Jazz Funeral

death hadn’t entered their lives. His life.
    He breathed down into his belly and held the breath. Then he let it out, slowly, slowly, and sat there for a moment, contented, even thinking of joining the game. But he wouldn’t for a minute. He’d sit here and savor his library, the most beautiful room he’d ever seen outside of Florence or Rome. There was dark wainscoting, then books to the ceiling. A fireplace. And naturally, leather furniture. He’d chosen a deep burgundy to match the Oriental rug. A tapestry hung on one wall, a three-hundred-year-old French painting over the fireplace. (Rachel had chosen it on one of her visits; he could never remember the artist and didn’t care anyway, but he liked the fact that it was old.) The room was the room he’d always dreamed of having when he was a little boy growing up on a quiet street in Birmingham. Rich. Not rich like Hollywood rich. Rich like Old World patinas and craftmanship. Rich like somebody’d put a lot of thought and care into it, and then his son had come along and done it all over again; and Nick was the third generation to leave his mark. Of course that wasn’t the case—it was something that had taken a decorator and Rachel three months, but who cared?
    Proctor had said, “You’re the William Randolph Hearst of New Orleans.”
    Which had made Nick laugh.
    It was right on the mark. He’d picked New Orleans for his castle because it was relatively cheap, it was isolated from the glitter spots, it was Southern without being a backwater, and he had good memories of it. From spending time here as a young man, before he’d made it.
    And because it had a music scene. Not a big heavy rock scene, just a nice local scene he could observe and enjoy and not participate in. He was sick of that shit—performing, putting out. But he still loved the music, loved to be around it. He’d been thinking of getting involved with Ham’s project, Second Line Square. He could throw benefits here at the castle.
    The thing didn’t look like a castle—it looked like a gracious Southern home—but he wanted to do with it what Hearst had done at San Simeon. He wanted to get the finest of everything and surround himself with it. And then hole up to pursue his path.
    The doorbell rang. James would get it, or Luellen. It was probably somebody for one of the kids. Or Caroline or Sabrina. Or maybe Nanette, the acupuncturist.
    Luellen came in. “Mr. Nick? A young lady to see you.”
    “What young lady?”
    “A young lady policeman.”
    “Oh.” He couldn’t think what to do. Did he have to see her? Should he have a lawyer present? But wait—it didn’t have to be about Ham. Maybe it had to do with parking; or break-ins in the neighborhood.
    He got up. Almost without thinking about it, he walked to the door, propelled by curiosity as much as anything else. “Yes?” And then, “Oh.”
    “Oh?”
    It was someone he knew—the big mama who’d spoken to him at Ham’s that night. He hadn’t realized she was a cop. Or had she said she was? He’d forgotten. He wondered if she could sing—a woman with a build like that ought to sing Gospel or something. “I know you from Ham’s.”
    “Yes. Skip Langdon.” That was all she said. What did she want? Why was she just standing there?
    “Well. What can I do for you?”
    “I have a few questions. Not many, really … I wonder if you have a minute?”
    She looked wistfully behind him, into the marble-floored foyer. She wanted a house tour. Well, okay. He knew how to get a woman on his side. She was a fan, probably.
    “About ten,” he said. “Would that be enough?”
    “I’m sure it would.” She smiled, happy now.
    He let her in, led her into the library. Her mouth all but fell open. In a minute she’d say, “Have you really read all these books?”
    But she went straight for his first editions. “The Sound and the Fury. Hamlet.” Her fingers kept moving. “Everything but Pylon. Somehow I never connected … well; I mean …” She flushed.
    “You think if you can sing, you’re too dumb to read Faulkner? Ms. Langdon, I’m an ol’ boy from Alabama; I had to read this stuff in high school, some of it. You know that song of mine about the boy named Joe? That’s about Joe Christmas. From Light in August . You know it?”
    She nodded, raised an eyebrow.
    “Sit down,” he said. “Can I offer you anything?”
    “No, thanks.” She was still staring at the room, but she had a confident air about her.