Extreme Justice

Chapter 14

BEN FILLED YET another Hefty bag full of trash, tied it off, carried it to the back alley, then started back for more. The pile of trash bags spilled out the top of the bin. And they were barely getting started.

They’d only been at it a few hours, but he was already exhausted. In the aftermath of the previous night’s excitement, not to mention the forced incarceration of more than a hundred patrons, the club was a wreck. The police had taped off the stage area and posted an officer to keep everyone out and off. But the rest of the place was a disaster area.

The police had ordered Earl to keep the club closed for several days, until they finished their examination of the crime scene. Still, Earl hoped to be ready to reopen as soon as the police would allow it. Diane had enlisted every person remotely associated with the club to help her clean up the joint. Even with all hands working full-time to put the place back in shape, though, Ben knew it would take days.

He rounded a corner and found two men crouched down near the floor. One of them was Scat; the other he didn’t recognize.

“Ben!” Scat pushed himself up. “I see you’re hard at work.”

“Well, there’s a lot to be done.” Ben glanced awkwardly at the other man, the one he didn’t know. Scat took the hint.

“Ben, I want you to meet someone special.”

Ben smiled at the stranger and extended his hand. He was a tall man, about Scat’s age and in good shape. His hair was close cropped and was just beginning to show traces of gray.

“You remember when Earl and I were talking about Professor Hoodoo?”

Ben nodded. “The greatest jazzman who ever played these parts.”

“That’s the man. Well, this here is the Professor’s brother. Grady Armstrong.”

“Really.” Ben shook his hand vigorously. “Are you a musician, too?” Armstrong shrugged. “That’s what everyone asks. No, I’m just a regular guy. Got me a boring, perfectly ordinary job with an oil company. I’m afraid George got all the talent in the family.”

“What brings you here today?”

“Well, I heard about poor Lily. I’d met her once—you probably know she and my brother were quite close at one time. I just wanted to pay my respects. I called up Scat and asked him to bring me out here. I had hoped to say a word of comfort to Earl—I know he loved Lily, too. But I guess I missed him. So Scat here drafts me into the cleanup brigade.”

Scat chuckled, then slapped the man on the back. “The more the merrier, that’s what I always say.”

Armstrong smiled. “Well, I should be going. But do give Earl my regards. And, Scat—if this anniversary concert ever happens, would you give me a call? I’d—well, I’d kind of like to be here.”

“It’s a promise,” Scat said. “If the concert does happen, it’ll be a tribute. A tribute to the beautiful Cajun Lily. And of course, your brother.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Scat shook his head. “Wasn’t meant to be kind. It’s just a fact. I carry a little piece of the Professor inside of me, you know. Every time I play, I’m playing for him.”

Scat escorted Armstrong to the front door, and Ben resumed his cleaning efforts. He moved to the area just below the stage, where he saw Gordo furiously working with a rag and a spray bottle of 409.

“Tell you what,” Gordo said as Ben approached. “You scrub for a while and I’ll collect the trash.”

“What, just when I’m getting good at it?”

“C’mon, man, this spray stuff is toxic. The fumes are gettin’ me high, and it ain’t a good high, either.”

“All right.” Ben handed Gordo the trash bags. “I’m tired of bending and stooping, anyway. I’m working my way to a premature death.”

“Death is a sweet maiden,” Gordo replied. He bent over and scooped up the remains of some nachos.

Now that was a bizarre remark, Ben thought. Was that some sort of jazzman motto, he wondered? Or something more.

Denny came up behind Ben, feinting about with a broom. He was moving lots of dust and debris around, but Ben noticed that relatively little of it ended up in the dustpan. “How’s it coming?” Ben asked.

“It’s disgusting,” Denny said. “All this dust and dirt and crap. Man, I need a gas mask.”

Ben tried to appear sympathetic, but it took some doing.

“Coming to the poker game tomorrow night, Ben?”

Ben knew that Earl and the rest of the band played poker every Wednesday night, but he’d never joined them. “You’re still going to play?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“I don’t know.” Ben looked down at the floor. “It just seems … disrespectful, somehow.”

“We asked Earl, and he said the show must go on.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. But he said we should dedicate the game to that Lily babe.”

“A memorial poker game?”

“Exactly.” Denny propped the broom against a table. “I need a rest, man. I signed on as a musician, not a chambermaid.”

Theoretically, Ben thought, since Denny was the youngest of them, he ought to have the most energy. That did not appear to be the case, however.

“I guess Earl forgot to include ‘cleaning up after murders’ in the job description,” Ben offered.

“No kidding.” Denny collapsed into a chair, then winced. “My poor little body is sore all over. Sunburn.”

Ben did a double take. “Sunburn? In April?”

“And what of it? You know it’s been hot out.”

“I know it’s been hot, yeah, but I didn’t know it’s been hot enough to give you a sunburn.”

Denny shrugged. “Depends on what you’ve been wearing.”

Ben decided not to pursue this undoubtedly interesting line of thought. “Anyone know where Earl is?”

“Back at the pad,” Denny informed him.

Ben nodded. Earl had an apartment on the back end of the building facing the opposite street. There were no connecting doors between the club and the apartment. It was perfect for Earl; he could live close to work, pay rent to one landlord, but still feel as if he had a life apart from work.

Ben walked outside and around the building. Earl’s front door was open; Ben stepped inside and closed the door. Earl was with the kid Ben had spotted at the club the night before—the one in the flashy African clothes.

The kid appeared to be distressed. “Man, I just can’t get that F to happen.”

Earl patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, son. You’ll get it. Jus’ takes practice, that’s all. Practice, and a little soul.”

“Easy to say.”

“Hey, you got an advantage on most. You already got the soul. I’ve seen some so-called musicians work all their lives and never get it. You were born with it. All you need now is practice.”

Ben looked away, trying to act as if he hadn’t been listening. He couldn’t help wondering if he was one of those so-called musicians.

“Ben!” Earl called out. “I want you to meet Tyrone Jackson. T-Dog, to his street buddies.”

Tyrone shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

Ben shook the young man’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Tyrone here’s been learnin’ to play the sax.”

“Good luck to you,” Ben said. “I never managed to learn anything that required the use of the lips.”

Earl and Tyrone exchanged a look. “We’ll just leave that one alone, Ben.” Earl chuckled heartily. “Ben’s our keyboard for the combo. He’s got a two-hand rhythm style that’ll knock you dead.”

“I know,” Tyrone said. “I’ve seen you play. You do a mean ‘Polka-Dots and Moonbeams.’ ”

Was this sincerity or satire? Ben couldn’t be sure. “Well, thanks.”

“Tyrone’s got some kinda ear for the tunes. Even when he was with the gang, they called him the Music Man.”

“I assume that wasn’t because you were always singing ‘Seventy-six Trombones.’ ”

Tyrone made a snorting noise. “No, man. Back then, I was strictly MTV. I knew all the words to all the tunes. So the homeboys called me the Music Man.”

“Would those homeboys have been the Crips or the Bloods?”

“Matter of fact, Crips. North Side Hoover. You know the gangs?”

“I’ve had some contact with them.”

“Tyrone don’t have nothin’ to do with that no more,” Earl explained hastily. “He’s left all that behind. He’s gonna be a jazzman, right?” He beamed down at Tyrone. “You’re gonna blow.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Ben said. “With any luck, maybe we can get you to join our combo. Keep practicing with Earl and before you—”

Ben was interrupted by a thunderous pounding on the front door. A voice on the other side boomed: “Police!”

Earl looked uneasy. “Uh … whaddaya think they want?” With obvious trepidation, he waddled to the front door and opened it. “Can I help you?”

A plainclothes officer pushed through the opened door, with two uniforms right behind him. “Are you Earl Bonner?”

Earl took several quick steps back. “Y—yes.”

“I’m Lieutenant Prescott,” the plainclothes officer said, whipping out an ID. “I’d like to have a little conversation with you. If you don’t mind.”

Ben groaned. Why did it have to be Prescott? The man was Mike’s archenemy on the force, and for a reason. He was the most incompetent kiss-up ever to work his way onto the detective squad.

“What—what do you wanna talk about?” Earl asked.

“What do you think?” Prescott snapped. “The murder of Lily Campbell.”

“But why me? I didn’t kill no one.”

“Well now, that ain’t true, is it? You did twenty-two years for the murder of one George Armstrong.”

Ben’s eyes flew open to the widest extreme. “What!”

Prescott laid his arm on Earl’s shoulder and lowered him into a chair. “Didn’t think we’d find out, did you? Wrong. And as soon as we ran the M.O. through the computer and got the files out of storage, this case was over.”

“But—that was different—”

“Was it? Allow me to refresh your memory.”

With a sudden flourish, Prescott whipped out a black-and-white glossy photo. Ben didn’t need a detailed explanation to realize this was a picture of a murder victim. He also didn’t require an explanation to tell him what aspect of this victim most interested the police.

In the photo, the black male victim was stretched out across the floor, face up. His body and face had been horribly burned and disfigured. Despite the charred exterior, however, one aspect of the victim’s appearance stood out immediately.

On the victim’s face, someone had carved a broad, bright red smile.