Jazz Funeral

That’s Ti-Belle all over. Mad! Real mad right below the surface. Some guy’d say casually, ‘Hey, hon, loo-kin’ good tonight,’ and she’d say, ‘Shut up, asshole,’ ‘cause it was always some ol’ redneck looked like he was eight months pregnant, and it just outraged her that a guy like that had the nerve to get smart with her. So she’d call him asshole and he was always bound to say, ‘Who you callin asshole?’ or somethin’ just about as dumb, and she’d slug him. Just haul off and sink her fist in his oversized breadbasket. Sometimes he’d try and hit her back, and then somebody’d help her out—usually me, I couldn’t help it. And she’d just love it when she got the whole bar to brawlin’. She’d be in there mixin’ it up like a man. I told her, ‘TiBelle, you watch out or you’re gon’ lose some of those pretty teeth and it’s gon’ cost us.’ But she was always lucky. You ever know a woman who hit people?”
    She smiled at him. There was something about him that charmed her. “I’ve been tempted myself.”
    “But you never did, I bet.”
    “Well, hardly ever.” Police work wasn’t always conducive to keeping your temper, but she tried to stay civilized.
    “Oh, come on now.”
    “Okay, never. But I pushed somebody once.”
    “Pushed somebody. Ti-Belle pushed me every time she she got in a bad mood. But, hell, that was nothin’—what she really liked was yanking this.” He pulled his ponytail over his shoulder. “I think she wanted to drag me around by it. Did too. I just didn’t know it.”
    “Johnny.” She gave him a level stare. “She sounds like a thoroughgoing bitch.”
    “Hell, I like a spirited woman.”
    “We’re talking a little more than spirited. Or are you exaggerating just the tiniest bit?”
    He leaned back and guffawed, full of catfish, working on his second beer and smoking a cigarette. A happy man. “You’re pretty smart, after all, Detective. Let me buy you a beer, okay?”
    “Another iced tea.” She’d have dearly loved a beer, but maybe she’d find Melody later. She’d need all the good sense she could muster.
    He signaled the waitress. “Well, I’m Irish. You gotta take that into account.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “But listen, there’s a grain of truth in all that. More’n a grain. She did throw all the dishes once and she did yank my hair a couple of times. Got in fights twice—whoooo, that woman has a temper. That’s the bottom line—we’re talkin’ temper. You’d think she was the Irish one.” He upended his third beer. “What you’re askin’ is, is she violent? Does she have those kinds of tendencies? Am I right?”
    Skip nodded.
    “Well, she is and she does.”
    Why does a woman scorned get all the bad press? Watch out for scorned men. She said, “Remind me not to ever make you mad.”
    “Hey, listen, you gotta understand. Ti-Belle wasn’t just my girlfriend. I made her. I devoted four years of my life to midwifing this country’s most famous female Cajun R and B singer. She was an investment.”
    “I guess that’s how she saw Ham.”
    “Yeah. The name’s provocative, ain’t it?” He stared off into space, came back as an old philosopher. “In this business, maybe we’re all just pieces of meat to each other.”
    “But, Johnny, what about art?”
    He guffawed again, enjoying Skip, she could tell. “Heck, let’s keep it around in spite of everything. Life’s gotta imitate somethin’.”
    Skip left thinking she’d found buried treasure. That put her in a good mood, and being with Johnny Murphy had been fun—an unusual occurrence when pumping someone about his ex. She was feeling sociable and wished again for Steve to prowl around with. However, Jimmy Dee would be just as good company, and he needed attention—probably either had more to say about his sister or needed light banter to take his mind off her; most likely both. She phoned him. “Want to take a walk on the wild side?”
    “You kidding, officer? You need a brute for that.”
    “I was thinking of going to bars where teenagers hang.”
    “Hang? Well, in that case. Something should be done about the creatures.”
    “The Blacksmith Shop in five?”
    “Done.” It was their neighborhood bar. He was waiting when she got there, dapper in jeans and polo shirt, salt-and-pepper hair curling slightly over the collar. He was a hunk, if rather a smaller one than was suitable for Skip. In his law firm, most people didn’t know he was