The Gutter and the Grave (6 page)

“I’ll take my chances,” I said.

The basement was in a building that housed a doctor’s office on street level, and a dentist’s office above that. I was wondering about how rehearsals sounded to a man being examined for cancer until we stepped into the room. There was, to be fair, the boiler in one corner, and the usual tenants’ junk in another. But the ceiling pipes had been covered with acoustical tile, and the cement floor had been painted with grey paint, and there was a piano over against one wall, and the place looked very clean and neat. It wasn’t Nola Studios, but it would do for a local bunch of musicians.

“The band fixed the room,” Laraine explained. “That’s why we get to rehearse here free. Come meet the boys.” The boys, of which there were loosely seven or eight, had all glanced up when we came down the steps. They had been blowing their horns and warming up on snare and piano, and here I was; the horns stopped blowing and the piano stopped tinkling and the drummer sat up on his high wooden box with his sticks in mid-air. A fellow with a trumpet in his hands looked at Laraine inquiringly. In fact, there was more than inquiry in his brown eyes. There was something close to accusation.

“This is Matt Cordell,” Laraine said to the assemblage. “A friend of mine.”

The guy with the trumpet said, “I don’t like outsiders at rehearsals, Laraine.”

“That’s too bad, Dave,” she said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

He walked over to us. His walk was very hip, a sort of side-swinging walk, the trumpet dangling from his hand casually. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty. He sported a Dizzy kick just beneath his lower lip, the beard allegedly designed to cushion a trumpet mouthpiece. His upper lip sported a white ring of muscle smack in the center, the badge of the trumpet player, the imprint of metal against flesh. He was a tall boy, with bright red hair and a narrow nose, the cheekbones of an Indian scout. Broad-shouldered, loose-hipped, he snaked his way across the room and said, “I’m Dave Ryan. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I don’t dig critics when we’re blowing for free.”

“You weren’t rude,” I said, “and I’m not a critic. But I’ll leave if it makes you nervous.”

“It don’t make me nervous, Dad,” Ryan said. “Pull up a chair. Don’t applaud when we’re good or boo when we’re lousy. We’ll get along fine.”

“Are you the presser in Johnny Bridges’ tailor shop?” I asked.

“Huh? Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Johnny mentioned your name.”

“Oh yeah?” He studied me with careful brown eyes for a moment. Then he said, “The pressing buys sheet
music. It’s the horn I love.” He was silent for a moment. “Anything else?”

“Nothing right now.”

“Later?”

“If you feel like chatting.”

“Right now, I feel like blowing. You mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Gone. How’s the throat, thrush?” he asked Laraine.

“It’s fine.”

“Want to take a swing at ‘The Man’?”

“Sure,” Laraine said.

Ryan turned to the other musicians. “Number fourteen,” he said. “That mike set up, Frank?”

The piano player nodded and began fooling with the keyboard.

“All right, knock it off,” Ryan said. “You set, Laraine?”

Laraine walked to the microphone, an old one that had seen far better days and that the boys had probably picked up at a radio studio fire clearance. She lowered the head, tightened the knob on the bar, and said, “I’m ready.”

It’s difficult to describe her voice exactly. She had an individual style that was Laraine Marsh, an immediate personal contact between singer and audience, no gimmicks, just a small emotional voice that sang the melody and sang it straight and managed to give it meaning. She wasn’t imitating anyone, and she wasn’t consciously striving for a unique style, but she did
have a unique style and its very ease revealed the hours of practice that had gone into its development.

There was an audience of one in the room: me. And perhaps that’s why she fastened her eyes to my face and didn’t let go until the song was finished. But I had the feeling that if there were a thousand men in that small basement room, each and every one of them would believe the song was being delivered to him alone. If this girl vibrated across a table in a bar booth, she positively throbbed when she sang. And then the song ended, and she cut off the current by simply closing her eyes for an instant. When she opened them again, the music behind her had stopped.

I felt like applauding, but I remembered Ryan’s warning. I sat on my hands instead.

“Forty-seven,” Ryan called off. “ž‘Lisbon Antigua.’ Rest your tonsils, Laraine. That was juicy.”

Laraine walked over to where I was sitting. Ryan called off the beat, and the band swung into motion. “Did you like me?” she whispered.

“Very much.”

“I get better,” she said. “That was just a warmup. Did you think I was singing to you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I was, in a way. But not really. It’s a trick I learned from the strippers in Union City. They make every man in the audience think they’re undressing just for him alone.”

“It’s very effective. How’s this Ryan kid? Any good?”

“You heard him.”

“I’m not an expert.”

“Neither is he,” Laraine said. “He’ll probably get to be a big musician locally. Play all the weddings, all the picnics, play wherever they need a band. But he’s not in my league, and he’s not going where I’m going.”

“Which is?”

“The top.”

“Plenty of room up there, I understand.”

“If there isn’t, I’ll make some,” Laraine said, and she smiled. She lit a cigarette for herself and then belatedly offered me one. I took it. Ryan and the band struggled with “Lisbon Antigua” while we listened. They went at it for a good half-hour, and then he called a break and walked over to us.

“How did you like the band?” he said. He picked Laraine’s purse from the chair, opened it, helped himself to a cigarette, and then closed it again. Laraine did not seem to mind what most other women might have considered an invasion of privacy.

“Am I allowed to comment?” I said.

“Sure.”

“You sound pretty good,” I told him. I wasn’t lying. By the end of that half-hour, they had really whipped the arrangement into submission. They lacked the big-band sound, but they played with spirit and skill. Maybe they weren’t going where Laraine was going—if indeed she was—but they were damned good for a bunch of local kids.

“You snowing me, or is this the goods?” he asked.

“It’s from Straightsville,” I said.

He smiled. “Gone.” He paused, sucked in smoke, released it, and asked, “What’s your dodge?”

“I’m a bum,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looked to Laraine questioningly. Her face remained noncommittal. “I could teach you to press clothes,” he said, half-seriously. “I’d teach you to blow trumpet, but that might take a little while.”

“Neither profession seems to interest me,” I said.

“Mr. Cordell is a detective,” Laraine said suddenly, and Ryan turned to her sharply. He drew in on his cigarette, let out the smoke, and then turned back to me.

“Yeah? You don’t look like a bull.”

“I’m not.”

“Private eye?” He smiled. “I thought they were only in books.”

“I’m not a private eye, either. I used to be. I’m a bum now.”

“Must be a good life,” Ryan said.

“In the summer,” I told him. “How long have you been playing trumpet?”

“Seven years. I’m still taking lessons.”

“And the pressing?”

“Oh, that’s just a fill-in job. Like I said, it pays for music. It ain’t cheap, running a band.”

“Well, how long have you worked for Johnny?”

“About three months, I guess,” Ryan said. He looked
away from me, perhaps to cover the lie he’d just delivered. Or had Johnny been lying when he’d said Ryan had been working in the shop for six months?

“And you keep the job just to buy music, huh?”

“Sure,” Ryan said. He turned to Laraine. “You want to sing a little more?” he asked.

“Whenever you say.”

“I say now.”

Laraine rose and squashed out her cigarette.

“I want to make a phone call,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t rush. We’ll be here all afternoon.”

“And then what?”

“Don’t rush, Cordell,” she repeated and walked to the microphone. The band started another tune and I climbed the steps. I found a drugstore with a phone booth, looked up Johnny’s number, and called the tailor shop. I let the phone ring twelve times, and then hung up. I dialed the operator then and asked for the police. The sergeant at the local precinct identified himself, and I said, “Is there a man named Johnny Bridges there?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I do. I’m a friend of his.”

“What’s your name?” the desk sergeant asked.

“Joe Phillips,” I lied.

“Just a second, Mr. Phillips. I’ll check.”

He cut himself off. I waited. Joe Phillips. That was a nice name. I pictured a cab driver who wore glasses. Joe Phillips.

“Detective Division, Andrews,” a voice said.

“This is Mr. Phillips. I’m trying to locate a friend of mine named Johnny Bridges.”

“He’s here,” Andrews said. “What’s your interest, Mr. Phillips?”

“Personal,” I said.

“So’s ours,” Andrews told me. “He’s being held on suspicion of murder.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“What for?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Go chase another ambulance,” Andrews said. “He’s already phoned a lawyer.”

“I see.”

“Was there anything else, citizen?” Andrews asked.

I didn’t answer him. I hung up, felt for my dime in the coin slot out of habit, and then walked out into the street. It was dark already, and the lights of the city nuzzled the warm summer night. On the East River, I could hear the sounds of the tugs, and from all over the city came the noise of horns and engines. I wanted a drink. I wanted Toni. Sometimes, it hit me like that, sometimes when the city became something more than steel and concrete, when it became a living breathing thing with a memory and a heart, it hit me. Suddenly it hit me, and I felt alone and lonely, and that was when I needed a drink most.

I put this one off.

I told myself that everything was working just the way I thought it would work. The police had picked up
Johnny, and he was now being grilled in the friendly atmosphere of the Detective Squad Room by cops who were already convinced he was a killer. He’d called a lawyer, and the lawyer would speak to Johnny, and tomorrow morning he would be taken down to the lineup because he was suspected of having committed a felony, and bulls from all over the city would examine him carefully, and then he would be arraigned, and bail might or might not be set while he waited trial. I hoped he’d got a good lawyer. I hoped he beat the rap. I hoped he got off scot free and went back to his little tailor shop. I needed a drink.

I stopped myself a second time because I knew what all that hoping amounted to. It amounted to leaving the guy in the hands of the law and a lawyer while I backed out. It amounted to breaking a bargain. I needed a drink, but Johnny needed a missing killer. I cursed myself for having gotten into this, and I cursed myself for being a coward, and I cursed myself for being a drunk and an idiot, but I didn’t go into the nearest bar. I let the city press down on me with all its night noises and all its memories of Toni laughing to the night, and then I headed back for the basement and the band rehearsal. I pulled up a chair and listened to the sounds. The rehearsal broke up an hour later.

“Where to?” I asked Laraine.

“Back to my apartment,” she said. She paused. “Where are
you
going?” she added pointedly.

I shrugged. “Got a razor there?”

“Yes.”

“Whose?”

“Do you want a shave or a pedigree?”

“I’ll settle for the shave.”

“Matt…,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I don’t…I don’t want to get involved with you.”

“Why not?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?” I repeated.

“I don’t think you can take it if I give it to you straight.”

“Try me.”

“Okay. I’m not Toni McAllister. If you think I am, you’re crazy. I’m Laraine Marsh. And I don’t want salty tears for her on my bosom.”

“That’s straight enough,” I said.

“So let’s call it a day.” She held out her hand. “If I can help you in any way, with this thing about Dom, just let…”

“I still need a shave,” I said. “I’d also like to make a phone call. Do you have a phone?”

“Yes.”

“May I?”

Laraine sighed. “Come on,” she said.

* * *

The phone call I wanted to make was to a private detective named Dennis Knowles. I probably would have made my call, taken my shave, and then been kicked out of the apartment by Laraine were it not for
what happened downstairs in the hallway.

I wanted to call Knowles because it seemed to me the presence of a private detective on the scene might indicate there was more to Dom’s suspicion about his wife than Laraine was willing to admit. And if Christine
did
have a lover, he was an ideal candidate for the man who’d put two holes in Dom’s chest. Knowles was a very live man with a very hot practice. He always got results. You wanted a divorce? Dennis Knowles was your man. If your husband didn’t happen to be playing around with another woman, Dennis would supply one. He would also supply a strong shoulder with which to collapse a hotel door, a camera with which to snap the couple in a somewhat compromising attitude, and a few witnesses to swear to the validity of the scene.

A nice fellow, Dennis Knowles, a fellow spawned by a system that refused divorce except on grounds of adultery or desertion. Dennis was a whole hell of a lot cheaper than six weeks in Reno. But whereas I didn’t like him or his practices, I wanted to find out more about why Dom had hired him. This seemed to me an essential part of the case. At the same time, I really did want a shave, and I was hoping that Laraine Marsh might see in me a little more than a bum once the whiskers were gone. She might not have, though, if it weren’t for what happened in the hallway.

We went into the building together. Her apartment was on the third floor. I don’t know if you’ve ever been inside an East Side tenement, but they stink. You can
do whatever you want inside your own apartment, decorate it as if you lived on Sutton Place, but the building stinks, figuratively and literally. The mailboxes are usually broken, and the entrance hallway is as dark as a satchelful of eight balls, and the hallways and the stairs all the way up to the roof are usually as dim as life through a cataract eye. We started up the steps, and when we reached the second floor landing, Laraine said, “I forgot to pick up my mail.”