Done for a Dime (13 page)

“It still feels like I’m on something.” She held her head. “And my memory, it’s like it’s gone crazy, or stuck.”

Stluka shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, then leaned back against the wall again, hands in his pockets. The look on his face said:
This is worthless
.
This
, meaning me, she thought.

“There are times,” Murchison said, “especially when danger’s involved, or violence, or something particularly horrible has happened, when we—I mean police here—we just react. And trying after the fact to put into words or even figure out what we did can be almost impossible. It’s the way the mind works. The part that explains isn’t the part that reacts. So I think I understand how hard it is for you, trying to tell us what happened. And why.”

“Thank you,” Nadya whispered.

“Are you aware you called nine-one-one?” Murchison asked.

“I did?”

He smiled. “You didn’t say much. I listened to the call-ins before we came over. Yours was first. Pretty frantic. You dropped the phone.”

Nadya shook her head, blinking. “I’m not helping, am I.”

“What the paramedics think, you ran out to the yard, tried to give the victim mouth-to-mouth, got a face full of blood, and probably watched as Mr. Carlisle died right in front of you.” He reached out and gently tapped her bandaged arm with his finger. “Then you went back to the front porch and did this to yourself, until help arrived.”

Her throat gave up on her again. The coppery scent became a taste and she felt her eyes swimming in their sockets. Neither of the detectives moved toward the door. They wouldn’t be calling for the nurse this time.

“Your memory a blank about all that?”

She steadied her eyes, glanced up into Murchison’s face, wanting to say,
Help me.

Behind him, in a voice like a face slap, Stluka asked, “You know a guy named Francis Templeton?”

Murchison’s eyes went strangely blank, as though a switch had gone off.

“Yes.” So hard to get the word out.

“Know where he might be?”

Murchison, gentler, added, “If he were in trouble, where would Francis go?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“Where would he go?” Stluka asked.

Nadya glanced from one man to the other. Something was going on between them, a competition of some sort. Or maybe she was making it up. Like everything else.

“There was a fight at the club. In Emeryville. Three men followed us to our car. Has anyone told you that?”

The minute they’d entered the bar, Nadya felt a pair of eyes on them. Dapper old black man, young white girl, you had to expect that. No worse lie on earth than the one you heard on right-wing radio:
post-racist America.
But these eyes went beyond even that. They shot out from beneath blond bangs, the boy ham-faced but hard—twenty-something with a pseudo-Celt tattoo on his neck, tiny ears, and a preciously crude haircut. He had friends with him, a foursome. One had dyed black hair and a vampire pallor, drumming his fingers on the bar as he ogled the chest on a woman three stools down. The other two faced away, each of them broad and thick-necked, with close-cropped hair.

They were strangely out of place, given the rest of the crowd—by and large a college mix, the guys animated and smart with their first ventures into facial hair, the girls even smarter and vaguely depressed and clustered in chatty groups. Nadya’s eyes held the blond’s for several seconds, till his glance moved on. Following it, she saw that now it was Toby’s father staring back at him. In response, a smile played on the young tough’s lips. The smile did not say,
Hello.
It said,
Any time.

A voice broke through the crowd noise: “Strong Carlisle. Am I right?”

The man sailed in from out of nowhere. He was tall and good-looking, with pale blue eyes and thick brown hair combed straight back. Even his stubble looked well considered. He offered his hand. “Grady Bradshaw.”

Wary, Toby’s father practically sniffed the air. “Do I know—”

“I saw The Mighty Firefly play a Juneteenth gig on Lake Merritt last year. Or no, two years ago. Two years. That’s right.”

Toby’s father finally accepted the outstretched hand and shook it politely.

“That was a hell of a show.” The man’s voice was full of good graces, but his eyes remained strangely cool. “Nobody blows like that anymore.”

“You’re very kind.”

“I still remember you counting off those tunes.”

He recited songs he remembered from the Mighty Firefly playlist—Joe Morris’s “Weasel Walk,” Arnett Cobb’s “Mr. Pogo,” King Curtis’s “Honeydripper”—rattling them off so fast it was like listening to Willie Dixon’s “Song Title Jive.” When he got to “Okie Dokie Stomp,” Toby’s father cut in.

“You know your tunes. Either you’re a freak for fifties big band blues or you’re in the business.”

“Promotion. I’m an indie. Carmen DiCarlo, she’s one of my acts.”

The look in Toby’s father’s eye said,
Aha. The enemy
. “This that new brand of payola you hear so much about?”

The promoter’s smile faltered just a bit. “It’s nothing like that, really.”

“That’s good to hear. Really. Back to the tunes you were running down, ‘Okie Dokie Stomp,’ yeah, that was our flag-waver. Cornell Dupree number. Original had Seldon Powell on the baritone. That’s my horn.”

“Oh, I know.”

“We did a Mingus number, too. ‘Moanin’.’ Everybody got to stretch out on that one, even me. Crowd went crazy. Maybe you recall.”

The younger man’s eyes jittered with face-saving calculation. Despite herself, Nadya made a nervous little chirp at mention of the Mingus tune.

“And who is this?” The man seemed thankful for something else to talk about. His face recovered its blank good humor.

“This is Nadya, my son’s young lady.”

Offering his hand, Grady Bradshaw eyed her up and down. She’d changed into a cowl neck sweater, a short pleated skirt, black hose. He seemed taken by the outfit. Nadya half expected his fingers to slither up her arm.

“Your son,” Grady said, his eyes returning to Toby’s father. “I’d have thought he’d be playing with you in The Mighty Firefly.”

Nadya couldn’t tell whether this was a compliment or a dare. Toby’s father answered back with a wicked smile, “Toby needs about five more years of practice, and forty more years of being screwed by the music business, to earn a chair in The Mighty Firefly.”

The man laughed too quickly. Too loud. As though quoting his favorite bumper sticker, he said, “Gotta pay your dues, you wanna play the blues.”

Inwardly Nadya cringed. What would you know about it, she thought. To save them all, she said, “I think the band’s starting.”

At the bar, the four hoods continued their haul at the tap. The same meaty blond sat watching them.

Toby’s father extended his hand. “I thank you for flattering a vain old man.”

“Not at all.”

Grady Bradshaw melted back into the crowd. Once he was gone, Toby’s father said, “You didn’t like that fella.”

It was embarrassing sometimes how little slipped by him. “Yes, well, you didn’t, either.”

“If there was a game show for guys who bragged about getting laid anytime they wanted, he’d be the host.” He gestured for her to lead the way back to the dance floor. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way he looked at you. I mean, girl, you gotta admit, that skirt you’re in—barely covers your home life. Any shorter, it’d be a hat.”

They came out from the bar to find Toby’s band assembled onstage at the far end of the echoing room, beneath the lights. The music started—Booker Ervin’s “East Dallas Special.” The song cried out for dancers, but only a handful moved forward in the dark. Mostly the crowd, larger now, preferred to wander the vast dance floor, chatting, drinking.

Peering through bodies in the dim light, Nadya thought she spotted friends of the band in front. She wanted to move up, join them. Toby’s father resisted, gesturing that he wanted to hang back. He motioned for her to go on ahead.

“No.” To disguise her worry, she took a sip of her drink. “I’d rather stay with you.”

He began searching the crowd, too. Nadya suspected he was looking for Toby’s mother, Felicia—he’d been warned she wasn’t coming, some church function, but apparently he’d held out hope regardless. By the time his eyes returned to the bandstand they had an ugliness in them. His jaw set hard, he downed his drink in one swallow.

Onstage, Francis stepped forward on tenor to announce the theme and claim the chorus, building his solo from climbing triplets that ended in a scream. Snapping to, Toby’s father shouted, “Yeah! Get
on
it!” Kids standing near him shrank away. “What is wrong with you people?” Sweat broke out on his face. He tugged at his collar, licked his lips.

Nadya touched his sleeve. “Do you need some air?”

He waved her off as “East Dallas Special” ended to scattered cheers. A round of boos erupted as well, deep within the bar. Toby’s father spun toward the sound. Before Nadya knew what was happening he was moving. She grabbed at his sleeve, but he shook her off, making her follow as the septet launched into the next tune, Cannonball Adderley’s “Sack o’ Woe.”

He charged through the crowd into the packed bar, dodging the clustered groups that provided cover for his approach. Grady Bradshaw stood with his back to the room, addressing the four roughnecks, some kind of argument. As Nadya rushed up behind she heard them shouting over each other.

“—any your business?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Hey, chilluns. Look who’s back. Spook Ellington.”

Toby’s father came up on Grady Bradshaw fast and yanked him around. “Two-faced son of a bitch.” He caught him quick with a straight flat shot to the bridge of his nose. It landed like a hammer. Grady’s head jerked back, his knees buckled. Threads of blood spumed everywhere.

Toby’s father got jumped from behind by someone in the crowd and locked into a bear hug. The man was young, large, and soft, with darkish skin but whitish features. Grady howled through bloody hands, “What the fuck is
wrong
with you?” Nadya tried to step in, get the man with his arms locked around Toby’s father to let go as the four hoods shot up off their stools, grateful for the excuse.

Still wrapped tight in the big stranger’s arms, Toby’s father managed to duck two punches and caught one on the shoulder that was meant for his head, the whole time kicking wild. Nadya screamed, the sound barely audible above the crowd noise and music. Onlookers in the bar shrank back. The bartender barged in from the perimeter, gripping a golf club like a baton and shoving everybody apart. “That’s it! Over! It’s over!”

The hold around him loosened, Toby’s father circled fast and delivered a quick jab to the eye of the soft, bearish stranger who’d held him. The young man crumpled. Toby’s father got a good kick in before the bartender grabbed him by the scruff, dragging him off.

“The fuck I say?” the bartender said.

Toby’s father tore free, shook off the punches he’d taken. His skin glistened with sweat. “You’re goddamn lucky you got something in your hand.”

Grady Bradshaw, his back against the bar, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and applied it to his face. Toby’s father pointed. “Get religion, motherfucker. Insult my son—”

Grady Bradshaw just shook his head, perplexed, disgusted.

“You’re outta here,” the bartender said.

“Yeah, yeah.” Toby’s father snatched his beret from the floor and reached out for Nadya’s hand. “Let’s catch the rest of the set.” He started toward the dance floor, but the bartender grabbed him by the scruff again, dragged him through the crowd to a side exit beyond the bar, saying, “No, no, no, old man. Not a chance.”

The door banged hard against the iron rail of the landing. Toby’s father shook himself free. “I’ll walk.” He squared himself, framed by the doorway. “One man against five, you kick the one out first.”

“You started it.”

“Kick the nigger out first.”

“Yeah, yeah. Here it comes.”

“This is about your motherfucking tip, ain’t it?” Toby’s father jammed a hand into his pocket, withdrew a few bills, and tossed them at the bartender’s feet. “There. Now I’m going back inside to hear my boy.”

“Like hell. You’re gonna pick up your fucking litter is what you’re gonna do. And I see your ass inside this bar again, you’ll sleep it off in Santa Rita.”

Nadya squeezed through the doorway past the bartender to join Toby’s father. She took his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

Toby’s father stood his ground. “Send out your boys. We’ll finish this up right.” For the sake of finality, he spat at the bartender’s feet, but the man had already turned away.

Nadya, tugging his arm, led Toby’s father down the metal steps as the door slammed shut. Their steps rang loud on the metal, then softened to a flagging thud on the asphalt. They were halfway through the parking lot as, back inside, “Sack o’ Woe” ended to polite applause.

“No use in bein’ scared.” He lurched beside her toward the car. “You want to be with my son, about time you learned what it’s like.”

She looked back over her shoulder, quickening her pace. He stumbled as they turned down the alley where the car was parked.

“Please,” she said. “Try.”

He shook free of her hold. “Don’t you start with the weepy, boo-hoo bullshit again. Damn, girl. Cried enough already tonight.” He adjusted his coat collar, shook his head to clear it. Not far away the freeway roared with traffic. “Besides, you ain’t the one gonna take the ass kickin’ regardless.”

They were maybe fifty yards from the car. The shout Nadya had been fearing came from behind, at the far end of the alley. One word: “Hey!”

Three silhouettes, lined up beneath the streetlights.

Nadya pulled at Toby’s father’s sleeve. “Hurry.”

He pulled back his arm. “Not my style.”

Nadya shot another glance back, saw the three shapes closing. Why just three, she wondered. Which one had stayed behind? Or was he circling around behind them somewhere? She turned and ran, leaving Toby’s father where he stood, gaping at her, dumbfounded. She reached the car, got in, and fired up the engine. Toby’s father spun one direction, then the next, looking back at the three punks closing in from behind, then around again at Nadya.