Jazz Funeral

the street, tackled her, hit her in the face she was so mad. Blood dripped onto her, onto Patty’s nose, and she screamed. The blood had come from Skip’s head. How long could she stay conscious?
    Melody said, “Don’t move.”
    She was pointing Patty’s gun at the two of them. Damn! Why hadn’t Skip thought of that scenario?
    “Uh … do you need your cuffs?”
    “That’s okay. I think you should put the gun down, though.” She put a knee in Patty’s back, pulled her cuffs from her belly pack, but saw that simple cuffing wasn’t going to be good enough. She was going to pass out any second, and Melody still had the gun; if Patty tried to run, she might shoot her.
    “Come on,” she said, but Patty didn’t budge.
    How much strength did she have left? Mustering all of it, she dragged Patty off the sidewalk and cuffed her to the rail of an iron fence.
    Then she put out her hand for the gun. Its comforting heft in her palm, she gasped, “Call 911.” And sat down gratefully, waiting for oblivion. Melody pulled off her T-shirt, applied it to Skip’s head, and disappeared.
    But as her breathing slowed, Skip realized she didn’t even feel faint. And yet she must have lost a lot of blood, not to mention having a bullet in her skull. She pulled herself up and caught her reflection in a car window.
    The bullet wasn’t in her after all. She was fine. But what she saw made her feel a lot fainter than the wound—the thing had taken out a path of hair as it traveled along the right side of her head.
    Well, no way was she going to the hospital. No way! These two were hers and she was doing the questioning.
    O’Rourke was surprisingly docile about it.
    Maybe he thinks I’ll bleed to death.
    She got some first aid from colleagues while she waited for George Brocato and two lawyers to arrive—one for Patty and one for Melody. After Melody conferred with her father and lawyer, Skip joined her in Juvenile. She seemed in good spirits, glad to see Skip. “Hi. You look good. Do you feel okay? You were really white for a while.”
    She’d been wearing Rwanda’s wig at the garage. Now her hair was a lifeless white, with the purple streak Flip had described.
    She managed a smile, and it was pretty. There was something about her face—an alertness, an eagerness, a willingness to meet the world—that reminded Skip of the look in the eyes of a six-week-old kitten. A look of optimism a cat would outgrow the first time it met a German shepherd. A baby-animal look so vulnerable, so hopeful, it made you want to rush right out and repair the hole in the ozone. Skip had done nothing but worry about this child for a week, and now Melody was worried about her.
    “I’m fine, thanks, but my hairdresser had a stroke.”
    “You should get a CAT scan.”
    “I will. How about you? You okay?”
    Melody nodded.
    “I’ve been worried about you.”
    “They told me you were looking for me. Thanks, I guess.”
    “I almost caught up with you once. At Madeleine Richard’s. But someone else got there first.”
    “My mom, I guess. I think she borrowed my Aunt Des’s car. Is she all right?”
    “I haven’t seen her yet.”
    “I’m sorry I beat her up.”
    “I guess you were mad.”
    “That’s an understatement.”
    George cleared his throat.
    Skip took the hint. “Do you feel up to talking?”
    George said, “Does it have to be now?”
    “It’s okay, Daddy. I’d rather.”
    “Only if I sit in,” said George. He was wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, dressed for a Sunday. Tension showed in every inch of him.
    Melody said, “Ummm. I don’t know.”
    “What?”
    “Uh, could it be just Anthony?” Her lawyer.
    “There are things you don’t want me to hear?”
    “Not yet. I’ll tell you, but not yet, okay?”
    Skip got Melody some coffee, and when they were settled, she said, “Melody, I have to ask you something important. Did you actually see her kill Ham?”
    Melody opened her mouth to answer, closed it again, stared out the window for a while. Finally she said, “I guess I heard it. I didn’t want to think that’s really what it was, but”—she looked down at her lap—“I guess it was.”
    “What happened. Melody? You overheard them fighting?”
    “Well, I had a bad day that day—”
    “I know all about Flip and Blair.”
    A slight tinge of pink appeared on Melody’s cheeks. Even with the blond and purple hair, her young skin managed to look healthy. “I guess you do. I went to Ham’s all upset