Drumsticks (15 page)

I looked piercingly at him but said nothing.

I offered my hand to Lenore Benson and thanked her for speaking with us. She delivered her greatest line in reply to that.

She said, “In the end, we all do … don't we?”

It had not gone especially well, to use the kind of delicate euphemism Lenore Benson herself might employ.

I was the one who had talked Sweet into this visit to Payne-Whitney. He had said all along that it wouldn't pay—the shrink had told him on the phone the kind of shape Mrs. Benson was in. The sergeant was in a pretty foul mood now.

I wasn't so bouncy myself.

“
Dan Hinton?”
I said to him angrily when we were out on the street again. “What do you mean pulling his name out of your ass like that? What have you got against him, huh?”

“Look, Cueball, we don't rule out anybody. I could have asked her about your fancy daddy, too, you know.”

I wasn't going to rise to his class-baiting this time. “You could have asked her about Julius Fucking Caesar for all I care. What difference would it make? She probably knows him, too.”

CHAPTER 13

It's Always You

I picked up the ringing telephone just before the machine kicked in.

“Big Legs? Is that you?”

“Roamer?”

Of course it was Roamer McQueen, my very short-lived colleague from the Omega gig. Even if I couldn't place their voices immediately, I could always keep my male acquaintances straight by their pet names for me.

“How're you keeping these days, Big Legs?”

“So-so, Roamer. You know.”

“You know how to cook, girl?”

The question threw me for a minute. Where was this heading? “No complaints that I recall,” I said at last.

“You know how to fix red beans and rice?”

“Forget it.”

“Yeah, I thought as much. Why don't you come out and have something to eat with me.”

“Thanks, but not today.”

“Oh, come on, Nan. It'll make you feel better. I want to take you somewhere and show you off. Down at this place where my nephew cooks.”

I paused before declining a second time. I thought I heard something in his voice, something that made me suspect this invitation wasn't just about home cooking.

“You want to tell me something, am I right?” I said.

“Yeah. We'll talk about it. Keep me company while I get something to eat.”

“All right. Not for too long, though. I gotta get back home.”

“Okay. And bring your horn.”

“Where?” I asked.

Great Jones Street. Off Broadway. That was the
where
. The
what
was called Texaco, a Southern-style restaurant I had never heard of before.

A black man in an expensive-looking gray raincoat stepped up quickly from behind and held the restaurant door open, cruising me like mad as we both walked in. He was my dad's age or older, but his glance was distinctly unfatherly. Why should I be surprised, though, given my current status as male magnet?

I returned the appraising look. He might have been up there in years, but the man had great skin and mesmerizing eyes. And he used them to hold mine for a while. I swear I felt a little erotic kick.

No, I don't have a jones for senior citizens. It's just that, for me, flirtation doesn't have to lead anywhere; it's all about finesse; all about the moment. I mean, I
am
French—sort of. Experience counts for a lot in a man,
n'est-ce pas?
That, and self confidence, which he seemed to have plenty of. It showed in his smile.

The thing that ended our moment was that belted raincoat. Once I got a good look at that, I was through. I don't care how much the thing cost, it always bums me when a man ties the belt on his raincoat that way—tight. I never met a guy who did that who was worth a damn.

“Eating by yourself today?” he asked.

I chuckled. “Not on your life, James Bond.”

Texaco was one of those places desperate to replicate the ambience of a Louisiana lean-to way off Bourbon Street. Big Mama Thornton, Fats Domino, Johnny Ace on the jukebox. Old ads for Dixie Beer and beef jerky. Elvis memorabilia. Irma Thomas's training bra. Shit like that.

Only a few people were eating at tables, but the bar was full. Whole lot of smoking Marlboros and knocking back shots of Wild Turkey was going on. Baskets of hush puppies substituted for the usual free pretzels deal.

I figured Roamer's nephew would be straight out of central casting, too: big around the belly, white apron stained with hot sauce, and regulation gold tooth.

Lost that bet, except for the apron. I was introduced to Carl, who was willowy and rather ethereal looking, with perfectly normal incisors. His belly, incidentally, looked just fine to me. He set me up with some scrambled eggs while Roamer dug into his down-home vittles.

“You getting back on your feet, after that lady was shot like that?” Roamer asked.

“I'm trying. Looks like the story was deeper than even I figured. A cop I know was supposed to help me find out what really happened. But I got pulled into all kinds of crazy stuff. At this point I don't know who's helping who to find out what. It's all kind of fucked up.”

“What are you doing running around trying to play with the cops anyway? That's no job for you.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about—jobs.”

“You mean playing?”

“Yes. I guess I'm going to have to be the bearer of bad news.”

“Oh no.” I put the square of cornbread I was about to butter back into the basket. “What is it?”

“The Omega gig is over. We're history.”

“Damn. I knew it. Something told me you were going to say that.”

“Yeah. They're closing. Brubeck says between the protection money and the taxes and the loans and now this killing, he's had it.”

All I could do was snort. “Mama Lou strikes again. Any idea how you murder a doll, Roamer?”

“Murder a who?”

“Skip it. What are you going to do? You and Hank.”

“That's the other thing I want to tell you. Hank and me are going out west for a couple of months. Cat we used to know is doing good with a little club in L.A. He asked us to come out there. It could turn into something permanent. I don't know.”

“Oh, that's great, Roamer. You must be so happy.”

“Sounds good, doesn't it?”

“Hell yeah.”

“So have you got your passport in order?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Why don't you come on with us?”

I was so moved I could barely answer him. “I'm incredibly flattered. But what about Gene?”

Surely Hank and Roamer were not going to drop their longtime friend Gene Price in favor of me.

“He'll come out when he gets well. The doctor and his old lady have laid down the law to him. He ain't going anywhere just now. See, we figured you'd go on taking Gene's spot. It couldn't hurt you to get a rep out on the west coast. You're unusual enough, being a girl sax and all, maybe it'll bring in the crowds even more. By the time Gene gets out there, you could be doing something else, have your own thing going. Shit, you could be one of them movie stars this time next year. Lots of things could happen for you. Who knows?”

Career decisions. Opportunity knocking. Smart move. Make it happen.

All phrases that were barely part of my vocabulary. Almost as if they weren't ordinary English words.

“God, Roamer, I don't know what to say.”

“Say you're going home to pack your lacy pants and kiss the boys good-bye, Big Legs.”

“But am I good enough to cut it—you guys think I am?”

“You know that old joke, don't you? Practice, honey, practice.”

“When do you have to know?”

“A couple of weeks, I guess. You better think about it, Nan. But not too long.”

I nodded. It was, not counting the Hollywood star thing, a lot to think about. Something else to think about. That's what I needed.

“You look funny,” Roamer said. “If you don't eat that biscuit, I will.”

“Help yourself,” I said. “You know what I was just thinking? Do you know anything about the chitlin circuit? You know, the old black vaudeville acts. I don't mean from way back in the coon show days. I mean like closer to the tail end of that stuff—the fifties and sixties.”

“Moms Mabley and Redd Foxx, and Nipsey Russell,” he said between bites. “Before they let us into Vegas and all.”

I knew those names dimly. I also knew who would have been able to give me chapter and verse on all of them: my old love, Andre, who had dedicated his life to chronicling black entertainers. But he wasn't here. And I probably wouldn't have need of this conversation if he were. Everything would be different.

“I guess I mean people like that,” I said. “Anyway, you never heard of a team called Miller and Priest, did you?”

“Nah. Doesn't ring a bell. Who are they?”

“Too long a story.”

Carl came over to the table then. “Can I hook you up with some more eggs, Nan?”

“No, thanks. They're real good, though. I'm just not hungry. Got a big dinner coming up tonight.”

“Shit,” Roamer snapped. “You're busy tonight, huh?”

I didn't understand why that should annoy him so.

“I thought you and Carl might go out,” he explained.

“Thanks for looking out for me,” Carl said, about three times as embarrassed as I was. He busied himself wiping at the table surface.

“By the way, Roamer, what did you have me bring the horn for? If I dare ask that question.”

“For Carl. I wanted him to hear you. I told you I was gonna show you off. Besides, I don't like the jukebox in here. They always start off with Etta James, but before you know it, it's all the Rolling Stones.”

“I guess you think you're pretty irresistible, Roamer.”

I started with “Trust in Me,” not only one of Etta's great hits but, according to Roamer, his favorite song.

CHAPTER 14

Darn That Dream

The food was good on our second date, too. Only this time we dined in Brooklyn Heights. And Dan Hinton did the cooking.

The small talk—weren't we having luscious cool weather and how attractive his apartment was and didn't I look ravishing tonight—didn't take long. We were soon logging quality time kissing our way through cocktails.

The chicken was superb, not some bachelor fry-up with prepackaged seasonings. The vegetables tasted just-harvested. French bread crisp as a new fifty from the bank. Okay, the napoleons were store-bought, but that didn't stop them from being wonderful too.

Dan had opened the second bottle of wine and it was waiting for us out on the little glass-enclosed deck.

Gorgeous man, gorgeous view, great food and wine, and, if I was any judge, the promise of some memorable sex. Ms. Hayes, semiprofessional hedonist that she is, was a happy girl.

At least that is what she was telling herself. But it wasn't true. It just wasn't true.

For a while there I was blaming Andre.

I found Dan desirable, to say the least. And man did he know where all the light switches were on a woman's body. But he wasn't Andre.

It took a while to realize that wasn't the problem—not all of it, anyway.

But in the meantime, the two of us in one deck chair, Dan and I were delighting in all the preliminaries you could think up.

“I can hardly wait for you, Nan,” he said, the lust in his grin outshining the candles on the table nearby. “You are such a nice big girl.”

Not the least bit insulted, I laughed and asked him why that made him so happy.

He told me, in detail.

“Promise,” I said in reply, shivering a little.

It was marvelous to have a man looking right into my eyes that way, to have a man's hands on me in that way—I mean with tremendous heat and urgency but also with tenderness and a kind of friendship. The love you make with a one-time guy is just not like that.

Dan excused himself a few minutes later: To make sure the sheets were clean? Check the condom supply? Look for the Barry White LP? I chuckled, and took the opportunity to smooth out my skirt and indulge in another slab of stinky cheese.

He took a minute too long.

For it was while I was waiting for him to return, sipping my wine and looking up at the stars, that I began to realize what was bothering me.

Damn that Leman Sweet. Damn him twice.

Dan joined me again, slipped his arm expertly around my waist. “Sky looks incredible tonight, doesn't it?” he said.

I nodded. “Yeah, it does.”

A few angel-light kisses on my ears and neck.

“You do know how to set a mood, don't you, Dan?”

“Well, thanks.”

I wasn't really paying him a compliment.

“Do you read everybody this well?” I asked.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Slowly, slowly, he was retracting his embrace.

“I mean, you seem to have a gift for giving people what they need. Especially women.” That was no compliment either, but this time he caught on.

He waited for a few seconds and then repeated in exactly the same tone: “I don't know what you mean.”

“You know, Dan, when I met you that day at Stephens, my father told me how good you were at your job. How all the kids liked and respected you. I made a quick judgment about you, but then I realized how unfair I was being.”

“What judgment?”

“That you were a compulsive good guy. That you had to make people like you at any cost. You have to be the perfect cool grown-up for the kids. You have to be the perfect employee and son substitute and odd man at the dinner table for my dad. You have to be the perfect liberated husband, the perfect indulgent bourgeois lover for a wild boho like me.”