Lydle, personally, had never seen anyone who made him auspicious, certainly not in his
hotel, which was a city landmark, and the place to go back in the days of the Old
Southern Train Station.
Brazil walked several blocks to Fifth Street and found Jazzbone’s Pool Hall. Brazil
decided that somebody was going to talk to him, even if he had to take a risk. At this
early hour, Jazzbone’s wasn’t doing much business, just a few guys sitting around
drinking Colt 45, smoking,
telling favorite stories about binges, and women, and winning at numbers. Pool tables
with shabby green felt were deserted, balls in their triangles, waiting for tonight when the
place would be crowded and dangerous until the boozy early morning. If anyone knew
what was going on in the neighborhood, Jazzbone was the man.
“I’m looking for Jazzbone,” Brazil said to the drinking buddies.
One of them pointed to the bar, where Jazzbone, in plain view, was opening a case of
Schlitz, and aware of the golden-hair dude dressed like college.
“Yeah!” Jazzbone called out.
“What you need.”
Brazil walked across cigarette-burned, whisky-smelling carpet. A cockroach scuttled
across his path, and salt and cigarette ashes were scattered over every table Brazil passed.
The closer he got to Jazzbone, the more he noticed details. Jazzbone wore gold rings,
fashioned of diamond clusters and coins, on every finger. The gold crowns on his front
teeth had heart and clover cut-outs. He wore a semiautomatic pistol on his right hip.
Jazzbone was neatly replacing bottles of beer in the cooler.
“All we got cold right now is Pabst Blue Ribbon,” Jazzbone said.
Last night had been busy and had wiped Jazzbone out. He had a feeling this boy wanted
something other than beer, but he wasn’t undercover, like Mungo. Jazzbone could smell
police and the Feds the minute they hit the block. He couldn’t remember the last time he
was fooled.
Jazzbone only got spanked by the other dudes out there, people coming into his
establishment looking just like him, guns and all.
“I’m with the Charlotte Observer,” said Brazil, who knew when it was better to be a
volunteer cop, and when not.
“I’d like your help, sir.”
“Oh yeah?” Jazzbone stopped putting away beer, and had always known he’d make a good story.
“What kind of help? This for the paper?”
“Yes, sir.”
Polite, too, giving the man respect. Jazzbone scrutinized him, and started chewing on a
stirrer, cocking one eyebrow.
“So, what you want to know?” Jazzbone went around to the other side of the bar and
pulled out a stool.
“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