Jazz Funeral (25 page)

Bodies pressed close to her, thick as a Mardi Gras crowd, everybody boogying but staying in their own space. It worked fine so long as no one disturbed the equilibrium. Melody was messing it up bad; plowing through like some human bumper car— “‘Scuse me; sorry”—but still getting dirty looks.

The way it worked at JazzFest, there were a couple of tents—one for gospel, one for contemporary jazz—and other than that, open-air stages, lots of them, of greater and lesser importance. The more important ones drew the bigger crowds, of course, and the crowds could expand as much as they needed. They thinned on the edges and eventually melted into the greater, strolling JazzFest crowd.

Ti-Belle was at the Ray-Ban stage, the biggest and most important; before he died, Ham had made sure she was far the most important act on at her time. The crowd she’d drawn was enormous, probably the biggest of her life. Melody felt as if she were moving through Jell-O, in slow motion. Then she was at the end of the crowd. She started to run. And hit somebody head on, fortunately a large man, possibly a biker, someone who was only stunned, not hurt. But he was angry. She might have got away, but she heard him pointing her out to her tracker.

Where to go? If she got into another crowd, she might be able to disappear, or she might get trapped. The tracker had binoculars; Melody had seen them, thought that was odd, and then had seen the figure start to move. She had to disappear altogether, become invisible even to the possessor of high-power magnification.

She knew how she’d been spotted, and it had taken a clever person to do it. She had painted her hands scarlet, made her hands look like someone else’s, except for one tiny thing—her trademark cameo ring. Everyone knew about the damn ring, and yet it was such a tiny detail, who would spot it? Someone watching her dance, throwing her hands up in the air, the only parts of her body that stood out of the crowd, that could possibly be identified. Why hadn’t she thought of that? In a fury, she jerked the ring off and tossed it into the crowd. “Finders keepers,” she hollered, and all might have been well if the finder hadn’t been a girl of nine or ten.

“Mees, mees,” she screamed, and with a sinking heart. Melody realized that she was foreign, Jamaican perhaps, or African, that she didn’t speak English, and that, childlike, wanting desperately to do the right thing, she wouldn’t rest till she returned the ring. She was small, and fast too—she’d catch Melody and slow her down, keep her there being polite until the tracker could get to her.

Melody turned around and shouted over her shoulder, “Keep it! It’s for you. Keep it, keep it!”

The tracker was gaining. The girl stopped for a second and pointed, possibly telling the story to her mother or sister. Someone else, someone with more English, shouted, “Mees, mees! Your ring—I have your ring.”

Melody tried again. “Keep it. It’s yours—wear it in good health.” She had learned the phrase from television.

More people were chasing her now—a crowd of black people, shouting, most of them children. What irony, Melody thought, everyone Uptown was afraid of getting robbed by black people, and here was a whole fifth grade class and all their chaperones trying to chase her down to return her property.

She was getting close to Congo Square now, the part of the Jazz and Heritage Festival dedicated to the African part of that heritage. The original had evolved from a slave market to a voodoo site and black culture center. This one had rethought the market idea and given it a more palatable twist. There were T-shirts for sale here, as everywhere at any festival, and some cassettes, and that was about the end of ordinary merchandise. The rest was all dashikis and djellabas and rattles and jewelry and curious musical instruments. It was a great place to shop; Melody could spend hours there. But right now it was about the last place she wanted to be. If her pursuers were African, someone here might speak their language and try to help them out, and the shopkeepers would all have seen a running white girl. She was doomed.

Desperately, grasping at anything, she picked up a scarf, something to make her look different. She grabbed it as she sped by, shoplifted as the owner’s back was turned. But a customer saw and pointed.

“Hey!” the merchant shouted. “Hey, you thief!”

Shit. It was hopeless. She was nearly numb with depression and she was breathing so hard her lungs were probably going to burst. And then she’d be dead. She hoped it wouldn’t be a painful death. After all this, surely she deserved simply to slip away. She turned a corner.

“Goddamn you! Watch out, bitch!”

She had run right into a man who hadn’t had time to move. “What you want?” he yelled, outraged. He was a big man, and for some reason he had grabbed her wrist. She couldn’t move.

She’d probably have given up right then, except that due to the circumstances, she was jammed right up against him and he’d asked a question. She thought later that the smell of patchouli incense that someone was burning had been a contributing factor. That and adrenaline.

What you want?

There was nothing for it but to give an honest answer.

“Hide me,” she said, and she looked into his eyes, wishing she weren’t wearing the shades. “Please, please, hide me.” And because his chest felt strong and good against hers, and she could smell his sweat, it occurred to her to reach for his crotch with her free hand, to brush it lightly and to whisper, “I’ll give you a blow job.”

The shouts were getting closer. Without a word or change of expression, the man raised the piece of India print fabric that covered his table of wares and pushed her under it. Just like that. One moment desperation, the next a dark, enclosed space all her own.

Melody crouched and concentrated on the pain in her chest, sure she could be heard breathing at fifty paces. She wished there were a way to lie down.

The first group of pursuers had closed in. “Blond bitch run through here? Red shorts?”

No answer. Probably her benefactor had merely shrugged.

“Hey, man—she stole somethin’. Come on—you seen her?”

More silence. Melody imagined him shaking his head.

There was a rustling as the shopkeeper hurried by, he and whatever entourage he’d gathered.

Melody’s chest sounded to her as if it were inhabited by frogs; every breath was a croak.

The second wave came. A lilting, lovely voice.

“You see a young lady? She lose her ring.” The little girl was probably holding up the ring, all innocence, brown eyes wide and gentle.

“What did she look like?” the man said.

“Oh, she have two-color hair, white and purple.” Mass giggles. There must be a dozen children out there.

The man laughed too. “White and purple? Now how I’m gon’ forget somethin’ like that?” There was a pause. “She went by a minute ago. That way.”

Okay, that was it. Except for the tracker. Her nemesis was still out there, and she couldn’t warn this man, couldn’t tell him not to pick up the cloth at the wrong time or she was screwed.

He did. He picked it up now. “Is that all, sweet pea?”

Melody closed her eyes and shook her head, desperate. “Ten minutes. Please, okay? Just ten minutes more.”

“Sure. Sure, baby. Stay just as long as you like.”

She closed her eyes again. Her breath was coming more evenly now, her pulse slowing down, and she realized how hot she was.

Her makeup had probably melted, but that was the least of her problems. The tracker could have heard her talking to the man, could easily stick around till he lifted the cloth again, and there she would be, staring dead-on into the eyes of the enemy.

She squeezed her closed eyes tighter, banishing mental pictures, bits of her old life, and tried to think what to do next.

Okay, if the tracker was there, what?

Run. Get out of there fast.

And if not? She had a potential ally here, and her benefactor seemed a nice man, but there was a problem—she’d made a deal with him and he was bound to insist on payment. Maybe violently.

Melody wondered how that would be. Could she just sort of close her eyes and think of something else? Wasn’t that what nineteenth century ladies did? She could, she supposed, if she’d made a slightly more basic offer.

“Hide me and I’ll fuck you?” What would have been wrong with that? She could have gotten through that, probably. Why had she gotten fancy?

The truth was, Melody had only a very dim idea what a blow job was, and wasn’t at all sure she could actually perform one; knew she couldn’t without coaching. This guy probably thought she was a pro. What would he do when he found out he’d been had?

Anyway, how strong was her stomach? This guy was a stranger, and a pretty big one at that. His dick was probably in proportion, and she knew she had to put it in her mouth (though she hadn’t a clue what the next step was). Could she do that? Quickly, she put her hand over her mouth to stop the noise coming out of her throat. Just thinking about it, her gag reflex had kicked in. She had to get out of here.

She lay still and thought. Finally she got up the nerve to roll out from her hiding place, to stand facing her benefactor, smiling, knowing she was about to pull a double-cross and wishing it didn’t have to be that way. Her eyes darted, looking for the tracker. No one she knew was in sight. She smiled at the man; seductively, she hoped. She even moved closer to him, touched his chest with her breasts and moved back, teasing him a little.

“Ready to collect?” She wished her voice was breathy.

He smiled. He was really very handsome. “Mmmmm-hmmmm, baby.” All lazy and nice, like he did it all the time, bought sexual favors from fleeing criminals.

Fleeing minors, she thought, aware that a grown man shouldn’t have made such a deal with her. She had no call to feel guilty— the man was a child molester.

She turned and looked over her shoulder, still smiling, still seductive. “Catch me.”

He looked surprised, but not yet daunted. Apparently, he still thought it was a game.

Melody ran, dodging men, women, and children, ran in earnest and as if she were desperate. “Help!” she screamed. “Somebody please help! Police! Rape!”

She sneaked one more look and saw the man staring after her, frozen, terrified to move an inch.

Nick was watching the swarm around Ti-Belle, hanging back on the sidelines, thinking that this was perhaps the first time in his adult life that such a thing had happened—that he was not the center of attention. He was currently being as decidedly ignored as the tall chap with the video camera in the other corner. He was enjoying both the anonymity and Ti-Belle’s success. As a matter of fact, he was conscious of grinning like an idiot, and kept trying to remind himself to stop in case the fellow with the camera decided to notice him.

Ti-Belle had been truly brilliant. He was so proud of her he would have busted buttons if he had any. It was a pleasure to be associated with such a woman.

“What’d you think?” asked Proctor.

“Oh, man,” said Nick. “Oh, man, oh, man.” And then was conscious of having become speechless. However, with Proctor, who’d seen him throw up the first time he got drunk, it hardly mattered.

Proctor seemed uncomfortable, a little pissed that Ti-Belle was getting so much attention. He had a thing about her, and Nick just couldn’t see it. Ti-Belle, of all the women he’d known, was the most accomplished, the least likely to want him for his money.

I’ve never been with a singer before
, he thought with surprise.
Why not?
he wondered. Had he been too egotistical? Too reluctant to share the limelight?

I didn’t know what I was missing
.

This felt good.

Somebody was pushing her way through the crowd, ruffling feathers, more or less making a scene. It was a tall woman, hefty, someone he’d seen before, trailed by another woman, a black one who could have been a movie star.

He remembered. “Hey, there’s the cop.”

Proctor said, “The black one?”

“The big one.”

“The fat one?”

“That one.” She’d made it all the way to Ti-Belle.

She held up her badge: “Police. I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.”

Ti-Belle looked as if someone had hit her. Red spots had appeared on both her cheeks. “You can’t do that!”

“Do you want to talk in front of everyone?”

“Talk! What do you want to talk about now?”

It was getting ugly and there was still an audience. Nick stepped forward. “Would everyone leave, please?”

Ti-Belle was shocked. “Nick!”

He wished he could signal her that it was okay, that he was still on her side. Proctor started to herd people out.

Ti-Belle turned her fury on the cop. “What the hell are you doing here? Whatever it is, couldn’t it wait half an hour, please?”

“I’d like you to remember that I’m a police officer and I ask you to treat me with respect.” She sounded like somebody’s mom. Somebody’s mom who’s just discovered the grades aren’t up to par, or the car’s wrecked. Nick kind of admired her style, but at the same time he wasn’t immune to it. Despite his best efforts to remain calm, his neck prickled slightly. He moved closer to Ti-Belle and slipped an arm around her waist. Held her tight so she’d know she was okay.

“Hello, officer.”

Now that he was there, Ti-Belle was losing it. A sound came out of her as if she had asthma, and then she turned to him, put her arms around his shoulders and hung on like a two-year-old, shaking with the effort of holding herself together.

He bent his head and whispered for a while, but he wasn’t at all sure she heard. Her body had taken over; what was happening with her was happening somewhere he couldn’t reach. He turned his head and caught the cop’s eye.

“You’re here about Ham?” he said.

“I’m here to talk to Miss Thiebaud,” she said primly, in that way cops have, that smug, arrogant way that made him want to belt them.

“She was with me that day,” he said. “We were together the whole time.”

Ti-Belle, tight against him, kissed his neck to let him know she’d heard and she was grateful. He was glad he’d done it; it would be good for both of them.