Leavin' Trunk Blues (19 page)

It was as if he was rebuilding himself.

--

Downstairs was civility.

Couples huddled over low, round tables at a dimly lit U-shaped bar. Framed pictures of famous Chicago buildings hung on the walls. The whole room was made in dark woods and greens. Nick ordered a blessed Budweiser and eavesdropped. No shame in it. Just made waiting so much more fun.

A man had just neutered his cat. A woman had just bought a Victoria’s Secret outfit to please her husband, and some guy was obsessed over his scratched Mercedes. Nick was starting to enjoy the unknown company and the gentle burn of the candles on the bar when someone sat in a chair beside him.

“I was saving that for somebody,” he said, staring straight ahead. Little lights winked around the cash register.

“Someone I know?” the woman asked. He could feel his pulse quicken. Made him feel silly and sophomoric. His heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

“You used to know her,” he said, still looking straight ahead.

Kate settled into the seat next to him and plunked down a manila envelope onto the bar. She ordered a Plymouth gin on the rocks.

“So, how you been, Travers? Look about the same. A little more gray in your hair.”

“Feel a little more gray,” he said, smiling a crooked grin.

Kate pulled a comma of dark brown, almost black hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Lines of character had grown around her mouth and brown eyes. She pulled a smile to the corner of her mouth. Thick, full lips.

She had on a long gray sweater with a scooped V-neck and blue jeans frayed at the bottom. Somehow she made tan work boots look feminine. She had a thin athletic frame and delicate hands with short nails. Nick remembered her body underneath the clothes. Dark skin corded with muscle.

“Nick Travers. Haven’t heard from the man in years and he calls me like a teenager looking for a date.”

“I didn’t know if you’d want to talk.”

“No shit,” she said, her face unconcerned. “Found some short clips on that Lyons guy. You can buy me dinner.”

“Really?”

“You look surprised,” she said, with a grin. Really enjoying watching him squirm.

“It’s just...”

“It’s just what, Travers?” she said as she raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m still pissed off about that bimbo you nailed in our warehouse? Screw it. I really don’t give a shit anymore.”

Kate took a long pull of the gin.

“You’ve gotten mean, woman,” Nick said.

“Bet your ass,” she said and nodded.

Nick drained the beer and watched her eyes. She closed her open-mouth smile and pulled the hair from her face again. It was as if time had fallen away. As if the spaces between their first meeting and today were only minutes apart.

Kate continued to stare, her arms folded over the bar, before she let out a long breath of air.

“Now, how about that dinner?” she asked. “I’m feeling Mexican.”

Williams turned off the pro wrestling and walked back in his kitchen for a beer for him and Lucifer. His back ached from repainting those iron beds all day and he needed a little sweetness to take the pain away. Lucy trotted by his side as he found his last can of Eight Ball and cracked open the top. She whined by his side as he polished off the foam and turned up the can in the dog’s slobbering black lips.

“Sweet baby,” Williams said. “Sweet baby.”

Man, he loved that dog. Ever since his wife had been eaten up by cancer two Christmases back, Lucy had been some kind of company. At first, he had made her sleep outside in a corral he’d made from old porch chairs and dressers. But one night, after the first frost, he’d walked outside and seen her fat nose all filled with snot and her sneezin’ up a storm. He never knew a pit bull could catch a cold, but his little baby was so sick. He brought her in and made her some hot milk and she’d slept in his bed ever since.

Williams hobbled back in the room as WGN rattled off the nightly news about some pawn shop owner being shot in the head down by Robert Taylor. Shit, what does a man expect. He wouldn’t even roll down his car window in those parts. Live in the jungle, you better expect the lions to come after your ass. He took another sip and looked into his junk lot filled with mounds of snow. His floodlight rattled off the telephone pole as he took a sip, sighed, and scratched Lucy’s ears.

Something crashed in his backyard.

He put the beer on the table as Lucy stood at attention, her ears perked, and sounded off some deep-down growls.

“Cool down, baby.”

Williams walked over to the window and searched his junk lot. Fuckin’ kids trying to steal some shit again. He trotted back to his kitchen and pulled out his shotgun, cracked it in half looking for shells, and popped it back together.

They’d get a dose of buckshot for disturbin’ his night.

Lucy was wailing and scratching at the kitchen door. He opened the door and she ran into the lot. He followed with his shotgun aimed from his right eye.

He heard Lucy growling, metal clattering over in piles, and then some scuffling from a mountain of broken wooden chairs and tables. Man, she had someone good. He heard a man grunt real loud.

Williams laughed as he followed the scuffle to the other side of the mountain of junk. But when he looked down, he felt a brittle sadness through his body. He dropped to his knees and screamed. Never screamed before in his life, didn’t even know a man was capable of it.

Little Lucy’s head was twisted around facing her tail. Blood poured from her mouth with gaping holes all through her pink stomach. Her backside flopped around for a moment as he cradled her warm body in his hands and sobbed. She looked up into his face with her yellow eyes and made a puffing sound. He kissed her nose and rocked her as her body went limp.

He cried and cried until he heard another crash from a row of junk about ten feet away. With great care, he laid sweet Lucy on the cold, muddy ground and picked up his shotgun. This was it. He always knew he would kill somebody, and tonight was it. Didn’t care if they were ten years old, they were dead.

“Come out, you motherfuckers!”

He yelled again as something clacked again behind him.

He swung the gun toward the sound.

Nothing.

His breath rattled around in his head as he ground his teeth. The gun shook in his hand. He could feel the cold locking his fingers to the trigger of the gun.

“You motherfuckers!” he yelled again.

Then a mammoth hand covered his face as the shotgun was ripped from his hand. He felt his hand being held against a man’s chest and heard the man’s hot breath on the side of his face. He felt the cold end of his shotgun inside of his mouth as his legs gave out. A huge black man wrapped Williams’s hand inside his own gun and as much as he tried he couldn’t keep his own fingers off the trigger. And for a brief moment, Williams understood his life was over.

“Your old man didn’t fight so much,” the huge man said.

Williams tried to yell and bring an understanding to a moment that exploded into red and white and a shock of cold, black water he thought he could feel sweep over his body.

The Frontera Grill was a fancy Mexican restaurant on Clark Street that didn’t take reservations and made tacos with catfish and enchiladas with free-range chicken. Not exactly Nick’s kind of place. But Kate was glad to see him out of his element. Travers was always more comfortable in a Mississippi barbecue joint or a New Orleans greasy spoon than anywhere remotely gourmet. She watched him snake through the crowd to the bar and order her a margarita with plenty of salt. Red chili pepper lights blinked over the bar crowded with men in Brooks Brothers and women in Banana Republic.

Nick had on a decade-old blue flannel shirt and jeans with battered Tony Lamas. Kate laughed as she found a cove by the hostess and waited. Travers always stuck with the basics. Wore what felt good. Ate when he was hungry and drank when thirsty.

If only she could look at life so simply.

Tonight she was just about to hit deadline, trying to finish a story on a double homicide, when she remembered to check her messages. She was used to all kind of calls at the Tribune—irate sources, annoying flaks, and even holiday greetings from Jesus. But this was something way strange. Nick Travers bustling by the Magnificent Mile for Christmas. She still couldn’t believe it. How long had it been?

After she filed her story, pulled and copied the clips on Lyons, she knew she had to go to the Palmer House. There was no question where she would find him. Of course, she knew it was a stupid mistake. But hey, it’s Christmas. Or at least that’s what she told herself.

She took a deep breath and watched him smile over at her. Damn guy stood out. Not ‘cause he was the best-looking guy in the place—because he wasn’t. It was more of his worn quality. Nick was like your favorite pair of pajamas. Warm green eyes and a husky voice. Always a little off balance and awkward. She bet by the end of the night he’d have something spilled on his shirt.

Nick handed her the margarita. No salt.

“A fifty-nine murder?” she asked, arching her eyebrow.

“There’s a woman…”

“There’s always a woman,” Kate said, getting in a little jab. Felt good.

“There is a woman in jail,” Nick said. “Brilliant singer. I’ve been hounding her for the last year to agree to do an interview. Finally, she agreed.”

“Someone I know?”

“Ruby Walker. Sang under the name the Sweet Black Angel.”

“Ah-hah. Woman charged with killing Lyons.” Kate sipped her margarita.

Nick smiled. Damn, why couldn’t she stay mad at him? The woman was in her bed. He’d taken everything they built and torn it down just for one night.

“She was convicted in sixty,” Nick said, taking a swig of Dos Equis. “I pulled the court records and interviewed her yesterday. Met with some of her friends.”

“Let me guess, she’s innocent, right?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m not making fun of you. You know, Illinois has a shit record with murder convictions? Eleven people in the last twelve years have been released from death row.”

“She’s not on death row,” Nick said. “She’s just forgotten.”

A hostess led them over to a table by the window and Nick ordered a couple more drinks and some chips. The margaritas were doing wonders for her stress. She remembered that time they were in Austin, she’d practically lived on them. Reminded her of Sixth Street and mariachi bands. The salsa was thick and chunky and filled with all kinds of wild colors.

“Clips were pretty thin,” she said, passing over copies. She had handwritten dates on the two stories. “Pretty much briefs saying what had happened. Hate to say it, but we’re talking the fifties. And she was black.”

Nick nodded, studying the clips. Nothing.

“How far did the lawyer go with appeals?”

“Ruby had a little problem with a guard and she had a public defender who makes Bud look like Atticus Finch.”

“Bud is Atticus Finch.”

“How is the Bud man?”

“Lickin’ his butt. Drinkin’ out of toilet bowls. You know, all those tricks he learned by watching you.”

“I was never that flexible.”

“And if you were?”

“The world would be a better place.” Nick leaned forward and tucked his arms in front of him. His shirt was rolled to the elbows.

“I have some really good sources. Enough to head home. You know, my job’s not to be her detective, only to write about her life. . . .” Nick shook his head. “But I gave her my word I’d look into it. And the more I find out, the more I believe she was set up. Two men who were in her band were killed right after she was sent to jail.”

“Her lawyer and the detective mentioned in the stories are dead too. Found their obits. Sorry.”

Just like Nick to go on some half-cocked outing without a clue to help an old singer. She remembered one Sunday during Jazz Fest finding about a dozen musicians crashed in the warehouse waiting for Nick to make pancakes.

“What does she say?”

“She thinks Billy Lyons was killed in some kid of turf war. Apparently he used to run hookers and numbers.”

“What about the court file?”

“They found bloody sheets in her bed and a murder weapon.”

“What part do you doubt?”

“A lot of things don’t make sense,” Nick said. “Lyons was stabbed seventy-seven times and shot once. The detective said he was killed on the second floor of an apartment and the body was moved and dropped into Lake Michigan. How does a little— no offense—woman move a big man?”

“Maybe she just dragged his dead ass down the steps.”

“And then what?” Salsa toppled from a chip into his lap. “Ruby didn’t have a car and didn’t drive.”

Kate started to laugh. She put her hand over her mouth.

“I’m serious, I think she was set up.”

“It’s not that,” she said, still laughing. “You could never eat without getting food on you.”

Nick frowned and looked down at the salsa spot on his jeans and wiped it away with a napkin.