Jazz Funeral

not so avidly as he used to. Usually it made her tired to talk about it after doing it all day, but on the rare occasions when he kept his distance, she quite enjoyed it—when she didn’t feel like she had to perform and maintain discretion at the same time. And tonight she had something to say.
    “A hellish day,” she said. “Except for the last part. I keep worrying about Melody. What do you think of a nineties’ kid who’s got a thing for Janis Joplin?”
    Steve shrugged. “She’s got good taste.”
    “But Janis died.”
    “So did John Lennon—it happens to everybody, haven’t you heard?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve just got a weird feeling she’s got a self-destructive streak.”
    But Steve wanted the good stuff. “About that last part you mentioned. Was that by any chance the part where you had a little talk with Nick Anglime?”
    “Now how’d you know that?”
    “Well, who wouldn’t if they could? Besides, I saw the way you just happened to manage to speak to him last night.”
    “That was for your benefit.”
    They got to the restaurant.
    “They do a nice gumbo.”
    “Good. I’ll have that and the shrimp etouffee.”
    “Just the gumbo for me.” When they’d ordered, she said, “First I ran around all day listening to people’s lies.”
    “Everybody lied to you?”
    “Well, let’s put it this way—they told their own versions of things.”
    “So how can you tell when they’re lying? Do your palms itch or what?”
    “I’ve got a better system.”
    “Check out their stories? Even I could do that.”
    “Okay, then. I get this weird feeling right behind my left ear. You want to hear about Nick Anglime?”
    “I’m on the edge of my seat.”
    “Well, he lives in a baronial manor.”
    “What would you expect? It’s on Audubon Place.”
    “The place isn’t Southern at all, it’s more European. It’s stone, for one thing. And inside, it’s like a museum. All beveled glass and dark wood and Oriental rugs and Tang Dynasty porcelain.”
    “Wait a minute—how do you know the porcelain’s provenance?”
    She gave him a grin. “I made that part up. But it sure as hell didn’t come from Pier 1. Even the walls were works of art; little designs painted on. Stuff on stuff. And colors so rich and deep you could sink in if you touched them.”
    He nodded.
    “And hung with sconces and mirrors and very dark art. European, I’m pretty sure, but I didn’t recognize any of the artists. And the ceilings were three-dimensional.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I don’t know—carved or something. Vaulted. Like ceilings in Italian palaces. Oh, and some were painted too—maybe frescoed for all I know. And the floors were marble—those that weren’t parquet. I didn’t go in the kitchen, but I guarantee you there’s no linoleum in there. Probably Spanish tiles.”
    “Excuse me. The witness is speculating.”
    “It’s like he has so much money, he has to invent things to do with it. Travel all over the world to find things to buy.”
    “Well, how’d it look?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Gaudy or nice?”
    “Aren’t we snotty tonight.”
    “Well?”
    She shrugged. “Both, I guess. It’s fabulous. It’s a sultan’s palace.
    “It’s got some harim, I bet.”
    “I don’t know. He might be an ascetic in some ways.”
    “I beg your pardon? The guy’s living in a stately pleasure dome.”
    “Well, that’s it—it’s stately. More sedate than anything else. He’s got kids living there too. Don’t ask. You’ve been to Buddhist centers, haven’t you? They’re always beautiful. Very well thought out, but formal. Churches too.”
    Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t see anything ascetic about spending all that money.”
    “I only said ‘in some ways’—I guess I meant about the women. He just doesn’t seem wildly sexual. And anyway, he’s a spiritual seeker.”
    “That doesn’t preclude sex, but I’m too fascinated to argue the point. Keep going.”
    “Claims he sits zazen.” Something was bothering her. She paused, but it didn’t come clear. “I can’t tell you why, but I don’t get the impression he’s a wildly committed Zennie.”
    “Why not?”
    “I’m not sure. The weird ear feeling, I guess.”
    Steve slurped gumbo. “He seemed like a dilettante?”
    “A little. I don’t know. He seemed tired. Burned out, I guess, but not from drugs. At least not recently. Just…” She spread her arms helplessly. “… tired of