Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
53
“Why don’t you ask him at the club where he works?”
“I don’t want to interrupt his work, ma’am. Might be awkward for him.”
“Awkward,” she scoffed. “Since when—oh, never mind. You can most likely find him downtown on Tonopah Blvd. He plays piano in a club called Blackout there till closing. Then he goes on to another club near Fremont. A white club.”
“Thank you, Miss Rivers.”
“I’ll tell Barry you were around asking, in case you miss him,” Miss Rivers called after me.
I swear there was a malicious note in her voice, and I knew it was no use asking her not to mention that I had been there. With neighbors like her on your side, there’s not much chance of taking your suspect by surprise. Which was probably a good thing for Jazz, not so much for me.
I realized when she said downtown, she meant downtown in the north side, not downtown Las Vegas. And judging from the name, I was betting that Blackout was a black club.
And speaking of which, it sounded like maybe Jazz was a betting man. Suddenly it all made sense what Miss Rivers had said about me being there to collect. I wondered whether Jazz would kill a woman for money if he got in deep enough. It was another motive, but a dicey one.
I had no evidence for it beyond an inference based on an inflection from a woman I didn’t know. Aside from the fact that the killer left the jewelry behind too; any experienced thief would have taken it on the off chance.
I drifted by the Blackout Club and parked the car a couple blocks down. That’s another way I keep fit; never park right in front of the target. It could leave you without getaway wheels.
Walking down the street, suddenly I thought I knew how it must feel to be black in the army. Or anywhere other than blacktown. I was the only white person I could see, and every person who passed me stared rigidly ahead, not deigning to make eye contact.
54
CATT FORD
I felt self-conscious. I might have to go into Blackout at some point, but there was no way I could lose myself in a crowd here. Jazz would spot me coming a mile away, and he had the advantage of home turf. If he didn’t want to talk, I might find myself with a music stand wrapped around my neck.
Blacktown was practically the only place in Vegas where closing hours were actually enforced. Reggie would never admit that the cops had quotas, but if they were short a few arrests, they had a tendency to drift into the north side. Black men couldn’t afford to fight back, and most of them were probably used to the occasional night in the hoosegow. Then everyone went home happy, at least if you were a cop.
Maybe the colored fellas were just happy to be going home at all.
I glanced in the windows as I walked by the club. Business was slow, seeing as it was only the middle of the day, but Jazz was there, picking out a sad tune on the piano.
It’s hard to judge a book by its cover, and he was a big, powerful man, almost as big as Captain Billy Woods, but he just seemed so sad.
Not the usual reaction of a crazed killer, and anyone who would strangle a woman had to be a little bit crazy. Or maybe it was the guilt weighing him down.
I hoofed it back to the heap and headed for my office. I had stuff to think about. I wondered what stories Phil Martin could tell me about his piano player. I wondered what a girl like Marguerite Saint-Ville was doing singing in a secret club in a deserted warehouse district. If she wanted to be a dancer or a singer, why wasn’t she hanging around stage doors or using Lily McIntyre’s name to get some big-name choreographer to give her another job? Heck, she was pretty enough to go to Hollywood. And what did Miss Tina think about this white girl horning in on her turf? It seemed like a good idea to have a chat with her at some point.
I wondered if the photos Reggie had to show me were going to lead anywhere. But most of all I wondered about Miss Lily McIntyre. I had
53
“Why don’t you ask him at the club where he works?”
“I don’t want to interrupt his work, ma’am. Might be awkward for him.”
“Awkward,” she scoffed. “Since when—oh, never mind. You can most likely find him downtown on Tonopah Blvd. He plays piano in a club called Blackout there till closing. Then he goes on to another club near Fremont. A white club.”
“Thank you, Miss Rivers.”
“I’ll tell Barry you were around asking, in case you miss him,” Miss Rivers called after me.
I swear there was a malicious note in her voice, and I knew it was no use asking her not to mention that I had been there. With neighbors like her on your side, there’s not much chance of taking your suspect by surprise. Which was probably a good thing for Jazz, not so much for me.
I realized when she said downtown, she meant downtown in the north side, not downtown Las Vegas. And judging from the name, I was betting that Blackout was a black club.
And speaking of which, it sounded like maybe Jazz was a betting man. Suddenly it all made sense what Miss Rivers had said about me being there to collect. I wondered whether Jazz would kill a woman for money if he got in deep enough. It was another motive, but a dicey one.
I had no evidence for it beyond an inference based on an inflection from a woman I didn’t know. Aside from the fact that the killer left the jewelry behind too; any experienced thief would have taken it on the off chance.
I drifted by the Blackout Club and parked the car a couple blocks down. That’s another way I keep fit; never park right in front of the target. It could leave you without getaway wheels.
Walking down the street, suddenly I thought I knew how it must feel to be black in the army. Or anywhere other than blacktown. I was the only white person I could see, and every person who passed me stared rigidly ahead, not deigning to make eye contact.
54
CATT FORD
I felt self-conscious. I might have to go into Blackout at some point, but there was no way I could lose myself in a crowd here. Jazz would spot me coming a mile away, and he had the advantage of home turf. If he didn’t want to talk, I might find myself with a music stand wrapped around my neck.
Blacktown was practically the only place in Vegas where closing hours were actually enforced. Reggie would never admit that the cops had quotas, but if they were short a few arrests, they had a tendency to drift into the north side. Black men couldn’t afford to fight back, and most of them were probably used to the occasional night in the hoosegow. Then everyone went home happy, at least if you were a cop.
Maybe the colored fellas were just happy to be going home at all.
I glanced in the windows as I walked by the club. Business was slow, seeing as it was only the middle of the day, but Jazz was there, picking out a sad tune on the piano.
It’s hard to judge a book by its cover, and he was a big, powerful man, almost as big as Captain Billy Woods, but he just seemed so sad.
Not the usual reaction of a crazed killer, and anyone who would strangle a woman had to be a little bit crazy. Or maybe it was the guilt weighing him down.
I hoofed it back to the heap and headed for my office. I had stuff to think about. I wondered what stories Phil Martin could tell me about his piano player. I wondered what a girl like Marguerite Saint-Ville was doing singing in a secret club in a deserted warehouse district. If she wanted to be a dancer or a singer, why wasn’t she hanging around stage doors or using Lily McIntyre’s name to get some big-name choreographer to give her another job? Heck, she was pretty enough to go to Hollywood. And what did Miss Tina think about this white girl horning in on her turf? It seemed like a good idea to have a chat with her at some point.
I wondered if the photos Reggie had to show me were going to lead anywhere. But most of all I wondered about Miss Lily McIntyre. I had
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