Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 6

BEN STOOD ON his tiptoes and stretched up to adjust the center stage light. He had to stand on the piano bench to reach it. The overhead light was about the same width as the baby grand Ben played. It was flat and square and, thanks to some rusty wheels that did not easily roll down the guide track, a real pain in the butt to move. Unfortunately, it was the only overhead on center stage, and it always seemed to be shining down somewhere behind and to the left of the piano, which was not a heck of a lot of help to Ben when he needed to read his set notes.

He placed both hands on the closest edge and tried to yank the light toward him.

“Ben, stop that!”

It was Earl, and he was scowling. He’d been pacing maniacally, and it was still more than an hour before the club opened and the anniversary show began. “Ain’t I told you not to mess with that!”

“Ain’t I told you to buy another light?” Ben shot back.

“Can’t afford another light. ’Less you want me to take it outta that chump change I’m payin’ you.”

“How can I possibly play when I can’t even see what my fingers are doing?”

“You don’t watch your fingers play, boy. You jus’ let it happen. You let the music take over.”

“Well then, why don’t we turn out all the lights, and we can all just let the music take over?”

Earl turned about-face without replying.

Ben felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Denny Bachalo—Dr. Denton on the marquee. He played drums in the combo. “Hey, Ben baby. Chill already.”

“Easy for you to say. The drum set is always lit.”

“Cut the bossman some slack, okay?” Denny had long jet-black hair. He always seemed to be wearing the same pair of torn blue jeans and the same NO FEAR T-shirt. “Can’t you see he’s seriously stressed?”

Ben glanced back over his shoulder. Earl had been on edge, pacing and mumbling and generally acting as though the world were coming to an end at any moment. “I don’t get it. He’s had the club for a year and he’s never acted like this before.”

“Yeah, but tonight’s gonna be something else again. Ain’t it, Scat?”

The tall, lean older man idly fingering his saxophone nodded. His actual name was Ernie Morris, but on the club circuit, he was the Scatman. Scatman Morris could run his fingers up and down the sax stick so quickly it was like a scat singer free-falling through the scales.

“Major to-do tonight,” Scat answered, never removing his eyes from the sax. “All the cards on the table. Make-or-break time for this club. Earl’s been in honeymoon land till now. But tonight they’re gonna expect him to show what he can do.”

“Who’s this they?” Ben asked. “You think someone will cover the show?”

Scat nodded. “Major press tonight. The World. The Oklahoman. Word is John Wooley’s going to be out. Maybe James Watts. Maybe even some of the TV babes. Karen Keith. LeAnne Taylor.”

Ben’s head tilted to one side. “Karen Larsen?”

Scat shook his head. “Didn’t hear the name. Why?”

He suddenly looked embarrassed. “Oh, no reason.”

Denny let out a snort. “That’s the third time I’ve heard you mention her name tonight. Have you got a thing for this Larsen woman?”

Ben turned away, his face flushing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Dr. Denton and the Scatman exchanged a long look, followed by a hearty chuckle.

“Where’s Gordo?” Ben asked, changing the subject as nonchalantly as possible. “If he’s late for rehearsal again—”

“Speak of the devil!” The voice boomed out from the back of the club. A moment later, they saw the youngest member of the combo, their lead guitar and sometime bass player, emerging from backstage. “Did ya miss me, Benji?”

He did not smile. “My name is Ben. Benji is a trained dog who appears in sappy children’s films. And you’re late.”

“Sorry, pal. Had a little trouble at home.” Gordo Grant was a punk from the deepest, poorest part of the North Side who had somehow managed to pull himself up and out, send himself through two years at TCC, and teach himself to play guitar licks like nobody’s business. “Gimme a second and I’ll be ready.”

“Fine,” Ben said. “Maybe I can use the time to shed a little light on the subject. You guys wanna help me move this stage light over?”

“Not particularly,” Denny said. “Why?”

“Well, you know what they say. Many hands make lights work.” After checking to make sure Uncle Earl wasn’t watching, he stood up on the piano bench and began grappling with the huge overhead, trying to bring it closer to the piano.

Eventually Gordo was unpacked and Ben had a sliver of light, so they began to play. The first number in their set was their own version of “Sweet Georgia Brown,” mostly arranged by Scat. What began slow and almost balladic gradually picked up steam until, by the final stanzas, it was a full-blown jazz spectacular. They led with it for a reason; it was their best number.

Usually. Tonight, however, it reeked. Denny was dragging the tempo, Ben was botching the syncopation, and even Scat, who was normally flawless, missed a few notes. The song limped to its concluding riff.

“Well,” Gordo said, smiling amiably, “that stank on toast.”

“What’s wrong with us tonight?” Denny called down from the drums. “My grandma plays better than that.”

“It’s nerves,” Scat pronounced, pushing his sunglasses up. “I’ve seen this before. Uncle Earl’s jitters are infectious. S’like some kinda virus.”

“Now wait just one cotton-pickin’ moment.” Ben looked down and saw Earl, his considerable girth winding its way through the tables on the club floor. “Don’t be pushin’ your load off on me. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that pathetic noise I just heard.”

“But you’re the bossman,” Scat answered.

“When you’re good, I’m the bossman,” Earl said. “When you suck gas, you’re on your own.”

Ben grinned. “Scat thinks you’ve infected us with your anxiety about the anniversary show tonight. The reviewers and TV people and all.”

“Aw, hell.” Earl made a little hip-hop and parked his rear on the edge of the stage. “I don’t give two good goddamns about no reviewers or TV people.”

“Then—”

“I got my own reasons.” He paused, obviously debating whether they needed to know any more. “I’m expectin’ a visitor.”

“What’s this?” Denny stepped out from behind his drums, pushing his long hair behind his shoulders. “Would this visitor by any chance be … a woo-man?”

A chorus of oohs and hubba-hubbas drifted across the stage.

“Calm down, you horny devils.” Earl acted casual, but Ben suspected he was anything but. “It ain’t nothin’ like that. This here’s a special woman. From the old days.”

“The old days?” Gordo asked.

“That’s right.” Earl smiled. “The good ol’ days. Back when the jazz scene in Tulsa was really happenin’. Back when Ol’ Uncle Earl still worked his sax. Back when I was tourin’ the wide-open chitlin’ circuit, playin’ juke joints and chicken shacks, roadhouses east to the Carolinas, along the Gulf Coast from Tampa to Galveston, then up to Monroe, Jackson, Shreveport, Texarkana, Dallas, OKC, Tulsa, and of course, that cruelest of all mistresses, New Orleans.”

This was news to Ben. “How long ago was this?”

Earl shrugged. “Oh, ’bout a million and five years. Back when I was makin’ magic with the one and only Professor Hoodoo.”

Professor Hoodoo? Ben had heard the name bandied about before, but he didn’t know anything about him. “Was he a jazz musician?” Ben ventured.

“Was he a jazz musician?” Earl shot back. “The boy wants to know if Professor Hoodoo was a jazz musician. You tell him, Scat.”

Scat cleared his throat. “He was the jazz musician. He was the man what put us all to shame. Until the day he laid down his sugar stick for the last time, he was the king.”

“ ’Fraid I don’t know much about this funksterator myself,” Gordo said. “What’s his story?”

Earl closed his eyes. “Professor Hoodoo was a giant. He towered over the rest of us, leavin’ us in the wake of his mighty strides. When he played, everybody listened—like they had no choice. His music commanded attention. He could take a two-bit tune by some Tin Pan Alley hack and make it burn like lightnin’! He could make it somethin’ it never was, somethin’ better than anybody’d ever thought it could be, because the music came from inside him. He was one of the special ones, one of the men who’s born with it, one of the chosen few who’s got music burnin’ in their brains and no holes in their souls.” He paused, wiping his brow. “When Professor Hoodoo played, you heard the truth, and you heard it from the man who knew, ’cause he’d been there. He’d lived it.”

Earl leaned against the stage, his eyes still closed. “ ’Course that was twenty-plus years ago. It’s all jus’ a memory now.”

“What happened to him?” Ben asked.

Earl drew in his breath, then released it all at once, in a heavy sigh. “The world happened to him, son. Like it always does to genius. Other people’s petty needs and ambitions came weighin’ down on his shoulders. Some folks didn’t care for a black man doin’ so well. Some wanted to take him out of the clubs and move him up—give him hotel gigs and TV spots. Make him the white man’s be-bopper.” Earl paused meaningfully. “Sometimes he got his heart broke. ’Course, that happens to everyone. But when the Professor’s heart broke, it was like he felt the pain of every broken romance in the world, like he could feel all our pain. Small wonder he needed salvation. Small wonder he began to develop … bad habits.”

“You mean—”

“By the time I played with him, he was a man carryin’ many burdens. His color. His habit. And his genius. All of them burdens, all of them things this old world treats none too kindly. Any fool could see he couldn’t carry that load forever. Eventually, somethin’ had to break. But through it all, the Professor played like an angel, like the angels wish they could play. Small wonder they called him home. I expect that celestial choir never heard licks like the ones Professor Hoodoo brought with him.”

“Then he’s—”

“Yeah.” Earl slowly opened his eyes. “He’s gone. And the sad part is, he never made a recording. We’ve got no record of what that man could do. Except the record a few of us keep locked up in our memories. And in our souls. Right, Scat?”

Scat nodded gravely. “That’s right, Earl.”

Earl pushed off the edge of the stage. “But you boys ain’t so sorry yourself. You just ain’t in the groove yet. You’ve let too many other things distract you from the truth. Remember that’s all you got to do when you’re up there playin’. Just make your music, and make it the truth.”

His head dropped, and Ben could swear he saw traces of moisture glimmering in the corners of Earl’s eyes. “So you play that number again, you hear? From the top. But this time, you let the Professor’s spirit guide you. You play it for him. ’Cause when you play for Professor Hoodoo—you got no choice. You got to play the truth.”

The truth was, he was too old for this kind of work.

Or felt too old, anyway. He dropped his bundle onto the floor, just outside the club. He was dripping with sweat; his hands were so wet he could hardly hold on to the rug.

Man alive! Next time he thought up some elaborate fonky-monkey business, he’d think again. Simple was good, he reminded himself. Like in jazz and geometry—the straight line is best.

He peered through the window of the double doors in the front of the club. It was mostly empty. A couple of the band members were on the stage, but he could tell they were finishing up. Soon the coast would be clear.

Since he was alone, he took the opportunity to roll down the rug a bit and take one last look at his once-glorious bundle.

There was something wrong with her face; it only took him a moment to recall what it was. Of course—he’d forgotten her smile. He had meant to address this earlier; the smile was very important. But with all the trouble he’d had moving her, he’d almost forgotten.

After checking to make sure no one was watching, he pulled his long serrated knife out of its sheath. She was long dead, so there would be no bleeding; that was a relief, anyway.

He took a deep breath. The first incision was the hardest. Best to get it over with.

As he laid his knife against her icy flesh, he found himself involuntarily squinching his eyes shut. What do you know? he thought to himself. After all he had done, he still had some sensitivity. He could still be squeamish. Especially when it came to her. Especially when it came to her.

But enough of this foolishness. He had work to do.

He closed his eyes and began to carve.