Jazz Funeral

Something told him she wasn’t going to turn into a pliable little Gumby.
    “How can I help you?”
    “I’m here about Ham Brocato’s death. I was wondering … did you know him well?”
    “No. I’d have liked to, but I’ve more or less just moved here. In fact, I don’t quite understand why you’re here.”
    “Don’t you, Mr. Anglime?” She had gorgeous green eyes and they didn’t waver; but she wasn’t giving him a chance to blink first. They were very amused eyes at the moment. Did she think he couldn’t see that? She was starting to piss him off.
    “No.”
    She shrugged. “Well, we’re just talking to a few key people closely connected to the case—”
    “Wait a minute. What connects me to the case?”
    But she said, “We found your name in his appointment book. So I thought I’d ask when you last saw him.”
    His name in Ham’s appointment book? He’d been to Ham’s house once before the party, two months ago. That’s where he’d met Ti-Belle—could the cop possibly mean that?
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Yes, it was an entry for next week—’call Anglime.’ I thought maybe you were close friends.”
    “‘Call Anglime.’ That’s what you came out here for? Because he was thinking of calling me?”
    She nodded.
    “How could I know why he planned to call me?”
    “I just thought you might.” He thought she was smiling flirtatiously, inviting him to play a little game with her.
    “Well, if I had to make a guess, I’d say it was to ask for a contribution to the Second Line Square Foundation.”
    She just couldn’t smile enough. “Probably it was,” she said. “Just as a matter of routine, do you remember what you were doing Tuesday afternoon?”
    “Why Tuesday?”
    “That’s when Ham was killed.”
    “You’re asking me what I was doing when Ham was killed? Officer, you’re out of line. I hardly knew the man.”
    “I don’t think it’s out of line. You’re a well-known friend of the family.”
    “Well, it is.”
    She stood. “I’m sorry, I guess I was wrong.”
    “You’re sorry! Barge in here invading my privacy—I swear to God I’m going to report you.”
    “Listen, I’m sorry you’re upset. New Orleans is a very small town and we’re all upset. Ham leaves a big hole.”
    “I can’t believe you’re treating me like a suspect.”
    “Mr. Anglime, I’m sorry you took it the wrong way. You’re not a suspect at all. I just thought I’d ask while I was here.”
    “Well, why did you want to know?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t. Really. I’m very sorry to have bothered you.”
    She started out the door, but he followed. What did she know? Was it better to say something?
    “Listen, I have nothing to hide. I just don’t appreciate you bargin’ in and askin’ these questions, that’s all.”
    “I understand. I apologize.” She was pleasant as could be, chest sticking out in her white blouse. This close, he realized how tall she was. Was she standing like that on purpose? He thought she was, but not for reasons of enticement. Because the pose gave her confidence—legs planted firmly, chest high; this wasn’t a woman who’d be easily intimidated.
    “I was home meditating.”
    She nodded. “I see.” She let a few seconds pass. “Vipassana?”
    He smiled. “No, that one’s too rough for me. Zazen.”
    “Zazen? I thought that only took about twenty minutes.”
    “Twenty, thirty, or until your incense stick goes out. But you do it over and over again.”
    “Until you get it right?”
    “Well, I don’t think there’s a wrong way. You just follow your breathing.”
    She was on the front porch now, doing a long good-bye. “You mean your mind never wanders?”
    Was she psychic or something?
    “Mine does,” she said. “Thanks for your time.” As she clicked off the porch, he thought, She’s not a cop; she’s something else .
    “Wait a minute—can I see your badge?”
    “Sure.” She reached into her purse. She was a cop. One who knew zazen from Vipassana and all of Faulkner’s titles. And she might or might not be psychic, but she sure as hell wasn’t dumb. She was the first woman he’d ever met who made him nervous.
    He sat down and thought about that; meditated on it. No, she wasn’t. In his teens, they’d all made him nervous. If he had to be out in the real world, they probably still would. But here in the ivory tower it was different. Better. They all wanted to please him.
    And he’d worked hard for it.
    But still.