Opening his briefcase, he took out several old black-and-white 8x10 photographs, publicity shots for the band. “That’s the Barnstormers. A big band: five reeds, four brass, piano, bass, and drums. That’s Mama at the microphone.” A tall, slim woman in a dated dress, old-timey hairdo. “She was beautiful,” I said.
“I thought so.” Jackson smiled. “The tall, thin fella next to her is Mr. Coley Barnes. Wonderful trumpet player. Sounded like a cross between Harry James and Louis Armstrong, only better. Played so fine that some folks said he’d been down to the crossroads.”
“The crossroads?” I asked.
“You know the old legend. Swapped his soul to the devil in trade for his talent. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but that man surely could play a trumpet. And the way things turned out, he maybe knew the devil by his first name.”
“What did happen, exactly?” I asked. “Artie said there was a robbery.”
Jackson nodded. “On the Gin Mill’s last Saturday night. The Barnstormers finished at two A.M. and the club emptied out. Afterward, a few folks hung around, drinkin’. Coley Barnes, my mama, some fellas from the band, old Cy Belknap. ’Course Cy wasn’t old then, wasn’t much more than a kid himself. Twenty, maybe. That’s Cy in this picture here.”
Jackson handed me a photo of the Gin Mill staff. Waiters, waitresses, black and white, all young, looking very proper in aprons, white shirts, bow ties. A lanky kid in a zoot suit stood at the rear. Glaring at the camera, hard-eyed. Trying to look older. Trying to look tough. I knew that feeling well. I passed the photo on to Artie.
“The way I heard it, Coley Barnes pulled a gun, made Cy empty the till. Pistol-whipped him, hurt him bad. Then Coley and the others took off. Took my mama with him. Nate Crowell, Guyton’s grandfather, was there that night. Just a kid, but he’d been drinkin’, too. When the trouble started he ran, fell down the stairs. Lost his sight. It was a terrible thing, all of it.”
“And your mother? Did she come back?”
“No, she never did. Or the others, either. They stayed gone, long gone.”
“Didn’t the police ever—?”
“Police weren’t called into it. Cy Belknap was pretty bitter about what happened. Maybe he had a right to be. Wouldn’t talk about it after, not to police or anybody else. With the A-bomb dropping on Japan and the war ending, nobody worried much about a gin-mill stickup. But there were rumors...”
“What kind of rumors?”
“You have to understand what those times were like. A lot of local rednecks resented blacks getting wartime factory jobs. Both the KKK and Black Legion had chapters here. There was talk maybe Coley and the others were caught by the Klan, lynched, and buried in the pineywoods. Maybe that’s why they never came back.”
“Do you think that’s possible?” Artie asked.
“I don’t know, and it’s a terrible thing not knowing the truth.” Reverend Jackson sighed. “Which is worse, Mr. Shea? Thinking your mama might have been killed all those years ago? Or that she stayed gone because she cared more for her trumpet-playin’ man than her own children?”
I had no answer for him. But I often thought of Reverend Jackson in the following weeks. The pain of loss in his eyes, even after all the time that had passed. It’s not fair. Good memories fade away while bad ones sting forever, painful as ripping a bandage off an open wound.
But I was too busy to worry about Jackson for long. The remodeling was going well. I was sure we could meet the Christmas deadline for phase one. If we didn’t get fired.
Olympia Belknap and I were checking over the condominium plans when the doorway darkened. Huge guy standing there, ancient as an oak and nearly as tall. Black suit, white shirt, a cane clutched in one gnarled fist.
“Grandfather?” Pia said, surprised. “What are you doing here? Mr. Shea, this is my husband’s grandfather—”
“Cyrus Belknap,” I finished for her, offering the old gentleman my hand. “I saw your picture the other day.”
“Who the hell are you?” the old man asked, ignoring my hand. “Pia’s new boyfriend?”
“No, sir,” I said, taken aback by his hostility. “I’m—”
“Mr. Shea is the contractor I hired to renovate the building, Grandfather. I told you about him.”
“And I told you to stay the hell away from this place! It’s a bad place, no decent woman should be here. I want these men gone, right now! All of them!”
“Grandfather, be reasonable. I explained my plans—”
“Your plans? You have no right to make plans. This is my building, and—” He broke off suddenly, listening. “What’s that noise?”
With all the construction clatter outside, I wasn’t certain which one he meant.
“It’s just men working, sir. We’re planing down the doors to—”
He waved me to silence, cocking his head to hear the hallway racket better, his eyes flicking back and forth, anger and fear battling in them.
Fear won. He turned and stalked away without another word.
I glanced the question at Olympia.
“Bob’s grandfather,” she said ruefully. “He’s a handful sometimes.”
Pia had shrugged off the old man’s ravings, so I did, too. I shouldn’t have.
A few days later I was on the phone arguing with a supplier when I got a call on my other line. Olympia Belknap.
“Something has come up, Mr. Shea,” she said brusquely. “We need to talk. Can you come to my home, please?”
“Um, sure. When?”
“Now,” she snapped.
Oh.
I hate those calls. Every contractor gets them, and it’s never good news. Usually it means your guys have screwed something up, or your client wants to make big changes or re-haggle your price.
Sometimes it’s even worse. Financing has fallen through, somebody’s filed a lawsuit, your client’s got cancer and wants to die in Tahiti. Bad stuff.
So far, Pia Belknap had been an ideal client. She stayed in touch, visiting the job site often, but never for long. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t shy about saying so. The only change she’d asked for was restoring the Gin Mill instead of converting it, which actually made our job easier.
Which was too bad. Because that meant any problem requiring an emergency meeting had to be dead serious.
I’d never been there before, but the Belknap home was familiar. It was one of the hillside beauties I’d admired from the roof of the Gin Mill — a three-story Georgian Colonial manor high on a bluff overlooking the lakeshore. Square and imposing, it had a magnificent view of the lake and town. Very handsome. Very pricey.
A maid answered my ring. Directed me to the library. I trotted up the broad staircase, taking it all in. A two-story foyer, Tiffany chandeliers, classic mix-and-match furniture, mostly leather. Elegant but homey. Old money.
Pia wasn’t alone in the library. A guy in a suit was seated at a writing desk, looking over some paperwork. Mid sixties, sleek, with silver hair; his jacket probably cost more than my truck. He didn’t even look up when I came in.
Cy Belknap was there, too, standing off near the fireplace, gazing out the French doors that opened onto an observation deck with a panoramic view of Malverne and the lake. His frame was shrunken, his slacks and flannel shirt hung on him like death-camp pajamas, but when the old man looked me over it wasn’t a comfortable experience. His face was puckered and drawn, but his stare was hawk fierce.
“I remember you,” he muttered.
“It’s all right, Dad, I’ll handle this,” the man at the desk said, closing the file with a flourish. “Mr. Shea, I’m R.J. Belknap, Olympia’s father-in-law. I’m sorry to call you in on such short notice, but I’ve been away. I spend most of my time in Washington these days, serving on the President’s Council of Economic Advisors.”