William Bernhardt - Extreme Justice - A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

“You bet your sweet mama’s pajamas. Jazz.” He pronounced the word as if it had about sixteen syllables. “Now what in the name of Thelonius Monk does what you were cuttin’ have to do with jazz?”

“Variety is the spice of life.”

“Maybe in vaudeville, but not in Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium.” He reached out. “C’mere, Ben. Walk with me.”

Ben pushed himself to his feet. “Should I bring my music?”

“Definitely not.”

Ben jumped off the stage and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the huge black man’s right arm. Earl steered him toward the exit doors on the east side of the club. They stepped out into the sunlight of a bright April day.

The club was located on the North Side of Tulsa in the heart of Greenwood, the city’s jazz district. Several clubs, studios, shops, and bars flanked Uncle Earl’s on all sides. In one direction, just a few blocks away, Ben saw the time-honored Mt. Zion Church, a cherished historical icon for the black community in North Tulsa. In the opposite direction, he could see the skyline of the ultramodern, spanking fresh campus of Rogers University. Quite a contrast.

“Now you look here,” Earl said, spinning Ben. around like a top. “I know you can play jazz. You’ve been handlin’ yourself real nice these past few months, ’specially considerin’ you’ve got the only white face in the combo. You’ve got a smooth two-hand rhythm style; you know how to make that piano sing like a canary. So what was that all about?”

Ben shrugged awkwardly. “I just thought if I was going to audition for a solo spot, I might try something … different.”

Earl peered at him with eyes like daggers. “You mean somethin’ that means a little more to you than jazz?”

“No, no,” Ben answered, a bit too hastily. “I love jazz. I do. I mean—”

“Some of your best friends are jazz players?”

“Well—yes, they are.”

Earl laid his hand firmly on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to turn grapes into wine. “Look here, Ben. I like you, so I’m gonna take a minute to tell you what’s what. Savvy?”

Ben nodded.

“Jazz ain’t somethin’ you do jus’ ’cause you can, or ’cause you need work, or ’cause you like hangin’ out in clubs. If you want to be a jazzman, you got to feel it deep down, in the core of your soul. In the marrow of your bones.”

“I could feel that.”

Earl grinned. “I don’t think you’re listenin’ to me, son. It ain’t somethin you could do. It’s somethin’ you do ’cause you ain’t got no choice. It’s a part of you, like an arm or a leg. You got to listen to that jukebox thumpin’ away inside your chest. I mean, really listen!” He paused, licking his broad lips. “Look, son, I don’t know what you did before you came to my club, but I bet it wasn’t playin’ jazz licks.”

“True.”

“Personally, I never thought no white boy had any business playin’ jazz anyway. Some of you do a pretty nice imitation, but it ain’t the same, you know? It ain’t the truth. To be a real jazzman, you got to suffer. You got to hurt. You got to hurt so bad you got to work your axe just to send all the pain away for a little while.”

“Maybe I should’ve worn a cast to the audition.”

“I think I’m not makin’ my point.” Earl swayed when he talked, as if he was speaking to the beat of some unheard syncopated rhythm. “Let me ask you a question, Ben. Do you understand the meaning of jazz?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Do you get it?”

Ben squirmed awkwardly. “Mmm … well … maybe you could explain it to me.”

Earl held up a finger. “Now you see, that’s the problem. It’s like ol’ Satchmo said, ‘If you gots to ask, you’ll never know.’ ”

“Not even a hint?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin. Sure, it’s about sufferin’, but everyone suffers. It’s more than that. It’s about findin’ the answers, findin’ some peace within yourself. It’s about knowin’ who to trust, who’s lookin’ out for you. It’s about harmony, about findin’ out what really matters in the cosmic scheme of things. It’s about learnin’ to believe.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Look, it ain’t somethin’ I can explain. It’s somethin’ where you just wake one morning, and all of the sudden you know.”

“Look, Earl, I can learn any piece of music you give me—”

“I know you can, Ben. Like I said, you got a real nice way with that keyboard. You remind me of some of the all-time great piano professors—Tuts Washington, Huey Smith, Allen Toussaint, Art Tatum. But that ain’t the point. If your heart tells you you’d rather be playing this … this … Harry …” He wiped his brow again. “Oh, hell. What do you call that stuff anyway?”

“Folk music.”

“Folk music?” Earl began to laugh, a deep hearty bowl-full-of-jelly laugh. “Well, blow me over. That’s one I ain’t heard in a while.” He tried to suppress his grin and get serious, although Ben could see it was a struggle. “So anyway, if your heart says you should be playin’ this … folk music, that’s what you got to do.”

“This isn’t exactly a renaissance period for folk music.”

“It don’t matter, son. Listen to me. It don’t matter what the other folks are doin’. It don’t matter what they want you to be. You got to be who you are.” He jammed his handkerchief back in his pocket and steered Ben toward the club. “Your problem, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, is that you ain’t figured out yet who you are.”

Ben tried to smile. “Thank you, Uncle Sigmund.”

Chapter 2

BY THE THIRD time he had dropped the corpse, he was ready to call it a day. Nothing could possibly be worth this much trouble. Could it?

It wasn’t as easy as it looked. He had learned that the hard way. When she was still alive, even just barely, when he stripped her clothes and put her on the bed within the circle of candles, he had no trouble moving her. But something happened to bodies once that last vestige of life trickled away. Once the fonky cat played her last note and Gabriel’s horn started beckoning, the body changed. It became heavy, unmanageable, all loosey-goosey. It flipped, it flopped, and it weighed a ton.

Getting her down the stairs had been the worst. He should have just rolled her down, but at the time, that had seemed a bit callous. Her natural beauty would undoubtedly have been marred by a deadweight run down two flights of stairs. Of course, now it was apparent that her natural beauty was fading fast, stairs or not. By tonight, by the time of the big show, he expected she would be something altogether gruesome.

Anyway, she was down the stairs, but he still had to get her into the van and into the club. He had to set the stage carefully to produce the desired effect. He needed some way to contain her, some way to make her more manageable.

He laughed. Not that she had ever been particularly manageable—even when she was alive. She had always had the upper hand. But now that she was dead, dead, dead, he had a distinct advantage.

He noticed the area rug in the center of the living room. Hadn’t he seen that in a movie once—rolling a corpse up in a rug? It seemed like it would work. It would keep her tragic deterioration from prying eyes, and it would hold her together so he could get her where she needed to go. It would require some alteration of his cover story, but so what? With all the hustle and bustle surrounding the anniversary show, he was certain no one would take much notice.

He bent down, placed one hand against her back and the other against her buttocks, and pushed. Fortunately, the hardwood floor had been recently varnished; she scooted along smooth as Red Tyler’s fingertips. Soon he had her positioned on the rug, and a few minutes after that, he had the rug wrapped tightly around her.