murdered.”
The mulatto choked on the smoke he was inhaling. He coughed the drag out, dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, rasping, “Who you think did it?”
Danny said, “Not you, not the Sultans. Let’s try this one: was Goines feeding a habit?”
“Say what?”
“Don’t play dumb. Junk, H, horse, a fucking heroin habit.”
The manager took a step backward. “I don’t hire no god-damned hopheads.”
“Sure you don’t, just like you don’t serve hijack booze. Let’s try this: Marty and women.”
“Never heard nothing one way or the other.”
“How about enemies? Guys with a hard-on for him?”
“Nothing.”
“What about friends, known associates, men coming around asking for him?”
“No, no and no . Marty didn’t even have no family.”
Danny shifted gears with a smile—an interrogation technique he practiced in front of his bedroom mirror. “Look, I’m sorry I came on so strong.”
“No, you ain’t.”
Danny flushed, hoping the crazy lighting didn’t pick it up. “Have you got a man watching the parking lot?”
“No.”
“Do you remember a green Buick in the lot last night?”
“No.”
“Do your kitchen workers hang out in the lot?”
“Man, my kitchen people is too busy to hang out anyplace.”
“What about your hostesses? They sell it outside after you close?”
“Man, you are out of your bailiwick and way out of line.”
Danny elbowed the mulatto aside and threaded his way through the dinner crowd to the bandstand. The Sultans saw him coming and exchanged looks: cop-wise, experienced . The drummer quit arranging his gear; the trumpeter backed off and stood by the curtains leading backstage; the saxophone man stopped adjusting his mouthpiece and stood his ground.
Danny stepped onto the platform, blinking against the hot white light shining down. He sized up the sax as the boss and decided on a soft tack—his interrogation was playing to a full house. “Sheriff’s. It’s about Marty Goines.”
The drummer answered him. “Marty’s clean. Just took the cure.”
A lead—if it wasn’t one ex-con running interference for another. “I didn’t know he had a habit.”
The sax player snorted. “Years’ worth, but he kicked.”
“Where?”
“Lex. Lexington State Hospital in Kentucky. This about Marty’s parole?”
Danny stepped back so he could eyeball all three men in one shot. “Marty got snuffed last night. I think he was snatched from around here right after your midnight set.”
Three clean reactions: the trumpeter scared, most likely afraid of cops on general principles; the drummer trembling; the sax man spooked, but coming back mad. “We all gots alibis, ’case you don’t already know.”
Danny thought: RIP Martin Mitchell Goines. “I know, so let’s try the usual drill. Did Marty have any enemies that you know of? Woman trouble? Old dope buddies hanging around?”
The sax said, “Marty was a fuckin’ cipher. All I knew about him was that he hung up his Quentin parole, that he was so hot to kick he went to Lex as a fuckin’ absconder. Big balls if you asks me—that’s a Fed hospital, and they mighta run warrant checks on him. Fuckin’ cipher. None of us even knew where he was stayin’.”
Danny kicked the skinny around and watched the trumpet player inch over from the curtains, holding his horn like it was a ikon to ward off demons. He said, “Mister, I think I got something for you.”
“What?”
“Marty told me he had to meet a guy after the midnight set, and I saw him walking across the street to the Zombie parking lot.”
“Did he mention a name?”
“No, just a guy.”
“Did he say anything else about him? What they were going to do—anything like that?”
“No, and he said he’d be coming right back.”
“Do you think he was going to buy dope?”
The saxophone player bored into Danny with blue eyes lighter than his own brown ones. “Man, I fuckin’ told you Marty was clean, and intended to
The mulatto choked on the smoke he was inhaling. He coughed the drag out, dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, rasping, “Who you think did it?”
Danny said, “Not you, not the Sultans. Let’s try this one: was Goines feeding a habit?”
“Say what?”
“Don’t play dumb. Junk, H, horse, a fucking heroin habit.”
The manager took a step backward. “I don’t hire no god-damned hopheads.”
“Sure you don’t, just like you don’t serve hijack booze. Let’s try this: Marty and women.”
“Never heard nothing one way or the other.”
“How about enemies? Guys with a hard-on for him?”
“Nothing.”
“What about friends, known associates, men coming around asking for him?”
“No, no and no . Marty didn’t even have no family.”
Danny shifted gears with a smile—an interrogation technique he practiced in front of his bedroom mirror. “Look, I’m sorry I came on so strong.”
“No, you ain’t.”
Danny flushed, hoping the crazy lighting didn’t pick it up. “Have you got a man watching the parking lot?”
“No.”
“Do you remember a green Buick in the lot last night?”
“No.”
“Do your kitchen workers hang out in the lot?”
“Man, my kitchen people is too busy to hang out anyplace.”
“What about your hostesses? They sell it outside after you close?”
“Man, you are out of your bailiwick and way out of line.”
Danny elbowed the mulatto aside and threaded his way through the dinner crowd to the bandstand. The Sultans saw him coming and exchanged looks: cop-wise, experienced . The drummer quit arranging his gear; the trumpeter backed off and stood by the curtains leading backstage; the saxophone man stopped adjusting his mouthpiece and stood his ground.
Danny stepped onto the platform, blinking against the hot white light shining down. He sized up the sax as the boss and decided on a soft tack—his interrogation was playing to a full house. “Sheriff’s. It’s about Marty Goines.”
The drummer answered him. “Marty’s clean. Just took the cure.”
A lead—if it wasn’t one ex-con running interference for another. “I didn’t know he had a habit.”
The sax player snorted. “Years’ worth, but he kicked.”
“Where?”
“Lex. Lexington State Hospital in Kentucky. This about Marty’s parole?”
Danny stepped back so he could eyeball all three men in one shot. “Marty got snuffed last night. I think he was snatched from around here right after your midnight set.”
Three clean reactions: the trumpeter scared, most likely afraid of cops on general principles; the drummer trembling; the sax man spooked, but coming back mad. “We all gots alibis, ’case you don’t already know.”
Danny thought: RIP Martin Mitchell Goines. “I know, so let’s try the usual drill. Did Marty have any enemies that you know of? Woman trouble? Old dope buddies hanging around?”
The sax said, “Marty was a fuckin’ cipher. All I knew about him was that he hung up his Quentin parole, that he was so hot to kick he went to Lex as a fuckin’ absconder. Big balls if you asks me—that’s a Fed hospital, and they mighta run warrant checks on him. Fuckin’ cipher. None of us even knew where he was stayin’.”
Danny kicked the skinny around and watched the trumpet player inch over from the curtains, holding his horn like it was a ikon to ward off demons. He said, “Mister, I think I got something for you.”
“What?”
“Marty told me he had to meet a guy after the midnight set, and I saw him walking across the street to the Zombie parking lot.”
“Did he mention a name?”
“No, just a guy.”
“Did he say anything else about him? What they were going to do—anything like that?”
“No, and he said he’d be coming right back.”
“Do you think he was going to buy dope?”
The saxophone player bored into Danny with blue eyes lighter than his own brown ones. “Man, I fuckin’ told you Marty was clean, and intended to
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