“Well … that wasn’t the only thing.”
Ben looked at him sternly. “Earl, if I’m going to represent you, you need to tell me everything.”
Earl’s lips thinned. “I ’spect you’ve guessed already. What else would we fight about? A woman.”
“Lily Campbell?”
“You are a smart fellow, ain’t you, Ben? Why didn’t I notice that before?” He grinned, then returned to his story. “Lily was a hot number on the club circuit. Considered very high-tone. An up-and-comer. George had been tryin’ to date her for years, and to everyone’s surprise, he finally had some success. It was never as serious as he liked to think it was, at least not to her. She was a good-time girl, with a wild streak the size of the Grand Canyon. She liked bein’ seen with the famed Professor Hoodoo, but not so much that she stopped messin’ around with some of the other boys. Includin’ me.”
“And George didn’t like that.”
“No, he didn’t care for that one little bit. ’Specially when he caught the two of us buck naked in the orchestra pit. He kept it pent up for a while, but for some reason, when he and I came out onstage that night, somethin’ happened. I dunno—maybe it was too much better livin’ through chemistry. It was like a trigger went off inside his brain. He just exploded.”
“There was a fight?”
“Like you never saw before. We were like prizefighters up there, trying to smash each other’s brains out. Right up where everyone could see. The other boys in the band tried to break us up, and next thing you knew, they were fightin’, too. Some of the audience joined in and—well, it was a right regular brawl. Cops had to come out to break the mess up. But they did break it up, and everyone cooled off, and we all went home. It was over. Or so I thought, anyway.”
“What happened next?”
“What happened was—the next morning, George Armstrong turned up burned to a crispy critter and dead as vaudeville. And about a thousand witnesses recalled seein’ me onstage punchin his lights out, shoutin’ that if he didn’t leave me alone I—” Earl paused.
“You’d kill him?”
Earl nodded grimly. “Those were my unfortunate words. I didn’t mean it, of course—not like that, anyway. But all those witnesses didn’t know that. All they knew was I threatened George, beat him up—and the next day he was dead.”
“You said he had a self-destructive streak. Maybe he killed himself.”
“The thought occurred. But in such a horrible way? In a fire? No, I jus’ can’t believe it. He may have wanted pain, maybe even needed it. But no one needs it so much they set themselves on fire. It ain’t human. And besides, he couldn’ta carved that smile on his own face. It was murder, no two ways about it.”
“So the police arrested you.”
“Did they ever!”
“And the jury found you guilty. I’m surprised you only got twenty-two years.”
“Well, you see, Ben …” He swallowed. “Truth is, there was no trial.”
“What?”
“There was no trial… ’cause I copped a plea.”
Ben stared at him wordlessly.
“It seemed smart at the time. The lawyer they gave me told me it was the best thing I could do for myself.”
“But you said you were innocent!”
“I was. But everyone on God’s green earth thought I was guilty. And what with that big fight and all—well, it just didn’t look too good. I thought I’d get convicted murder one, and if that happened—”
“You’d get the death penalty.”
“A black man in a white town? You know it. The jury would probably be all white. I’d be a goner.” He pressed his two huge fists together. “As far as I could see, my choice was simple. Either plead innocent and die, or plead guilty, do some time, and have a life.”
“After twenty-two years.”
“Yeah. Twenty-two very long goddamn years. And they wouldn’t let me blow my stick the whole time. Not once in all those years I was in the joint. That’s why I don’t play no more, see. It ain’t that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t. I lost it. Twenty-two years was way too long to go without makin’ music. Whatever I had, I lost.”
Ben felt a horrible aching in the pit of his stomach. What a loss—an irreplaceable loss.
“When I got out of stir, I pulled together everything I had, called in some markers, and bought this place. Maybe I couldn’t play the music anymore, but at least I could surround myself with it.” He smiled slightly. “You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t buy a club.”
Ben knew he ought to say something, but the words escaped him. He kept dwelling on the loss, what his life would be like if one day the music was all gone, irretrievably gone. It was beyond measure. He couldn’t really conceive of it. All he could do was wallow in the horror of the thought.
He snapped himself out of it, forcing himself back into his investigator role. “Did you and Lily stay together?”
“Aw, hell, no. Soon as the cops got their grubby fingers on me, she was out of there. I never heard a thing from her till she called me up a couple days ago.”
“What did she say?”
“She was in town for a few days and heard through the grapevine that I had a club. Said she’d like to see it.” He paused. “Said she’d like to see me. I knew it was stupid to get my hopes up, after about a million years and all this weight I put on while I was trapped in my closet-sized cell in McAlester. But of course, I did anyway.”
“You were waiting for her last night.”
“I was expectin’ her to turn up, yeah. But not like she did.” His words became tight and bitter. “Not fallin’ like a sack of potatoes off the goddamn light. Not shriveled and cold and with that sick smile cut onto her face.” His head lifted, and Ben saw that his eyes were glistening. “She had such a beautiful smile when she was alive. Everyone said so. But now, I’ll never be able to remember that, never be able to remember her the way she was. Now when I think of her, all I can remember is that grotesque blood-red desecration. That’s all I—I—” His head fell into his hands.
Ben stared at him helplessly. Twenty-two years. And now, just when a little hope had been held out to him, someone snatched it away, replacing it with an all-new horror.
He had to figure out some way to help this poor man. He just had to.
“Well, that’s probably enough for now.” Ben laid his hand gently on Earl’s shoulder. “If you want me to help, Earl, I’ll help. We’ll fight this. I won’t let them railroad you again.”
“You think those cops’ll be back?”
“Yeah. Given the similarity between this murder and the one you pled guilty to, and given that you were at the scene of last night’s murder, and given that Lieutenant Prescott is arrogant, obnoxious, but extremely tenacious … I think you can count on it.”
“How long do I have? Days?”
Ben shook his head. “Hours.”
Earl’s head bowed. “That’s what I thought. You really think you can help me?”
“I can’t guarantee results, but I can promise that I’ll do everything possible to make sure these charges don’t get you another twenty-two in McAlester.”
“But that ain’t all, Ben. I want to know who did this. I want the sick SOB who’s torturin’ me like this, who cut up my beautiful Lily.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You find him, Ben. You find him. And when you do …” Earl raised his eyes toward the ceiling. “God help the bastard.”
Chapter 17
TYRONE SAT AS quietly as the proverbial church mouse. He wanted to say something, he really did. But how could he?
He hated watching Earl squirm, hated watching that jerkoff cop play with Earl’s head. Earl meant more to him than anyone. He’d been like a father to him—far more than his own father, who he’d only seen twice. He had no complaints against his mother; she’d worked like nobody’s business her whole life, typing for the city during the day and cleaning houses at night. But with all that work and six kids to tend, there was little time for one-on-one with her next-to-youngest. When he dropped out of school after the eighth grade and got a job, she could hardly say no. Education was great, but they needed the money.