Jazz Funeral

Murphy and gotten a grumpy, half-loaded response. She didn’t identify herself, just went to find him. He lived in the Faubourg Marigny, in an apartment hardly bigger than hers, and he was about as welcoming as if she’d been from the IRS.
    “You mad about what I did with Ti-Belle this afternoon?”
    “Hell, no. Bitch deserved it.”
    “Then talk to me.”
    “I’m sleepy, okay?” She certainly seemed to have woken him up.
    “And hungry, I’ll bet. You look like a dog’s breakfast. Go shave and I’ll buy you dinner.”
    His hand went to his chin, feeling his beard. Being a musician, and a handsome one—at least formerly—he’d probably had women chasing him for most of his life.
    “Oh, okay. For Christ’s sake.” She figured she’d hit a nerve, complaining about his looks.
    While he devoured a plate of gorgeous, crisp-fried catfish, she sipped an iced tea.
    “I’m still mad at her,” he said. “Mad enough to eat with a cop. What do you think of that?”
    “We’re talking serious vendetta here.”
    He looked at her, searching for a twitch, but she stayed deadpan. “Hey, I’m sorry.”
    She gave him the smile he wanted. “I’m kidding. I know you’re really mad at her. I figure she must have dumped you.”
    “Two years ago, you b’lieve that? I mean, that I’m still mad? But she did me in good, I’m tellin’ you. Took one look at Mr. Hamson Brocato, and said, ‘Here’s my ticket to the big-time—so long, sucker.’” He stuffed a hunk of catfish down the hatch.
    “I found her singin’ on the street in Memphis six years ago—little Lacey Longtree, a half-cute gal with a great voice and not a clue in this world. Couldn’t even read music. About twenty pounds overweight when I found her—said she’d lost ten pounds since she left home without even trying. Weight kept fallin’ off till she got like she is now. I thought she was sick, but she said it wasn’t that, this was the way she was s’posed to be.” He shoveled in a huge bite, tapped Skip with an angry index finger. “Sounds like sour grapes, but I’m tellin’ the gospel truth when I say I taught her everything she knows. And I mean everything—I made Ti-Belle Thiebaud out of the pathetic ol’ raw material called Lacey Longtree. I figured out there really wasn’t a white female singer doing New Orleans rhythm and blues—well, there’s Marcia Ball, but she’s from Texas and she doesn’t have a Cajun name. Find a need and fill it, you know what I mean? And Cajun was where the hole was. Not that she was ever gonna do Cajun music–except just a little to make her look authentic. But what do the folks in Kansas know about that anyway? You got a French-soundin’ name, you must be a Cajun singer. Positioning was the whole ball game—she was just gon’ have an exotic name and be different from every other singer in the whole country. My idea. All of it. Every bit.” He chewed catfish.
    “Mine.”
    “Are you saying Ti-Belle Thiebaud isn’t her real name? And she’s not a Cajun?”
    “I thought you were s’posed to be a detective. I just told you that, lady.”
    “Well, if she’s not a Cajun, where’s she from?”
    “Funny thing is, she never would say, even when she was a dumb little country girl singin’ on the street for quarters.” He finished off his beer and ordered another one. “Think I know, though. I saw a letter to her mom once, addressed to Doradale, Alabama.”
    “So you were with her four years.”
    “Four years and plannin’ on the rest of my life. I thought we were a couple. Like it was understood.” His mouth set in a hard, disappointed line when he spoke of it. An angry line that said it was a very poor plan to cross Johnny Murphy.
    “What was she like to live with? Have you ever known her to be violent?”
    “Violent! Ti-Belle Thiebaud? We are talkin’ a very primitive creature here, with just a thin civilized patina spread over some true savagery.” He stared off into space and laughed, clearly off in the past. “We had to replace all our plates regularly—she loved to throw everything in the kitchen at me. Fought in bars too. Only woman I’ve ever seen who does that. Did, I guess. She quit when she started gettin’ famous, but even then I had to beg her. She loved it, I think—I really think she did.”
    He stared out into astroland again, and came back. “Mind if I smoke?” He lit up before she had a chance to answer. “You know that movie, Thelma & Louise?