Private Dick Casefile 01 - Lily White Rose Red

he heard someone mistake me for a cop. “No cop, Mrs.—?”
    “Miss Rivers,” she said.
    “Grey Randall,” I said, holding out my hand. She leaned forward to take my hand in a firm grasp and shook, very dignified.
    “You’re not here to collect, are you?”
    She must have seen the confusion on my face.
    “Collect what?”
    “You’re not from—no, of course you’re not. My mistake. But I can tell you’re no powder puff. What do you want with Barry?”
    “Barry? Sorry to disturb you, I must have the wrong place. I’m looking for a fella named Jazz Morgan.”
    “That’s Barry. Jazz is his nickname. Why do you want to see him?”
    I could have come up with a cover story, but this lady was shrewd enough to see through a quick lie. I decided it might buy me more to come clean. “I’m a private investigator, ma’am, looking into the murder of Miss Marguerite Saint-Ville. I understand Jazz Morgan knew her.”
    She decided I was telling the truth. “Barry didn’t do it, no matter what anyone told you. None of this black man assaulting an irresistible white woman nonsense. I’ve known him since he was a boy, and he’s not like that.”
    I wondered if she knew just exactly how much not like that he was, depending on whether Reggie was right about him. “I just wanted to ask Mr. Morgan a couple of questions about her. So far, I’ve spoken with a few people who knew her, and I’m trying to find out what she was like.”

    Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
    53

    “Why don’t you ask him at the club where he works?”
    “I don’t want to interrupt his work, ma’am. Might be awkward for him.”
    “Awkward,” she scoffed. “Since when—oh, never mind. You can most likely find him downtown on Tonopah Blvd. He plays piano in a club called Blackout there till closing. Then he goes on to another club near Fremont. A white club.”
    “Thank you, Miss Rivers.”
    “I’ll tell Barry you were around asking, in case you miss him,” Miss Rivers called after me.
    I swear there was a malicious note in her voice, and I knew it was no use asking her not to mention that I had been there. With neighbors like her on your side, there’s not much chance of taking your suspect by surprise. Which was probably a good thing for Jazz, not so much for me.
    I realized when she said downtown, she meant downtown in the north side, not downtown Las Vegas. And judging from the name, I was betting that Blackout was a black club.
    And speaking of which, it sounded like maybe Jazz was a betting man. Suddenly it all made sense what Miss Rivers had said about me being there to collect. I wondered whether Jazz would kill a woman for money if he got in deep enough. It was another motive, but a dicey one.
    I had no evidence for it beyond an inference based on an inflection from a woman I didn’t know. Aside from the fact that the killer left the jewelry behind too; any experienced thief would have taken it on the off chance.
    I drifted by the Blackout Club and parked the car a couple blocks down. That’s another way I keep fit; never park right in front of the target. It could leave you without getaway wheels.
    Walking down the street, suddenly I thought I knew how it must feel to be black in the army. Or anywhere other than blacktown. I was the only white person I could see, and every person who passed me stared rigidly ahead, not deigning to make eye contact.

    54

    CATT FORD

    I felt self-conscious. I might have to go into Blackout at some point, but there was no way I could lose myself in a crowd here. Jazz would spot me coming a mile away, and he had the advantage of home turf. If he didn’t want to talk, I might find myself with a music stand wrapped around my neck.
    Blacktown was practically the only place in Vegas where closing hours were actually enforced. Reggie would never admit that the cops had quotas, but if they were short a few arrests, they had a tendency to drift into the north side. Black men couldn’t afford to fight back, and most of them were probably used to the occasional night in the hoosegow. Then everyone went home happy, at least if you were a cop.
    Maybe the colored fellas were just happy to be going home at all.
    I glanced in the windows as I walked by the club. Business was slow, seeing as it was only the middle of the day, but Jazz was there, picking out a sad tune on the piano.
    It’s hard to judge a book by its cover, and he was a big, powerful man, almost as big