He strolled out on the patio, relishing the fresh morning air. He should have known he could count on the press to reveal every little secret. Even the ones that were likely to get someone killed.
He’d thought he was going to have to do some intense work. He’d expected to spend days trolling the North Side, watching O’Brien Park, cruising Memorial Drive or some of the other hot youth hangouts.
And now none of that was necessary. Now he had everything he needed handed to him on a silver platter.
He unwadded the paper, smoothing out the creases, anxious to read it all again.
NO ARREST IN JAZZLAND SLAYING, the banner headline shouted. He skipped the first few paragraphs, detailing the police department’s “ongoing investigation” and recapping the sensational account of the corpse “plummeting to the stage in front of hundreds of spectators.”
Eyewitness accounts were quoted liberally: “I was on the front row when it happened. The corpse came flying out. Blood splattered everywhere, all over me. I just started screaming, clawing to get away. I totally lost it.”
None of this interested him in the least. What sustained his attention, what brought forth his beaming smile was a small paragraph toward the end: “Police are also investigating the report of one youth in attendance who claims that a workman delivering a rug may have been wearing a disguise. Although the police said they wanted to follow all possible leads, they warned that the witness in question, Tyrone Jackson, 21, a club regular and associate of the owner, had a history of criminal activity and may not be reliable.”
He closed the paper again and hugged it close to his breast. He couldn’t ask for much better than that. Talk about sweet music! This was a Coltrane original, a Gershwin rhapsody, and a B. B. King solo all set out in newsprint.
He fell into the patio chair. This certainly simplified things, didn’t it? All he had to do was keep an eye on the club and wait for the brat to show his ugly black face.
His hands skittered across the glass-topped patio table and began stroking the shiny silver serrated blade. He didn’t like loose ends, but when he had one, he knew what to do about it. He turned to his polished silver, his treasured weapon. The razor-sharp knife he liked to call Mr. Entertainment.
And why Mr. Entertainment, you might ask?
A glow settled over his contented face. Because it could bring smiles to the faces of so many people.
Chapter 23
BEN ENJOYED THE smooth scenic ride of the glass elevator as he soared up to Jones and Loving’s office. He still couldn’t get over what plush digs the two of them had come up with. They had the right idea, he realized. When you’re starting over, you should make everything fresh, new, exciting. With a place like this, he could almost imagine …
But no. One more case and he was out of here. He still had plenty of money in the bank, and his music career was just getting started. Maybe he’d start work on another book. He wasn’t going to let himself get derailed again.
Loving was just locking up when Ben approached the outer office door.
“Skipper! I wasn’t ’spectin’ you back tonight. Need somethin’?”
“Well, actually, I was looking for you. I wanted to consult with you about something. I hate to take up your time when you’re off duty, but …”
“No problem, Skipper.” He beamed, clearly flattered. He reopened the door and stepped into the office. “What’s up?”
Ben leaned against his desk. “You used to play poker, didn’t you, Loving?”
He shrugged. “Some nickel-and-dime stuff. Me and the boys down at Orpha’s Lounge. They had a little place in the back …” He looked up. “That was before I met you, of course. ’Fore I got myself straightened out. Why d’you ask?”
“Well, I’m playing poker tonight myself.”
Loving looked at him with large round eyes. “You?”
“Right.”
“Playing poker?”
“You think I can’t do it.”
“No, Skipper. It ain’t—I mean, I’m sure you could learn the rules—”
“But you think I’ll get creamed.”
Loving craned his neck awkwardly. “You gotta understand, Skipper. Poker requires a certain … subterfuge, you know? Deviousness.”
Ben tapped his foot. “And?”
“Well, Skipper, you’re about the most totally transparent person I’ve ever known.”
Ben frowned. “Is that good?”
“Not when you’re playing poker.”
“Look, all my life I’ve heard this macho male bonding hype about what a deep, strategic game poker is. Personally, I think it’s about as deep and strategic as Old Maid.”
“As far as the rules go, yeah. But if you want to win, you’ve gotta be able to bluff.”
“Which is a nice word for lying.”
“Bluffing isn’t lying, Skipper. Bluffing is not telling. See, your problem is, you’re so blasted honest, you always come straight out with whatever you know. But sometimes it’s best to hold somethin’ back. Sometimes it’s best to make the other guy guess, maybe let him imagine somethin’ that ain’t necessarily so. That’s half of what poker’s all about.”
“And the other half?”
“Taking risks. And frankly, Skipper, that’s not your strong suit, either.” His face scrunched up. “Why on earth would you want to play poker? Ain’t you still got lots of dough from the Barrett case?”
“Yes. But Earl and all the other guys in the band are playing poker tonight.”
“So?”
“Mike has the idea that the most likely suspects in the Campbell murder are the people who had access to the stage.”
“I see. This is part of your investigation.”
Ben nodded. “I remember something Harry Truman said once. If you really want to get to know a man, you should play poker with him. And I really need to know these people. I want to see how they react when I bring up the murder. When the cops drag them in, they’re guarded, prepared. I want to see what I can find out when their guard is down.”
“You’re going to need help.” Loving wrapped his muscled arm around Ben’s shoulder. “Lemme give you some tips. Three rules to live by.”
“That would be appreciated.”
“If your hand sucks right off the bat, fold.”
Ben grimaced. “Why do I not think this is the secret of champions?”
“Look, maybe you can bluff, maybe you can’t. But no one can do it every time, and no one is going to succeed every time. It’s just like cross-ex—you gotta pick your battles. And there’s no point riskin’ a tub of money on somethin’ that’s prob’ly hopeless from the get-go.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll fold. What else can you recommend?”
“Watch the other players’ faces. Most everyone in the world has some facial tic, gesture, or automatic response to a certain kind of hand. If it’s good, they lean back in their chair. If it stinks, they draw themselves up and pretend it’s a royal flush. Whatever. Almost everyone does somethin’ without thinkin’ about it—and most important, without knowin’ it. If you watch ’em, you can learn the signals.”
“That sounds like good advice. What’s the third rule?”
Loving grinned. “Set aside your cab fare home.”
“Well, well, well. Our esteemed piano player. Now this is a special occasion. Come in.”
Gordo escorted Ben inside his spacious South Tulsa apartment. The poker game floated; tonight it was at Gordo’s. His apartment was much nicer than Ben would have expected for a marginally employed guitar player. Fancy furniture, plus an ample outside porch with an impressive view of the city.
Gordo escorted Ben to the living room, where the other players were huddled around a green table. Cash was flying; chips were being distributed. In addition to Earl and the three musicians, Diane was present; she was wearing a black cap that read TOP GUN and smoking a long skinny cigar. Earl was shuffling, looking none the worse for wear despite all the stress of the past few days. Scat was wearing his trademark dark shades despite the fact that, if anything, it seemed a bit dark in the room. Denny was wearing a blue floral fishing cap, something like a tourist might wear in Hawaii.