The Devil's Music Page 6

  “Okay, here’s what I came up on before you distracted everybody by shooting up the neighborhood. According to a brief squib that appeared in the News when it happened, the murdered guy in that alley was a snitch. A police informant. Some lowlife no account with a record name of Mousie Garnett. I’ll dig around in the paper morgue some more, but I’ve got a feeling that’s all there is. Scant coverage.”

  “Any connection between the dead guy and the Battaglia outfit?”

  “Too soon to tell. Maybe at the lowest street level but that would be it. He was a punk who knew too much and talked too much. In Five Points, that’s a deadly combination.”

  “What about Leon Miller?”

  That got me a slight frown.

  “The guy who runs the club where it happened? What about him? I thought you knew him.”

  “I want to know him better. Anything to link Leon and Battaglia?”

  “Nothing that shows,” said Teddy with a shrug.

  I said, “I remember when I first moved to Denver around that time. There were stories on the news about a Mafia presence moving into Denver, which had always been a neutral mob town. There was some gang killing and then it’s smoothed out.”

  Teddy nodded.

  “These days the outfit has a total lock on girls, dope and gambling. Leon, far as anyone knows, runs a straight ahead juke joint, no more no less. His rep? I’m not saying he’s old-fashioned, but he still isn’t sure giving women the vote was such a hot idea. He’s tolerant of the, shall we say, foibles of human nature because he has to be. He runs a bar. But when it comes to personal values, at his core, Leon Miller is old school. He might be paying a kickback somewhere along the line to operate, but that’s life in the city, right? And sure, there’s bound to be some minor street-level dealing going on in a joint like that. But as for Leon Miller setting up a hit... no, Kilroy, that doesn’t play for me. The guy does his best to stay an honest businessman. That’s his rep.”

  “Yeah, it’s my take on the guy too,” I admitted. “All right then, Teddy. That’s it for now.” I took a first and last sip of my Coke. “Keep digging. Let me know what you come up with.”

  “You know I will,” said Teddy. “You’ve always been good for a headline, Kilroy. Don’t let it be an obituary. And maybe I could do a feature on your pal, Stomper. I may not be a music lover but I’ve got to say, he’s getting more interesting by the minute.”

  “He’ll be glad to hear that,” I said. “I’ll set it up. Thanks, Teddy.”

  And I was out of there.

  I took a moment on my way back to the Lancia to place another call from a sidewalk phone booth. My answering service reported a job offer from an insurance firm that had retained me in the past. Most of the work of real life private detective takes on falls under the heading of mundane, but a guy’s got to make a living. It would hurt to pass up that lucrative retainer, but that’s what I intended to do.

  Assisting a senior bluesman in putting together his old band was becoming a time-consuming and a dangerous endeavor. The way it looked, putting Stomper’s band together and taking down a street shooter were somehow tied in together...

  8

  When I nudged the door open and stepped into the small, single person practice room in the Denver Symphony complex, Olga James, the lone occupant of the room, was sitting at a baby grand piano, her fingers dancing across the keyboard, rendering a propulsive classical piece that I did not recognize.

  It had not taken much to locate her. She was listed in the phone book and so I called her home number, whereupon a man answered and, in a pleasant voice devoid of clues as to age or race, explained that Olga was not at home. I informed him that I was a private detective and that it was nothing serious but that I would like a few minutes of her time that day if that was convenient for her.

  The man said he was jotting down the phone number of my answering service with the assurance that he would pass it along to Olga. When I’d checked in with the answering service a short time later, there were two messages for me. Joe Gallegos wanted me to call him ASAP. And Olga James had called to let me know how to find her and that a brief visit would not inconvenience her.

  At my entrance, she abruptly ceased playing and stood to greet me, and I couldn’t help thinking that I was intruding, given the intensity of her playing and the exclusive solitude of this corner removed from a busy world.

  “Yes?”

  Cool. Chic.

  I said, “I’m Kilroy.”

  She said, “Yes, I’ve been expecting you.” She stood five-ten. Her features were café latte. High cheekbones. Clear, direct eyes. Stylish, conservative bouffant. Crisp white blouse and pearls. Matching gray jacket and skirt. Sensible flats. Her handshake matched her smile. Cool and polite. A fleeting smile. “I will admit to a degree of curiosity. What in the world is there in my prosaic, mundane life that would attract a private investigator?”

  I said, “Stomper Crawford.”

  That put a small dent in the steel of her reserve. She blinked and stared into my eyes as if reading my expression might reveal more to her than my words. She returned to her piano bench, reached into a chic leather purse that rested atop the baby grand and extracted from the purse a pack of Virginia Slims. Shaking one loose, she torched it with a lighter, inhaling deeply. The smoke that filtered through her nostrils clouded the No Smoking sign on the wall.

  She said, “I haven’t heard, I haven’t thought, of that name in a long, long time.”

  “Stomper’s back in town,” I told her. “He’s setting up for a comeback and he wants you to be a part of it. I’m here to let you know that he’s putting the old band together. We’re hoping you’ll be interested.”

  “We?”

  “I’m a longtime fan of Stomper’s. By the way, I’ve always loved your solo on Stomper’s Groove. That one will likely get my foot tapping after I’m in my grave.”

  She registered the trace of a humorless smile.

  “That tune was a little something I came up with. Stomper could’ve at least shared writer credit with me, not to mention royalties. It was no hit but a few extra bucks would’ve come in handy back then. So, what does Stomper need a private detective for?”

  “In this case, I’m a friend who just happens to be a detective. What about it, Olga? Are you interested in rejoining the Stomper Crawford Band?”

  Another stretch of silence. More exhaled smoke to obscure the No Smoking sign.

  Then she said in a cool voice, “Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Kilroy. I was younger then. Everything in my life was different except that even then I put everything I was into playing. Stomper had his thing, that’s true enough. But I made that man’s band sound good. In fact, I put so much into it that I’m not sure I have any more to give.”

  “It would mean the world to the old man, and to his fans. I believe he’s still got what it takes and you’d be a major addition, just like you were back then.”

  Again, the brief smile.

  “That’s a sweet thing to say, Mr. Kilroy, and it has the added advantage of being the truth. But Stomper didn’t just leave a band behind when he took off all those years ago. He left a family behind. He left a woman behind. Florence is gone now but she could have used him around with two kids to raise when she was fighting for her own life.”

  “And for that you’re going to penalize him all these years later?”

  “I think so.”

  “His life has been hell since he left,” I told her. “There are things you might not know. He wasn’t just running for his life. He was running to keep his family out of danger. He knows he’s done wrong and he has regrets like we all do but he’s back now, and he wants to make amends. That’s why I’m helping out. He could use your help.”

  She exhaled one last stream of smoke at the sign on the wall before dropping the spent butt into an empty Coke bottle that was next to the purse atop the piano.

  She said, “There’s more to it than that. Did you recognize the piece I was pla
ying just now when you walked in?”

  “Sorry. For me the classics are Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis.”

  “I was playing Schumann’s Toccata in C Major. It is considered one of the more difficult pieces to play in classical music, if I may be so immodest. I run through it daily before each practice section just to warm up. Stomper Crawford’s music may entertain after its modest fashion but compared to what I play today, well frankly, it’s barbaric and simplistic.”

  “But you play it so well, you must love the blues.”

  “I loved TJ. I was young and I knew how to play the piano and I was a fool in love. The only one of those three things that remains in my life is,” she patted the baby grand, “this piano. My pursuit of a career as a classical musician has taken me farther in life than I could have ever dreamed when I was a lost kid smoking reefer and letting TJ James teach me how to play Got My Mojo Working. I’ve toured the world with the Denver Symphony, Mr. Kilroy, and the more I think about going back in time with Stomper, the less I like the idea. Speaking of TJ, have you spoken to him yet about Stomper’s big come back?”

  “He’s next. By the way, you could save me some leg work if you have his current address.”

  It took her a few seconds to consider that while she again gave me an open appraisal with those x-ray eyes. Then she reached into her purse and this time produced a small address book. She paged through it, found what she was looking for and recited an address that I jotted down.

  She said, “You know TJ and I aren’t married anymore, right?”

  “I heard something about that being a delicate situation,” I said.

  “It was, but time has a way of healing past wounds, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Seems to work that way most of the time,” I agreed. “Do you and TJ stay in touch?”

  “Hardly.” She replaced the address book in her purse and helped herself to another cigarette, torching it and again obscuring the No Smoking sign with her first exhalation. “Honestly, I feel strange even discussing these people. That’s how long it’s been.”

  I thought of the popular Virginia Slims ad slogan.

  I said, “You’ve come a long way, baby.”

  At first, she wasn’t sure how to take that. Hell, she wasn’t sure how to take me.

  She said, “I would guess poor TJ remembers me as the wide-eyed, submissive woman-child curled up adoringly at his feet, hanging onto his every word while I rolled his joints for him. This may come as a shock, Mr. Kilroy, but I’m not that person anymore.”

  “Not a shock,” I said. “It’s apparent, believe me.”

  “Thank you. You see, TJ was unable to stop me from growing and, bless him, he wasn’t bright enough or strong enough to even try. I’m a reader. I’m a thinker. That wide-eyed little girl kneeling adoringly at his feet came to understand the power of woman. Consider. You give a woman a house, she’ll give you a home. You give her a bag of groceries, she’ll fix you a meal. You give her sperm, she’ll give you a child. And they called us the weaker sex? As a child, I was taught it’s a man’s world, but the fact is, throughout history anything most men have done has been to get, pacify or get rid of a woman. Given that, I ask you: who’s in charge there?”

  I said, “Lady, I know a rhetorical question when I hear one. And I happen to think you’re right. Now, about Stomper.”

  This bought me a real smile from her that lingered longer than a heartbeat.

  She said, “You’re all right, Kilroy. Tell TJ and Jenna I said hello. Jenna used to hang out around Leon’s when the band played there. A lot of changes since then. She and TJ are doing all right.”

  “I’ll give them your regards. And what should I tell Stomper?”

  Her smile disappeared.

  “Tell him I’ll think about it.”

  Olga James returned her attention to the keyboard without bothering to extinguish her cigarette, allowing it to dangle precariously from the corner of her full lower lip. Smoke snaked lazily from its glowing end. Olga began coaxing minor-key blue notes from the baby grand.

  I was letting the practice room door close behind me on my way out when I recognized what she was softly playing.

  A note-perfect rendition of Stomper’s Groove...

  9

  I returned Joe Gallegos’ call from a phone booth in the lobby of the Symphony complex. Joe was gone from his desk, which meant I had to hold while another detective tracked him down. He finally brought Joe to the phone, and then it was short and not so sweet.

  I said, “It’s me.”

  Joe said, “Duffy’s. Right now.”

  And the line went dead.

  Duffy’s also happened to be just around the corner from the downtown central cop shop.

  Joe was there waiting for me, and waved me over from a corner table, somewhat off to itself. The place can get real busy, believe that. You should see it on St. Patrick’s Day. But right now, it was half empty with that late morning lull that proceeds the noon hour rush.

  Joe and I are the same age but that’s where most of the similarities end. Our paths have crossed due to circumstance and we get along most of the time. Joe’s colleagues consider him the sharpest dresser on the squad, and he likely is. In plainclothes, that’s one of the things that keeps him from being easily identifiable as a cop the way so many detectives are. Unless you look straight into his eyes up close, that is. Joe has cop eyes that miss nothing. He had two sweet kids at home and a fine wife whose cooking has him at odds with his weight.

  The look he gave me when I sat down across from at the table him told me that at the moment, I was his least favorite private detective.

  He had a tall glass of Coca-Cola before him, and I ordered the same from the waitress who promptly showed up with a toothy smile. When she was gone and out of earshot, Joe leaned forward with his elbows on the table. The way those cop eyes lasered into me, I felt like a two-bit perp.

  He said, “She had a photographic memory.”

  “She?”

  “Come on, Kilroy. The little old lady.”

  “Little old lady?”

  “The little old lady who was scribbling down your license plate number before your big friend took the page away from her so you could drive away feeling confident that you were home free.”

  I said, “Doesn’t look like it worked out that way. Well for starters, Joe, the Mustang I left behind was–”

  “Jacked,” he said. “Reported stolen by the owner about a half-hour before the incident. Yeah, we have that. The first black and whites on the scene pretty much put it together. The kid whose skateboard you used made you sound like quite a sight on that thing.”

  “I did cut a pretty sharp figure considering it was the first time I was ever on one of those suckers,” I said. “I always did have a good sense of balance but take it from me, Joe. Don’t try skateboarding.”

  He leaned back and sipped his Coke.

  Then he said, “You take it from me and drop the smart-ass act or I’ll bust your ass. Maybe someday shooting up a city street will be a common thing but it’s 1975, and we’re not there yet. Not on my watch. I’m trying to cut you a little bit of slack on this, Kilroy, out of respect for you providing some help on a few previous cases. But that help also put you at odds with Neil Dickensheets.”

  “And how is our Assistant DA these days?”

  “Still looking for any and every opportunity he can find to bust your ass and lift your PI license. A mess-up like this would fit that bill to a T.”

  “Okay, maybe I should come clean.”

  “Yeah, maybe you should. Who’s the guy who terrorized the little old lady?”

  “Uh. ‘terrorized’ is a little strong.”

  “So, tell me about it.”

  And so I did.

  It didn’t take long. After all, it began only the night before. After I’d left Carl’s and gone down to Leon’s in Five Points. And today was not yet lunchtime. I tried not to leave out anything when relating the tussle out front of Leo
n’s, Isaac Crawford’s timely arrival and me accompanying him to meet his father and the subsequent shooting that morning outside the Denny’s.

  Joe listened with the patience of a cop listening to a confession.

  “Question,” he said when I was done. “You’re usually such a stickler for maintaining client privilege. And here you are, giving up Stomp Crawford’s name with no fuss at all. Is that a friend?”

  “Stomper hasn’t committed any crime.”

  “He’s witness to a shooting. I’d like a talk with him.”

  “I’ll pass that along when I see him. There’s no reason for me not to reveal his name. He’s not a client. I’m not employed by him.”

  “So it starts with you doing a favor for a broken down old blues singer, and within twelve hours, bullets are flying.”

  “There is the possibility,” I said, “that those two are not connected. Maybe Stomper was the target, maybe not. Maybe I was the target. There are people walking around this town who wouldn’t mind putting a bullet or two in me.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed.

  “And if you were a gambling man, how would you place your money on which one of you was the target?”

  I said, “You’ve got me there, Joe. I don’t like coincidences.”

  “Me either,” he said. “Now I see why you wanted to know about that cold case kill behind Leon’s.”

  “Anything there?”

  “All these years and a cold case? Are you kidding?”

  “So it dead-ends with a name? With Mousie Garnett?”

  Joe lifted a curious eyebrow.

  “Been doing some digging on your own, eh? See, you don’t need me.”

  “Like hell,” I said. “What sort of a professional relies on only one human resource?”

  “You,” he said with a sigh, “are a piece of work. Okay, all I’ve got is that it looks like the victim was drawn into that alley to take the hit. The wrong party or parties found out he was a police contact and down went Mousie. That’s all the files tell us at this late date. No one mourns a punk like that, usually not even his family. I doubt it even got much mention in the papers past the fact that a murder was committed.”