Felix kept mopping. The blues played on. Old rhythms returned.
“ALIAS has lost his mind,” I said, and told him about my run-in with Trey Brill and what I learned from Teddy. “This morning, before I picked up the tables and chairs, he told me a dead man had come to visit him in the night.”
“Maybe it happened.”
“Hell no,” I said. “I’m done. Teddy can deal with him the way he wants.”
“Look deeper,” JoJo said.
“Oh, come on, JoJo,” I said. “That kid conned you and me and Loretta. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
He looked at me. His brown eyes looked heavy with the creased skin around them. “I don’t waste time,” he said. “There’s more to Tavarius. That kid is all right.”
“Maybe he killed Malcolm too,” I said. “He made up a damned good lie about folks ripping him off. He’s so smart, JoJo. I mean, that kid can lie.”
“Easy when you do that,” JoJo said, standing from the bar. “Ain’t it?”
“What’s that?” I said, enjoying the beer and watching Felix mop.
“Handin’ off your troubles.”
“Why are you on his side?” I said. “You were through with him too.”
JoJo settled into his seat, the jukebox cutting on to a new record. He watched the blank row of old brick as he used to when a mirror hung there. He took a sip of beer.
“I was wrong.”
“Come on.”
He opened his wallet and folded down two hundred-dollar bills on the table before me.
“Found it in my jacket last night,” he said. “Tavarius was tellin’ the truth and I shut him out.”
JoJo left me there to think with the folded bills.
And I did for a long time.
60
At sunset, I ran down St. Charles, turned onto Canal past all the camera shops and jewelry stores, and wound my way to the Aquarium, where I followed the Riverwalk downriver. I passed the vagrants sleeping on rocks still warm from the sun and watched rats skittering through overflowing trash cans. I almost tripped on one as it ran back with a hot dog in its mouth and headed into the rocks along the Mississippi. My Tulane football shirt was soaked in sweat. I tried to slow my breathing and pick up my pace as I stopped at the Governor Nichols Street Wharf. I put my hands on top of my head and noticed everything turn a murky gold and red. The brick and stucco of the old buildings of the Quarter softening.
I decided to cut back through the old district, before the streets became flooded with cars and tourists. I jogged my way down Royal Street, looking up at the scrolled ironwork on JoJo and Loretta’s old apartment, and wound my way around a street musician who used his dog to pick up tips with its mouth.
I wondered if Annie could do that.
She’d probably take the cash and then piss on their foot.
I slowed, made a couple of cuts, and found myself at the old Woolworth’s and a blank stretch of Bourbon. Where Bourbon met Canal, I heard a brass band of teenagers running through the standard “Somebody Is Taking My Place.”
Trombones and trumpets. A skinny kid with an overpowering dented tuba.
All of them were black and wearing T-shirts and shorts.
A little girl, about four, walked around with a shoebox filled with loose coins.
I stopped. Caught my breath.
In the fading light of the day, all gold and dark blue, in this unremarkable little stretch of the Quarter, a half-dozen kids entertained about twenty people. They rolled through “Saints” and took a big finish with some really wonderful solos.
Just when you grew to hate New Orleans with all its dark places and overwhelming violence, you saw something like a bunch of ragtag kids making some spectacular music. I wondered about the violence and the art and how it all fit together.
I felt bad when the little girl walked past me and I didn’t have change in my jogging shorts. I showed her my empty palms and shrugged. She scowled and turned her back to me.
Suddenly the band broke into a song I knew. A heavy funk with the tuba working the hell out of the beat.
I started tapping my foot, the light fading to black all around us.
My smile stopped. My face flushed.
They were playing ALIAS.
61
I spent the next morning at the New Orleans Police Department flipping through the missing persons file of Calvin Antoine Jacobs, aka Dio. In the empty office of a desk sergeant who was friends with Jay, I made notes onto a yellow legal pad. I read through interviews with Teddy and Malcolm, other rappers who knew Dio, and a couple that saw him taken away outside Atlanta Nites by two men in ski masks. One reported he heard a muffled pop from inside a black van. I read back through the interview with Malcolm. He talked about the man’s talent and some folks in Calliope he feared. The name Cash was mentioned several times. But Malcolm was their suspect.
Still nothing. Not what I’d hoped to find.
Jay popped his head in and asked if I wanted to go to lunch at Central Grocery.
I declined.
“You must be sick,” he said. “Life is a bag of Zapp’s.”
“This report doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “It just kind of drops.”
“When someone goes missing, not a lot you can do, bra. You know how many people just disappear in New Orleans every year?”
“You know how many should?”
“You heard from that street freak that was harassing you?”
I shook my head.
“Look out for yourself,” he said.
I peered down at my legal pad and some notes I’d made. About thirty minutes later, I found a vending machine and drank a Barq’s. I ate some Oreos. I walked down a linoleum hall and let myself back into the records room.
What bothered me was that no family members had been interviewed about this guy. When I researched someone, often that was the first place I’d go. Who knows someone best but his own people?
I asked the sergeant – a burly white-haired man who kept a screen saver of George W. Bush on his computer – for an explanation. He stood, his back to the thin walls of pressed wood, where he’d hung photos of himself with three German shepherds sitting at his feet.
“Was he a transient?” he asked.
“No.”
“Who’d we find?”
“People he worked with.”
He nodded.
“He has an address that shows a place on Lakeshore Drive,” I said. “But I know he’d been in prison. Why isn’t there anything about that in the record?”
