“They said they want to talk to all of us,” the waitress, with the name tag of Bunny, shrilled, not able to keep her voice down. “Christ, we’ll be here all night.”
Sadler sipped his coffee and tried to think what the SEAL training sked was for tomorrow. No, it was for today now. Damn. They had only been back to duty for two weeks since they got home from the last mission in the Philippines. They’d all taken three-day leaves and come back rested and ready. He grinned. Murdock and DeWitt had both been on local television. That mission had not been covert, and the press was all over it from the start. The story was picked up nationally, and the two officers had their fifteen minutes of fame.
Yesterday DeWitt had been officially transferred to another platoon as the commander. Good. He deserved it. They still had to find a replacement for Franklin, who got himself shot dead in the Philippines. Also, they needed a new officer to lead Bravo. Both officers had wounds from the mission. Murdock had had a bullet tear through his left arm, but it wasn’t serious. DeWitt had had a slug dig into his right leg. Both would stay on duty.
Canzoneri was the worst hit, with a bad wound high in his shoulder. He had been in Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego, and would be barred from any serious training for another week.
Then it was Sadler’s turn to be questioned. This was a new experience for him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Your name?” Petroff asked.
Sadler told him: name, rank, and serial number.
“Navy. I did one hitch. What unit?”
“Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, Coronado, sir.”
“A SEAL. A good outfit. Now tell me about the girl.”
“What’s all this flap about a hooker? Don’t they cash in quite often?”
The detective frowned. “Yeah, but this one is different. I recognized her right away. She’s famous, at least her father was. It was in the papers. She’s the only whore I know who inherited three and a half million dollars.”
“So why is she still whoring? If she’s a junkie, she could be in dreamland for the rest of her life.” Sadler scowled. “About the girl, yeah, she came in with Shortchops. I figured she was a hooker. One of her breasts popped out of her blouse and she laughed it off. Shortchops ushered her out and that’s the last time I saw her.”
“In your opinion, was Shortchops on drugs?”
“I’m no expert. But I’d say he was on something.”
“Did you see him take pills, snort, or shoot up with a hypodermic needle?”
“No, sir.”
“Not tonight?”
“Not tonight, not ever.”
“Is Shortchops a violent man?”
“No, sir. He’s soft, mellow. If he were drunk he’d be slobbering and crying. With drugs, I don’t know. He’s always been gentle and easy around me.”
“How often do you see Shortchops?”
“Once a week. But I miss some of our gigs. I do some traveling with the SEALs.”
“You were in the Philippines recently?”
“Yes. That one the papers went wild with.”
“You men did a great job over there. Thanks, Senior Chief. You’re free to go. I may want to talk to you again.”
The other three members of the band were on the sidewalk outside the club.
“Damn, looks like we’re going to need a new bass player,” Dick Andrews said.
“You think Shortchops is involved with that girl?” Sadler asked. “They never said she must have taken an overdose. Petroff said she was rich, just inherited three and a half million dollars.”
“No wonder they were spending time worrying about a hooker. This will be all over the papers tomorrow.”
“Probably,” Steve Rawlings, the trombone player, said. “I wonder if Shortchops had any part in what happened.”
“He does do drugs,” Peterson said. “Hell, I don’t know much about drugs. Just enough to stay the hell away from them.”
“Me, too,” Rawlings said. “We’re the wrong generation.”
Peterson looked at Sadler. “Hey, Sailor, you going to be in town Friday? We got promoted to the weekend. And a small pop in pay to $125 each a night.”
“Great, I’ll get here whenever we’re in town. Sometimes I don’t have time to call you.”
“Yeah, we play when you show,” Peterson said. “Always glad to have your trumpet. Look at the time. I’m heading for home.”
Sadler waved at them and angled across the street for his well-worn Buick. Sylvia would be worried. Usually he was home by this time. He always told her to go to sleep, but she never did. A few times she came to the club and had a sandwich and three or four Cokes. But that got old after a while. Great lady, but not much of a Dixieland buff. The Buick started on the first crank, and he drove toward the Coronado Bay Bridge and their condo.
A block down from the Basic Jazz Club, Shortchops Jackson watched from the front seat of his car as the police boiled around the front door and the alley. Suits all over the place. The ambulance rolled out of the alley with no lights and no siren. So she was dead. He’d been afraid of that. No rush now to get the body to the morgue.
Shortchops rubbed his hand across his face. She had been one fine lady. At eighteen Joisette Brown had been a knockout. Then some asshole boyfriend got her hooked on shit and she never came out of it. She moved in with him. He pimped for her and six other girls. Six months ago Shortchops had paid off the pimp with the quick thrust of a thin-bladed knife through his fancy red vest, through his two-hundred-dollar sport shirt, and halfway into his heart before Shortchops turned the blade and sliced it outward. The pimp had died in that alley within seconds. Shortchops had left the knife in the body. He had sauntered out of the darkness into the light and gone a half mile over to play his bass at the Basic Jazz Club.
After that, he had to take care of Joisette again. Her father never knew what happened to his beautiful daughter after she’d dropped out of San Diego State University a year ago. He couldn’t find her. She’d just vanished. Not the cops, the private eyes her father hired, nor her friends could find her.
She had stayed in Shortchops’s one-bedroom apartment in the worst part of town. Twice he had weaned her off heroin. Twice she’d gone back on it, and into the streets at night to make a few dollars to buy shit with. Then her father died, unexpectedly. The music world mourned his passing. There was a special on TV. Nobody spoke of his daughter, but his entire estate, valued at something like 3.5 million dollars, was left to Joisette Brown in his will. A close friend said he’d talked about changing his will, but never had. Shortchops read the story in the paper about the millionaire daughter who couldn’t be found. He dried out Joisette again, got her off drugs for a week, then told her about the money.
“Dad didn’t love me or he wouldn’t let me live like this,” she’d said in one of her more lucid moments. “Hell, I don’t know if I want his money or not. I want to make it on my own. I’m going to be a porn queen star. I could use that money to produce some porn videos on my own.” She had frowned. “Hell, no, too complicated. I’d blow it in week, give it away, gamble it. You get a lawyer and I’ll make out a will leaving everything to you. Then you keep me straight for a month and we’ll go to a lawyer and claim my money. As soon as the estate gets settled, I’ll give you a million dollars. After that you keep me with all the shit I want and a nice apartment where I can have friends in.” Shortchops had watched her. For a few minutes she had seemed almost happy.
They had the will made up by a lawyer, had it notarized, and it was legal and ironclad. Shortchops Jackson was the major heir to Joisette’s 3.5-million-dollar estate. That was a month ago. Her dad’s estate was still in probate, so he hadn’t seen any money.