The task force West had assembled to investigate drug deals going down at the Presto Grill also had much dirt to find, sort through, and hopefully match with other crime trends in the city. Mungo was an undercover detective, and he was eating grilled chicken tips and gravy in the grill, while Brazil, whom Mungo did not know, sipped black coffee. Mungo had gotten his street name for obvious reasons. He was a mountain in jeans and Panthers T-shirt, his wallet chained to his belt, long bushy hair tied back, and a bandana around a sloping forehead. He wore an earring. Mungo was smoking, one eye squinting as he watched the blond guy quiz Spike at the grill.
"No, man." Spike was flipping a burger and chopping hash browns.
"See, none's from around here, know what I mean?" He spoke with a heavy Portuguese accent.
"Where they come from doesn't matter," Brazil said.
"It's what happens once they get here. Look, the source of the bad shit going down is right where we are." He was talking the language, drumming his index finger on the counter.
"Local. I'm sure of it. What do you think?"
Spike wasn't going to explore this further, and Muneo's radar was locked in. That blond pretty-boy looked familiar. It seemed Mungo had seen him somewhere, and that made him only more convinced that he was going to develop Blondie as a suspect. But first things first. Mungo needed to sit here a little longer, see what else was going down, and he hadn't finished his breakfast.
"I need more toast," he said to Spike as Blondie left.
"Who's he?"
Mungo jerked his head in the direction of the shutting front door.
Spike shrugged, having learned long ago not to answer questions, and Mungo was a cop. Everybody knew it. Spike started filling a toothpick holder while Brazil made his next stop. Adjoining the Presto was the Traveler's Hotel, where one could get a room for as little as fifty dollars per week, depending on how well one negotiated with Bink Lydle at the desk. Brazil asked his questions to Lydle and got the same information he'd been handed next door.
Lydle was not especially hospitable, his arms folded across his narrow chest as he sat behind the scarred reception desk, with its bell and one-line telephone. He informed this white boy that Lydle knew nothing about these businessmen being whacked around here, and couldn't imagine that the 'source of this bad shit going down' was local.
Lydle, personally, had never seen anyone who made him auspicious, certainly not in his hotel, which was a city landmark, and the place to go back in the days of the Old Southern Train Station.
Brazil walked several blocks to Fifth Street and found Jazzbone's Pool Hall. Brazil decided that somebody was going to talk to him, even if he had to take a risk. At this early hour, Jazzbone's wasn't doing much business, just a few guys sitting around drinking Colt 45, smoking, telling favorite stories about binges, and women, and winning at numbers. Pool tables with shabby green felt were deserted, balls in their triangles, waiting for tonight when the place would be crowded and dangerous until the boozy early morning. If anyone knew what was going on in the neighborhood, Jazzbone was the man.
"I'm looking for Jazzbone," Brazil said to the drinking buddies.
One of them pointed to the bar, where Jazzbone, in plain view, was opening a case of Schlitz, and aware of the golden-hair dude dressed like college.
"Yeah!" Jazzbone called out.
"What you need."
Brazil walked across cigarette-burned, whisky-smelling carpet. A cockroach scuttled across his path, and salt and cigarette ashes were scattered over every table Brazil passed. The closer he got to Jazzbone, the more he noticed details. Jazzbone wore gold rings, fashioned of diamond clusters and coins, on every finger. The gold crowns on his front teeth had heart and clover cut-outs. He wore a semiautomatic pistol on his right hip. Jazzbone was neatly replacing bottles of beer in the cooler.
"All we got cold right now is Pabst Blue Ribbon," Jazzbone said.
Last night had been busy and had wiped Jazzbone out. He had a feeling this boy wanted something other than beer, but he wasn't undercover, like Mungo. Jazzbone could smell police and the Feds the minute they hit the block. He couldn't remember the last time he was fooled.
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?