“Well, you know about these killings around here,” Brazil said.
Jazzbone was momentarily confused.
“Huh,” he said.
“You might want to specify.”
“The out-of-towners. The Black Widow.” Brazil lowered his voice, almost to a whisper.
“Oh, yeah. Them,” Jazzbone said, and didn’t care who heard.
“Same person doing all of ’em.”
“It can’t be helping your business worth a damn.” Brazil got tough, acting like he was wearing a gun, too.
“Some creep out there ruining it for everyone.”
“Now that’s so, brother. Tell me about it. I run a clean business here. Don’t want trouble or cause none either.” He lit a Salem.
“It’s others who do. Why I wear this.” He patted his pistol.
Brazil stared enviously at it.
“Shit, man,” he said.
“What the hell you packing?”
One thing was true, Jazzbone was proud of his piece. He had got it off a drug dealer playing pool, some dude from New York who didn’t know that Jazzbone owned a pool hall for a reason. In Jazzbone’s mind, when he was good at something, whether it was a woman, a car, or playing pool, he may as well own it, and he was definitely one hell of a pool player. He slipped the pistol out of its holster so Brazil could look without getting too close.
“Colt Double Eagle .45 with a five-inch barrel,” Jazzbone let him know.
Brazil had seen it before in Guns Illustrated. Stain less steel matte finish, adjustable sights with high-profile three-dot system, wide steel trigger, and combat-style hammer. Jazzbone’s pistol went for about seven hundred dollars, new, and he could tell the kid was impressed and dying to touch it, but Jazzbone didn’t know him well enough for that.
“You think it’s the same one whacking all these white men from out of town?” Brazil repeated.
“I didn’t say they was white,” Jazzbone corrected him.
“The last one, the senator dude, wasn’t. But yeah, same motherfucker’s doing ’em.”
“Got any idea who?” Brazil did his best to keep the excitement out of his voice.
Jazzbone knew exactly who, and didn’t want trouble like this in his neighborhood anymore than those rich men wanted it in their rental cars. Not to mention, Jazzbone was a big supporter of free enterprise, and collected change from more than pool sharking and beverages. He had an interest in a few girls out there. They earned a few extra dollars and kept him company. The Black Widow was hurting business bad. These days, Jazzbone had a feeling men came to town after watching CNN and reading the paper, and they rented adult movies, stayed in. Jazzbone didn’t blame them.
“There’s this one punkin head I seen out there running girls,” Jazzbone told Brazil, who was taking notes.
“I’d be looking at him.”
“What’s a punkin head?”
Jazzbone flashed his gold grin at this naive reporter boy.
“A do.” Jazzbone pointed to his own head.
“Orange like a punkin, rows of braids close to his head. One mean motherfucker.”
“You know his name?” Brazil wrote.
“Don’t want to,” Jazzbone said.
“W West, in charge of investigations for the city, had never heard of a punkin head in connection with the Black Widow killings. When Brazil called her from a pay phone, because he did not trust a cellular phone for such sensitive information, he was manic, as if he had just been in a shoot-out. She wrote down what he said, but not a word of it sparked hope. Her Phantom Force had been undercover out on the streets for weeks. Brazil had spent fifteen minutes at Jazzbone’s, and had cracked the case. She didn’t think so. Nor was she feeling the least bit friendly toward Brazil’s two-timing, user-friendly ass.
“How’s the chief?” he asked her.
“Why don’t you tell me,” she said.
“What?”
“Look, I don’t have time to chit-chat,” she rudely added.
Brazil was on a sidewalk in front of the Federal Courthouse, hateful people looking at him. He didn’t care.
“What did I do?” he fired back.
“Tell me when’s the last time I’ve heard from you? I haven’t noticed you picking up the phone, asking me to do anything or even to see how I am.”