Jazzbone only got spanked by the other dudes out there, people coming into his establishment looking just like him, guns and all.
"I'm with the Charlotte Observer," said Brazil, who knew when it was better to be a volunteer cop, and when not.
"I'd like your help, sir."
"Oh yeah?" Jazzbone stopped putting away beer, and had always known he'd make a good story.
"What kind of help? This for the paper?"
"Yes, sir."
Polite, too, giving the man respect. Jazzbone scrutinized him, and started chewing on a stirrer, cocking one eyebrow.
"So, what you want to know?" Jazzbone went around to the other side of the bar and pulled out a stool.
"Well, you know about these killings around here," Brazil said.
Jazzbone was momentarily confused.
"Huh," he said.
"You might want to specify."
"The out-of-towners. The Black Widow." Brazil lowered his voice, almost to a whisper.
"Oh, yeah. Them," Jazzbone said, and didn't care who heard.
"Same person doing all of 'em."
"It can't be helping your business worth a damn." Brazil got tough, acting like he was wearing a gun, too.
"Some creep out there ruining it for everyone."
"Now that's so, brother. Tell me about it. I run a clean business here. Don't want trouble or cause none either." He lit a Salem.
"It's others who do. Why I wear this." He patted his pistol.
Brazil stared enviously at it.
"Shit, man," he said.
"What the hell you packing?"
One thing was true, Jazzbone was proud of his piece. He had got it off a drug dealer playing pool, some dude from New York who didn't know that Jazzbone owned a pool hall for a reason. In Jazzbone's mind, when he was good at something, whether it was a woman, a car, or playing pool, he may as well own it, and he was definitely one hell of a pool player. He slipped the pistol out of its holster so Brazil could look without getting too close.
"Colt Double Eagle.45 with a five-inch barrel," Jazzbone let him know.
Brazil had seen it before in Guns Illustrated. Stain less steel matte finish, adjustable sights with high-profile three-dot system, wide steel trigger, and combat-style hammer. Jazzbone's pistol went for about seven hundred dollars, new, and he could tell the kid was impressed and dying to touch it, but Jazzbone didn't know him well enough for that.
"You think it's the same one whacking all these white men from out of town?" Brazil repeated.
"I didn't say they was white," Jazzbone corrected him.
"The last one, the senator dude, wasn't. But yeah, same motherfucker's doing 'em."
"Got any idea who?" Brazil did his best to keep the excitement out of his voice.
Jazzbone knew exactly who, and didn't want trouble like this in his neighborhood anymore than those rich men wanted it in their rental cars. Not to mention, Jazzbone was a big supporter of free enterprise, and collected change from more than pool sharking and beverages. He had an interest in a few girls out there. They earned a few extra dollars and kept him company. The Black Widow was hurting business bad. These days, Jazzbone had a feeling men came to town after watching CNN and reading the paper, and they rented adult movies, stayed in. Jazzbone didn't blame them.
"There's this one punkin head I seen out there running girls," Jazzbone told Brazil, who was taking notes.
"I'd be looking at him."
"What's a punkin head?"
Jazzbone flashed his gold grin at this naive reporter boy.
"A do." Jazzbone pointed to his own head.
"Orange like a punkin, rows of braids close to his head. One mean motherfucker."
"You know his name?" Brazil wrote.
"Don't want to," Jazzbone said.
"W West, in charge of investigations for the city, had never heard of a punkin head in connection with the Black Widow killings. When Brazil called her from a pay phone, because he did not trust a cellular phone for such sensitive information, he was manic, as if he had just been in a shoot-out. She wrote down what he said, but not a word of it sparked hope. Her Phantom Force had been undercover out on the streets for weeks. Brazil had spent fifteen minutes at Jazzbone's, and had cracked the case. She didn't think so. Nor was she feeling the least bit friendly toward Brazil's two-timing, user-friendly ass.
"How's the chief?" he asked her.
"Why don't you tell me," she said.
"What?"
"Look, I don't have time to chit-chat," she rudely added.
Brazil was on a sidewalk in front of the Federal Courthouse, hateful people looking at him. He didn't care.
"What did I do?" he fired back.
"Tell me when's the last time I've heard from you? I haven't noticed you picking up the phone, asking me to do anything or even to see how I am."
This had not occurred to West. She never called Raines. For that matter, she did not call guys, and never had, and never would, with the occasional exception of Brazil. Now why the hell was that, and why had she suddenly gotten weird about dialing his number?
"I figured you'd get in touch with me when you had something on your mind," she replied.
"It's been hectic.
Niles is driving me crazy. I may turn him over to the juvenile courts.
I don't know why I haven't gotten around to calling you, okay? But a lot of good it's going to do for you to punish me for it. "
"You want to play tennis?" he quickly asked.
West still had a wooden Billie Jean King racquet, clamped tight in a press. Neither were manufactured anymore. She had an ancient box of Tretorn balls that never went dead but broke like eggs. Her last pair of tennis shoes were low-cut plain white canvas Converse, also no longer made. She had no idea where anything was, and owned no tennis clothes, and didn't especially enjoy watching the sport on TV, but preferred baseball at this stage in her personal evolution. There were many reasons she gave the answer she did.
"Forget it," she said.
She hung up the phone and went straight to Hammer's office. Horgess was not his usual informative, friendly self. West felt sorry for him.
No matter how many times Hammer had told him to let it go, he never would. He had picked up the radio instead of the phone. Horgess, the sycophantic duty captain, had made sure all the world knew about the embarrassing shooting at the chief's house. That's all anybody talked and speculated about. The expected jokes were ones West would never want her boss to hear. Horgess was pale and depressed. He barely nodded at West.
"She in?" West asked.
"I guess," he said, dejected.
West knocked and walked in at the same time. Hammer was on the phone, tapping a pen on a stack of pink tele phone messages. She looked amazingly put together and in charge in a tobacco-brown suit and yellow and white striped blouse. West was surprised and rather pleased to note that her boss was wearing slacks and flats again. West pulled up a chair, waiting for Hammer to slip off the headset.
"Don't mean to interrupt," West said.
"Quite all right, quite all right," Hammer told her.
She gave West her complete attention, hands quietly folded on top of the neatly organized desk of someone who had far too much to do but refused to be overwhelmed by it. Hammer had never been caught up, and never would be. She didn't even want to get to all of it. The older she got, the more she marveled over matters she once had considered important. These days, her perspective had shifted massively, like a glacier forming new continents to consider and cracking old worlds.
"We've not really had a chance to talk," West proceeded delicately.
"How are you holding up?"
Hammer gave her a slight smile, sadness in her eyes before she could run it off.
"The best I can, Virginia. Thank you for asking."
"The editorials, cartoons and everything in the paper have been really terrific," West went on.
"And Brazil's story was great." She hesitated at this point, the subject of Andy Brazil still disturbing, although she didn't understand it, entirely.