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“I’m getting it on, brother, getting it on. Almost felt like old days there for a few minutes.” He closed his eyes, lifted his head, and shook it gently. “Oh, yeah, there were some great times back there twenty years ago. Memories, yeah, I have some great memories.”

Sadler knew that Shortchops was on something. He didn’t know what and he didn’t want to know. The five of them were making good music together. It was a traditional Dixieland group: trumpet, clarinet, bass, trombone, and banjo. Sometimes they doubled with drums, piano, even a saxophone, and a tuba.

Sadler was thirty-two years old, young for a Dixieland man, but the oldest man in his SEAL platoon. He was a tough six feet two, married to Sylvia, and had no children. He had a thin face, heavy brows, a muscled body, and a whiteside, flattop brown haircut reminiscent of the 1940s. His blue eyes took in everything he saw like a camera.

Sadler gave Shortchops a high five, and they went into the back room. The place smelled of stale tobacco smoke, the sweat of dozens of musicians over the years, and a whiff of Lysol. Sadler watched Shortchops. He was the only black in their group. Six months ago he had been a patron of the club, sitting in with them from time to time. Then the U.S. Navy had transferred their bass player to Norfolk. They’d asked Shortchops to become a regular, and he’d fit like the middle finger of a glove. Sadler had no idea how old he was, maybe seventy-five. He was so thin, it looked like his white shirt would fall off his shoulders. They all wore identical ties, blue vertical-striped jackets, and flat white straw hats. Sadler was sure that the jacket sleeves of Shortchops covered up needle marks, but as long as he played the way he did tonight, nobody was going to ask him about drugs. The rest of them were clean.

Steve Rawlings was fifty-five, and hit the bottle a little hard now and then, but he could play his trombone as well drunk as he could sober. He worked in the post office, and had a beer gut that hung over his belt. He still wore a crew cut from his Navy days, and had two kids he put through college.

Dick Andrews, on clarinet, was fifty-one, and a lay preacher at his church. He had slicked-back black hair, a full beard, and was a singer for the group. He could have been great if he’d started his music earlier. Now he played for the love of it.

Tom Peterson, on banjo, was fifty-five, the band’s leader and business manager. He worked as a stockbroker by day. He was a large man, just over six-five, and built like a concrete block. He had a grin you remembered all day.

It was their midnight break, and Sadler checked out the tray of sandwiches the kitchen always provided. They specialized in triangular white-bread tuna fish that was the best Sadler had ever had. They put chopped-up nuts in the mix.

“We was rollin’ tonight,” Shortchops said. He grabbed a sandwich and ignored the bottles of beer. “Got to hit the head,” he said. Sadler watched him go. He’d come back a little higher and ready to wail. He must have his drugs stashed somewhere in the bathroom, or maybe just in his pocket.

Sadler grinned as Shortchops came back five minutes later with a black woman. She was maybe twenty, Sadler figured. Had on a skirt that barely covered her panties, fishnet stockings, and a blouse that showed half of one breast. He could smell her perfume from across the room. Poison maybe, or Obsession.

“One of my ladies,” Shortchops said. “Wanted to see you’all, a real live Dixie-shit band. Now you seen them, baby, let’s move.”

She turned and one bare breast popped out of her blouse. She looked down and giggled. “Well, look at that. Miss Boob here wants to say hi, too.”

Shortchops turned her around. “Baby, this ain’t no tit show. Let’s get to the important stuff.” He looked back, grinned at them, and angled her out the door.

After their twenty-minute break, the band was halfway through “Too Tired in New Orleans” when Shortchops came in late and grabbed his bass. His face was bright, his grin wide, and he latched onto the next sixteen with a crazy and wild beat that went beyond syncopation. That run proved to Sadler again that each jazz musician, and especially each Dixieland cat, became his own composer. Their group never played the same number the same way twice. Each man had a turn at a wailing solo, and the true fans of Dixieland gloried in the variety and diversity that these improvised riffs brought to their music.

The Gaslamp Dixieland Band played for another hour, and Sadler noticed that Shortchops was not looking good. He missed his solo twice, and had trouble giving them a solid beat with his whanging on the long strings. He seemed distracted or worried about something. Sadler saw Shortchops watching the side door that led off the small stage they played on. Then he looked at the front door. A half hour before they were due to stop playing, Shortchops picked up his bass and left the stage. Sadler thought the bass player looked angry. The tall black man had never bugged out early before.

They played through to the two o’clock closing hour, and finished with their theme song, “It’s Been a Long Night Coming.”

Before the band members had their instruments put away, two men in suits came in. Sadler figured they could only be cops. Sure enough, they flashed San Diego Police Department badges and said they wanted to talk to the band.

“Talk? What about?” Sadler asked.

“We ask the questions,” the tall detective said. He told them his name was Petroff. He had a thin, angular face with deep sunken eyes that were almost black. “Were any of you in the alley behind the club tonight?”

Dick Andrews, the clarinet player, nodded. “Yeah, I parked out there tonight, way down at the end. Hope my car hasn’t been trashed.”

“Wouldn’t know about that,” Petroff said. “You go into the alley between parking it and now?”

“No.”

“Anybody else been back there?”

The other three shook their heads.

“We’ve got a problem. A young black woman dressed like a prostitute. A friend with her said the girl came into the club by the back door. Said she knew one of the musicians. She came back and said she had taken a pop of heroin, and then she sat down in the alley. They talked, and five minutes later the girl was dead on an OD. We want to know who gave her the stuff.”

The second detective frowned. He was short, and as he took off his jacket, his white shirt showed wet spots under his arms. His tie had been loosened and he was fifty pounds overweight. He didn’t tell them his name. Sweat moistened his face and fought with a heavy dash of mint-smelling aftershave.

“Where the hell is the fifth guy?” he asked. “I was in here last week and five of you played. Yeah, a black guy, older than most of you. Where’s the cat who banged on the bass?”

“He went home early,” Anderson said.

“Yeah?” the fat detective asked. “Was he wasted? Was he on drugs?”

“I never saw him do any drugs,” Sadler said.

The cop looked at the rest of them. They all said the same thing.

“Did you see a black girl in a short skirt come into the club tonight?” Petroff asked.

“Oh, damn,” Tom Peterson said. “Yeah, we all saw her. Short plastic skirt that barely covered her and a yellow blouse.”

The detectives looked at each other. Petroff took over. “All right, just relax, everyone. This could take some time. We’re going to take statements from all of you. One at a time. You, sir, will be first.” He pointed at Steve. “The rest of you go out into the club with Detective Lasiter. I know it’s late, so we’ll do this as quickly as possible.” He took out a small notebook and looked at Steve.

“Now, give me your name, address, work and home phone numbers, and then tell me exactly what happened when the black girl came in.”

Sadler and the other two musicians went into the club. It was a half hour after closing. A waitress brought them coffee on the house. She looked frightened. This little club always smelled like beer. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t a grungy beer bar. But the hops-and-malt scent hung heavy in the air. At least there was no smoking allowed.