Out of the Blues (8 page)

S
alt averted her face and put a hand up to shield her eyes from the headlights of the bus belching gray fumes as it made the turn and pulled up to the curb alongside the downtown Homefront Hotel. She held on to the hem of her coat as the wind picked up and the rain turned to a full downpour. She left the Taurus on a yellow curb and went to wait under the hotel's overhead marquee that advertised in large black plastic letters the “MIDNIGHT SPECIAL.”

The bus came to a stop and lights came on inside, revealing a pale, lanky-tall man framed by the large front side window, standing and looking out in Salt's direction. The rest of the passengers stood and began reaching for the overhead storage bins. The accordion doors opened. She recognized Bailey Brown's deep voice. “It's a rainy night in Georgia.” A taller dark-skinned man was the first down the steps and out the door. “I feel like it's raining all over the world,” he harmonized. The musicians stretched and yawned as they stumbled out and into the hotel. The only white guy, the one who'd been looking out the window, walked from the front of the bus through its lit interior looking side to side at the vacant seats. He bent over one of the
seats, picked up something palm-sized, stuffed it in his jeans, made his way back to the front of the bus, and pushed out the door as the youngest-looking of the band called to him from the hotel entrance. “You got the dog?” The guy hitched his jeans beneath a “DUDE” T-shirt and gave the kid a thumbs-up as he came under the marquee, watching a scruffy bellman push a flat dolly toward the luggage compartment on the underside of the bus.

“Where's the dog?” Salt asked, stepping toward him.

Dan Pyne turned to face her. “What? Oh, just a joke.” He gave her a friendly but quick smile, shrugged, and turned his attention back to the bellman, who was hurriedly loading the instruments and cases onto the dolly. Pyne fast-stepped over to steady one precariously perched guitar case. As he escorted the bellman and dolly toward the door, Salt intercepted him again. “Dan Pyne?”

Pyne turned, tucking shoulder-length hair behind his ears.

She slung a few drops of rain from her fingers and offered her hand. “Detective Alt, Atlanta Police.”

“Detective?” Pyne touched his left palm to his jeans as he took her hand.

“I'm a homicide detective,” she said, attempting to be reassuring—that he didn't have to worry about the perhaps illegal herb in his pocket.

Pyne glanced at her, his eyes lingering just a half second longer on the scar that ran through her hair, now wet and flattened by the soaking rain. “Homicide,” he repeated.

“Mike Anderson,” she said.

He looked out at the night and the rain. “My God.”

“Can I buy you coffee?” she asked.

“Since you've tracked me down you must know I play guitar with this bunch, but I also do the road managing, so I have to get us checked in.”

She ran a hand through her hair, slinging off some of the water. “There's a bar inside. How about if you meet me there in fifteen minutes?”

“Mike.” He shook his head. “My God,” he repeated.

“Fifteen minutes?” she said.

He held the door for the waiting bellman and the gear, “Yeah,” he said, managing to also hold the door for her. She paused, just for a second, walked through the door into the dim lobby and down a hall where she knew the ladies' room to be.

—

T
HE
H
OMEFRONT
was a sad substitute for a home. Not quite a fleabag place, but probably better than sleeping on the bus, although not by much. A cloying, deodorizer smell emanated from the carpet, intensifying when stepped on.

By this time of night the hotel bar patrons had thinned to a couple of sad hookers in a corner. Salt sat facing the entrance at a small table against the wall. Pyne wound his way over. “How'd you get your hair dry?” He pulled out the leatherette chair.

“Restroom hand dryer.” She tugged at the one curl that covered the scar.

“I've used them a time or two for that.” He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “Life on the road and all.”

“In the street, on the road,” she said.

A bleary-eyed waitress in all black left a barstool and came to their table.

“Coffee for me,” said Salt.

“How long will this take?” Dan asked Salt.

“Depends. I don't know how much you can tell me.”

“I'm too tired for coffee and I don't like to drink alone.” He looked up at the waitress. “I'll just have water.”

“One coffee and one water,” repeated the waitress, dropping her arms. “Will that be on the rocks or straight up? With or without lemon?” She turned to begin her slow trek to the bar, clearly not very excited about the late-night big spenders.

“Wait,” Salt said to the waitress. “How 'bout a brandy?” she asked Dan.

He nodded.

“Two brandies.”

The waitress clicked her pen and stepped toward the bar with just a bit more energy.

Salt shrugged off the coat and pulled her damp shirt collar out from the black linen jacket that concealed the leather shoulder holster and .38. “Where's the dog?”

Dan gave her a quizzical grin, eyebrows raised, his mouth in a twist. “I left him with Mustafa.”

“Funny, you seem slimmer without him.” She kept a sense of humor about weed.

The waitress set the drinks on napkins in front of them.

Dan patted around for the cigarettes in his jeans pocket, pulled one out, lit it, and then looked up. “Do you mind?” he asked, sliding the ashtray from the center of the table, ready to put it out.

“I've got my own.” She went into a pocket of the coat. “I carry them mostly to give away. Makes talking easier for some folks. I don't smoke, but I don't mind if you do.”

She put her giveaway smokes on the table next to his. “About Mike,” she said.

“Of course. It was me that found him, his body. That's why you're here, that and Melissa.” Dan took a draw on the cigarette. “Do you listen to the music, the blues?”

“Some.” The light in the bar was low. As he talked, she leaned forward.

“He was the best, could have been the best-known bluesman of our time, bigger than Hendrix even. When I met him, I was living with friends in Inman Park, near Little Five. Were you around then? It was alive. Not all the rich, phony kids that come there now pretending they're somehow living on the edge. One day I was at that old laundromat on Moreland. I guess it's something else now. Mike came in wearing a bathrobe, that bathrobe, I swear.” The smoke from his cigarette curled into the air above the table candle, and he looked up as it projected the past.

“I knew who he was right off.” Dan sat back up, returning his focus. “And me, I'm not shy, California boy originally. I went over while he was putting his clothes in the machine. I just wanted to tell him how much I admired his playing. He was so warm, shook my hand, said thanks, and asked if I had any quarters for the wash. We started talking about the blues. Turned out he was living about a block from where I did. After that we started hanging out. We both just loved the music.” The corners of his mouth drew up a fraction to an almost smile.

“I'd been listening to the blues since I was nine or ten. I was twenty-five when I met Mike, playing guitar and doing the sound setups for a couple of local clubs.” Dan blew out a long breath, then took a sip of brandy.

“Why after all these years is a homicide detective interested? I thought the cause of his death was officially an accidental drug overdose.” He leaned over the candle in the middle of the sticky table.

“Officially, it still is. But a con, who's in the federal prison system and trying to make a deal to cut his time, gave us information that Mike Anderson's death may not have been accidental or a suicide.”

Dan shook his head. “I thought at the time that things didn't add up.”

“What things?” Salt picked up her pack of cigarettes.

“He cared about the music but he didn't care about performing.
I think he felt bad about getting so much attention when so many of the old bluesmen were practically starving. He did use, heroin, sometimes other stuff. He'd drink and do drugs. But he loved, loved, loved the music. He wanted to help the old blues musicians, wanted them to get the respect they deserved. It seemed at times like he was on a mission. He was especially protective of several of the real roots folks. I don't know—maybe the best word to describe him right before he died was focused. I just couldn't imagine that he'd wanted to die, but also I couldn't imagine anybody wanting him dead—everybody loved Mike. Accidental seemed the most reasonable explanation.”

“Where did he get his drugs? Did he have someone regular he'd score from?” She shook out a smoke.

“He had some very skeevy people hanging around, people telling him how much he could do for the blues. Also he had some bad guys in his band, talented but bad. There were parts of his life that I didn't know about. Stuff from his old neighborhood, parents, church, and clubs he went to after hours. But here's another thing—when Melissa and I would say something about being scared of heroin, Mike always said that he was careful; that he never bought off the street, only from one guy so he could be sure of the strength of the pop—that it wouldn't be too little or too much.”

“Do you know who he bought from?”

“It was a long time ago. I guess I've tried not to think about it.”

She lit the cigarette.

“You found out I just happened to be coming through Atlanta with the band?”

Salt inhaled once and put the cigarette in the ashtray. “The Internet is a wonderful thing. Brings the whole world a little closer.”

“I thought detectives had partners.” He shook out another smoke, turning it over and over through his fingers.

The dim bar was empty now except for the two of them, the
waitress, and the bartender. “I don't have a partner because they assigned me to a cold case.” She took off her jacket. “And my sergeant probably doubts there's any truth in what this perp alleges anyway.”

“Nice gun. How'd you get the scar?”

“Which one?”

“The only one I can see.” He pointed to her scalp.

“I got it when words didn't work. Thanks.” She patted the gun, then touched the scar. “Gunshot.”

The doors from the lobby swung open, the dark bar briefly brightening and suddenly seeming a lot smaller as the other members of the band ambled in and came over. “Dan, our man,” Bailey said as if to claim him.

The big, tall guy put a hand on Dan's shoulder. “You in trouble?” he said, looking at Salt and her gun.

“Detective Alt, these guys are the Old Smoke Band.” He pointed to them one by one. “Bailey, Pops, Blackbird, Goldie, and Mustafa.” Each offered his hand.

“I'm Sarah. Nice to meet you. I'm a fan,” she said with a broad smile, taking each hand in turn.

The men pulled up another tiny table and some chairs, hunkered down, and called to the sad waitress for whiskey.

“Sarah?” Dan looked at her.

Goldie scooted his chair closest to the detective. “What's that you've got there?” He winked at the rest of the guys. “Thirty-eight special?” he pointed his thumb at her chest.

She met him tooth for grinning tooth. “Why, with all your experience, Goldie, I would think your guess would be better than that.”

“She got you, Goldie. She got you.” Blackbird laughed loud and slapped his knee. “Time out, foul on the play.”

“Shut up, Goldie. Mind your manners. Why you think you God's gift to every woman?” Bailey frowned.

“Why, because I could be. There's plenty of me to go 'round.”

“Mr. Brown,” she said, “I especially like ‘Time Is Not on My Side.'”

The heavy man beamed. “Now, that ol' stuff—I didn't think anybody listened to that anymore.” He kept on smiling.

Blackbird again cut to the chase. “So what's Dan in trouble for? What do the poleese want with him?” He looked over the room, not at her, as if trouble could come from anywhere.

“I was just explaining to Dan. I'm trying to clear up some loose ends on Mike Anderson's death.”

“Now, that's something else that was a long time ago,” Bailey Brown said, dragging out the last three words. “I played some of the same gigs Mike played. He made the managers and producers hire the old guys.”

“Have things changed much since then?” Salt asked.

“Blues ain't changed in fifty years,” Bailey answered. “Not since B.B. came out of Memphis, not since Muddy 'n them, Wolf, out of Chicago. A' course them British guys took it to rock and got it famous thataway, but the actual blues, well, just a few young folks, like Mike, kept to the ol' blues.” Bailey sipped some of his whiskey, smacking his lips with an “Ah.” “Boy could play the blues, but he had some nasty characters he sometimes played with and some people around him that I wouldn't have trusted. Goldie, didn't you know some of them south side guys?”

Goldie, holding up his glass to get the waitress for a refill, said, “That's a long time ago. I didn't keep up with any of them. But that reminds me.” Goldie pulled his phone, started punching at it, then left the bar.

Bailey stared into his glass. “Always been rough in the blues, and now days most of these kids don't realize all that hip-hop and rap come out of the blues. They think they first to invent rough. They tellin' they stories, and them's some scary stories all right. But underneath is the
blues. They was rappin' in Africa. James Brown was rappin'. Ain't nothin' new.”

“Mustafa, didn't I see you when you played with the Morehouse group at the blues festival last year?” Salt said, turning to the young man.

“What were you doing there? Bustin' guys for smoking ganja?” Mustafa seemed to work at tough.