see the photos. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t deliver, but it opened a window of opportunity for me. Time to take a look at Jazz Morgan. I headed for a phone booth to consult the book.
HE LIVED on the north side in the Negro section, of course, on Jefferson, past the open sports field, the cemetery, and the high school.
It was nice enough there. The houses might be small, but you could see they cared about their neighborhood. It was well kept.
There was no Jazz or J Morgan listed in the book, but there were five Morgans of various names and initials, so I took them one at a time. Where I went, I knocked, but no one answered, despite the fact that I saw the curtains twitch at the second place. But I could understand that. A white guy standing on your doorstep in blacktown could only mean trouble.
It surprised me to find that Jazz Morgan owned a house instead of living in a rented room somewhere. Maybe tickling the ivories paid better than I suspected, or maybe it had more to do with who he worked for. It was a small house, a Spanish-style bungalow, and when I rang the bell, there was no answer. Of course, I didn’t know for sure it was his yet.
“He’s not at home,” I heard a woman’s voice say.
I turned around to take a look. The woman who was peering at me from over the porch railing next door might have been Lily McIntyre’s age, but she’d lived a much harder life. Not that she was ugly. Her lined face was beautiful and kind, but her hair was grey, and her clothing was plain. She wore sensible shoes, something I couldn’t imagine Lily doing no matter how much her feet hurt.
52
CATT FORD
“Do you know where I could find him?” I came closer to her porch. She didn’t get up. I liked that.
“That would depend on who was looking for him,” she said. “You don’t often see a white man in blacktown. Unless you’re a cop.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
I grinned, thinking of Lieutenant Steele having a nice little fit of apoplexy if he heard someone mistake me for a cop. “No cop, Mrs.—?”
“Miss Rivers,” she said.
“Grey Randall,” I said, holding out my hand. She leaned forward to take my hand in a firm grasp and shook, very dignified.
“You’re not here to collect, are you?”
She must have seen the confusion on my face.
“Collect what?”
“You’re not from—no, of course you’re not. My mistake. But I can tell you’re no powder puff. What do you want with Barry?”
“Barry? Sorry to disturb you, I must have the wrong place. I’m looking for a fella named Jazz Morgan.”
“That’s Barry. Jazz is his nickname. Why do you want to see him?”
I could have come up with a cover story, but this lady was shrewd enough to see through a quick lie. I decided it might buy me more to come clean. “I’m a private investigator, ma’am, looking into the murder of Miss Marguerite Saint-Ville. I understand Jazz Morgan knew her.”
She decided I was telling the truth. “Barry didn’t do it, no matter what anyone told you. None of this black man assaulting an irresistible white woman nonsense. I’ve known him since he was a boy, and he’s not like that.”
I wondered if she knew just exactly how much not like that he was, depending on whether Reggie was right about him. “I just wanted to ask Mr. Morgan a couple of questions about her. So far, I’ve spoken with a few people who knew her, and I’m trying to find out what she was like.”
Lily White, Rose Red: Grey
Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
51
I enjoyed the feeling of peeling a bunch of Cs off my bundle before I deposited it. The state of my bank balance was a whole lot healthier than my state of mind when I left, as in no longer at zero.
Reggie had asked me to lay off his boyfriend, or at least his crush, and the deal was that I got to see the photos. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t deliver, but it opened a window of opportunity for me. Time to take a look at Jazz Morgan. I headed for a phone booth to consult the book.
HE LIVED on the north side in the Negro section, of course, on Jefferson, past the open sports field, the cemetery, and the high school.
It was nice enough there. The houses might be small, but you could see they cared about their neighborhood. It was well kept.
There was no Jazz or J Morgan listed in the book, but there were five Morgans of various names and initials, so I took them one at a time. Where I went, I knocked, but no one answered, despite the fact that I saw the curtains twitch at the second place. But I could understand that. A white guy standing on your doorstep in blacktown could only mean trouble.
It surprised me to find that Jazz Morgan owned a house instead of living in a rented room somewhere. Maybe tickling the ivories paid better than I suspected, or maybe it had more to do with who he worked for. It was a small house, a Spanish-style bungalow, and when I rang the bell, there was no answer. Of course, I didn’t know for sure it was his yet.
“He’s not at home,” I heard a woman’s voice say.
I turned around to take a look. The woman who was peering at me from over the porch railing next door might have been Lily McIntyre’s age, but she’d lived a much harder life. Not that she was ugly. Her lined face was beautiful and kind, but her hair was grey, and her clothing was plain. She wore sensible shoes, something I couldn’t imagine Lily doing no matter how much her feet hurt.
52
CATT FORD
“Do you know where I could find him?” I came closer to her porch. She didn’t get up. I liked that.
“That would depend on who was looking for him,” she said. “You don’t often see a white man in blacktown. Unless you’re a cop.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
I grinned, thinking of Lieutenant Steele having a nice little fit of apoplexy if he heard someone mistake me for a cop. “No cop, Mrs.—?”
“Miss Rivers,” she said.
“Grey Randall,” I said, holding out my hand. She leaned forward to take my hand in a firm grasp and shook, very dignified.
“You’re not here to collect, are you?”
She must have seen the confusion on my face.
“Collect what?”
“You’re not from—no, of course you’re not. My mistake. But I can tell you’re no powder puff. What do you want with Barry?”
“Barry? Sorry to disturb you, I must have the wrong place. I’m looking for a fella named Jazz Morgan.”
“That’s Barry. Jazz is his nickname. Why do you want to see him?”
I could have come up with a cover story, but this lady was shrewd enough to see through a quick lie. I decided it might buy me more to come clean. “I’m a private investigator, ma’am, looking into the murder of Miss Marguerite Saint-Ville. I understand Jazz Morgan knew her.”
She decided I was telling the truth. “Barry didn’t do it, no matter what anyone told you. None of this black man assaulting an irresistible white woman nonsense. I’ve known him since he was a boy, and he’s not like that.”
I wondered if she knew just exactly how much not like that he was, depending on whether Reggie was right about him. “I just wanted to ask Mr. Morgan a couple of questions about her. So far, I’ve spoken with a few people who knew her, and I’m trying to find out what she was like.”
Lily White, Rose Red: Grey
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