Jazz Funeral

important to him. He’d hired the caterers and everything—all out of his own pocket—but nothing would do. But he had to make his own special gumbo for a couple of the performers. See, they’d been at his house when he’d made it before, and he promised them if they’d come and be nice to the rich people, he’d make it again.” She spread her arms. “He had a deal—what could he do? So just when things were at their hottest, he went home in the middle of the day to make gumbo.”
    “And that was the last time you saw him? When he left?”
    “No, he called and asked me to bring him some tasso. He’d forgotten it, and his special, personal recipe wouldn’t work without it.” She rolled her eyes. “So he said.”
    “You must have been snowed under too.”
    “And yet he wasn’t really demanding. Every now and then something like that came up, that’s all. He was a great guy, Offic —uh, Detective.”
    “Skip.”
    “He was the best. Everyone who worked for him adored him. Just one of those easygoing, teddy bear sweetie-pie pussycats, you know what I mean?”
    “I knew him a little bit. He seemed like that to me.” But she’d seen men like that get clobbered—not murdered, but good and beat up in domestic disputes she’d been out on. The wife would be furious, maybe still brandishing a poker or frying pan, and the teddy bear would be mouthing, “Now, honey, you put that thang down, baby doll,” blood running down his face, but eyes like velvet, voice like taffy, all hell breaking loose and still gentle as a cocker spaniel. She never knew what these sweeties did to inspire so much wrath.
    “Ariel,” she said, “when did you bring the tasso?”
    “About three.”
    “Was anyone else here?”
    “No. I mean, not that I saw. Ham just met me at the door and took the package.”
    “What was he wearing at the time?”
    “Wearing? I don’t know. Jeans, I guess. And, um, a T-shirt. Black. I know! A Radiators T-shirt.”
    “How did he seem?”
    “Seem? Anxious, I guess. Real worried. Like he always gets this time of year.”
    “Worried?”
    “Yeah. Like he just knows he can’t get everything done. He gets like a permanent crease between his eyes.”
    “Okay, I guess that’s it for now. May I call you if I have more questions?”
    “Sure.”
    Skip was halfway back to the house, intending to get Andy Fike’s address from Ti-Belle’s Rolodex, when she heard a kind of collective gasp, followed instantly by an excited buzz. Wheeling, expecting the worst, she saw only a gray-haired man in jeans and tank top getting out of a double-parked car. The car was a Jaguar and the man had a certain seen-it-all look. Who was he? And then a name floated up from the crowd, repeated over and over: “Nick Anglime, Nick Anglime.”
    He stood uncertainly, as if afraid to go any farther, and it looked as if he had good reason. Already people were starting to approach—neighborhood kids, mostly, the bolder ones. But, setting his lips, he apparently made a decision, moved forward. Ignored the kids. And Skip noticed for the first time how tall he was. It was easy for him to ignore people—he simply stared out over their heads. She remembered the phrase, “A giant of his generation.” Apparently it had meaning beyond his talent.
    “Officer,” he shouted. “Officer!” Obviously he meant one of the uniformed ones—Skip was wearing the linen shirt Jimmy Dee had picked—but his voice was so imperious she nearly answered anyway. His tone was that of a man calling for a waiter. But intimidation gave way to amusement—and an idea. She was about to meet the American Mick. She hoped Steve Steinman was watching.
    A uniformed policeman strode importantly in Anglime’s direction, but Skip headed him off. “It’s okay, officer. I’ll talk to him.” His face fell like a kid’s. Skip almost laughed.
    She pulled out her badge and approached Anglime, stood close to him and looked up, mentally measuring him. She was six feet, and he was about six inches taller; quite possibly the tallest man she’d ever seen, except for Hulk Hogan, whom she’d once glimpsed in the Dallas airport.
    “Skip Langdon,” she said. “Can I help you?”
    “What’s happened? Is someone hurt?”
    Behind him, Skip saw the coroner’s wagon arriving—everyone would know soon. “I’m afraid so. The party’s canceled.”
    “But—what’s happened?”
    A kid grabbed at him. “Hey, Mr. Anglime. Do you really live in New