Black Cat Weekly #62

Chapter 6

There was a new jazz band playing at the Gimlet Lounge. “Hawk” Hathaway absently tapped his foot to the beat, a rhythm reminiscent of Sweet Georgia Brown. When the melodic interplay built and the trumpet player took the spotlight for a solo, the high clear notes sailed across the room, and he sat up. The haunting wail of the horn called to him, reached in and touched his soul. The music expressed fluidly the regret and sorrow that crushed his very being. Hawk stared at the trumpeter, transfixed. He knows how it feels, to have the weight of intolerable pain pressing in on him.

He knows how it feels, to have the weight of intolerable pain pressing in on him.When the trumpeter lowered the horn and took a breath, the dullness in his eyes and his downturned mouth confirmed Hawk’s supposition. The tune segued back into play between the horn, the guitar, and the drums, more like Dixieland jazz again. That was no surprise. This was Kansas City, with the historic 18th and Vine Jazz District just blocks away. Still, the festive notes jarred with the wallowing of despair that he came here for every night. Along with the alcohol. Hawk considered the three whiskeys he’d had and left the table for a trip to the can.

wasHe trudged down the solid stairs to the basement of the century-old building.

Huh, he thought, I can still hear the music down here. In fact, it seemed louder.

Huh,I can still hear the music down here.His musing was interrupted when he noticed that Carl, owner of the Gimlet, had remodeled the gent’s room. When had that happened? Hadn’t he been here every day for the last month, every single night since he’d given up his driver’s license?

Be honest with yourself, he said brutally. Since you killed that girl. Only ten years old. He’d tried to stop in time, but that didn’t matter. A vision of the ten-year-old running in front of his car blurred his vision. Hawk shook it off and focused on the improvements to keep from thinking about her.

Be honest with yourselfSince you killed that girl.The bright white wall tiles were surrounded by fresh grout, not the black lines he was used to seeing. Carl must have had it completely redone. No amount of bleach could have removed the decades of embedded mold and grime on those walls. The woodwork of the stalls themselves had been cleaned and refinished, brought back to their original glamour, when the building had been in its heyday. Even the air had lost that essence of mildew so familiar in the cellars of these old buildings. He was surprised Carl bothered. The place was a dive now, little more than a hole in the wall.

The door opened and the man who entered nodded before going to the far urinal. Dressed in a brown suit with bold pinstripes, he sported a wide green tie. That’s why we’ve got Dixieland upstairs, Hawk thought. The swing dancers are here.

That’s why we’ve got Dixieland upstairs,The swing dancers are hereHe washed his hands, noticing that Carl had replaced the sinks, too. Going all out. Funny that he’d kept the same style. That must be Greta’s influence, Carl’s twenty-four-year-old daughter. Hawk eyed the hard bar on the soap dish with distaste. Too bad he hadn’t splurged on bottles of liquid soap.

And the towel dispenser—Greta must have talked Carl into the old-fashioned cloth roller towel, too. She was into the environment. No trash, no electricity consumed. He pulled down the cloth towel with both hands for a crisp, fresh section to dry his hands on, then made his escape before the swing dancer started a conversation. They were too talkative and cheerful for his taste.

In the hallway, the sounds of the trumpet filled the air. Something evocative in the notes spoke to a longing in his soul. Hawk paused before climbing the stairs. There was smoke coming from behind the storeroom door. Cigarette smoke. It had been five years since he’d kicked the habit, but now, with the girl on his mind, the scent lured him in like a fish to a fly. Someone was sneaking a cigarette, in spite of the indoor smoking ban. Maybe he could bum one. Maybe it was Greta.

He pushed the storeroom door open. And stared. Had he taken a wrong turn in the dark? Hawk stepped back into the narrow hallway and took a swift look around. No, there was the men’s room. The same one he’d visited every night for the last month. He turned back to the open doorway. There was another bar down here, and it was hopping. Swing dancers filled the place, along with their cigarette smoke and chatter.

They need to do their research, he thought at the sight of the slinky straight dresses and long strings of beads on the women. The costumes belonged to the 1920s, not the 40s, when swing was in. But the men’s fedoras were sharp. Might have to get one himself. Funny, this band was playing the same song as the trio upstairs. Not as polished though.

They need to do their researchEying the band, the bartender reached under the bar and retrieved an amber bottle. He filled a single glass, then tucked the bottle away as the band stopped playing. The musicians crowded the narrow bar along with the patrons while Hawk contemplated bumming a cigarette.

“Give me a special, Slim,” the trumpeter said, holding the instrument at his side.

“Got it for you right here.” The bartender pushed the glass of clear liquid across the bar.

The costumed dancer Hawk had seen in the restroom brushed past, bumping him.

“Excuse you,” Hawk said under his breath.

The sax player leaned his elbow on the bar. “It’s Friday night. Time to get paid,” he said to the bartender.

Slim looked up and smiled.

Hawk decided to forgo the cigarette. What the crowd lacked in research skills they made up for in enthusiasm. The last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by cheerful partiers. Besides, the smoke in the air had been enough to settle his craving. For now.

Upstairs, the band played smooth jazz tunes, and Hawk took his seat at the bar. Greta was tending tonight.

“Nice job downstairs,” Hawk said. “The men’s room. And the bar,” he added, embarrassed, somehow, at bringing up bathrooms to her.

“Glad you like it.” She laughed, causing the silver ring in her left brow to twinkle. She filled two glasses with Boulevard Wheat from the tap and took them to a table.

He read the name printed on the band’s drum while she was gone. The Scott Norman Trio. When Greta returned, Hawk ordered another whiskey. “No swing dancing up here?”

She glanced at the small stage. “They’re the right band for it.”

The musicians set down their instruments, and made their way through the tables to the bar.

“Has Harry Flynn been in tonight?” the trumpet player asked Greta.

“The music producer?” Greta shook her head. “I haven’t seen him, Scott.”

Scott scanned the bar patrons. “He’s hitting all the clubs in KC this weekend. He’ll show up sooner or later.”

“So that’s what the crowd is about,” Hawk said. The trumpet player was younger than he thought, not more than a kid, really. But even close up, Hawk could see that sadness in his eyes. Another damaged soul. “Looking for your big break?” he asked.

“Sure could use one,” Scott said. “Things have been rough lately.”

“Tell me about it.” Hawk knocked his whiskey back. His life had spiraled downhill since that day. “That song you played first. Can you play it again?” He looked at the musician. “It eases the pain. Takes me with it, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.” Scott finished his drink and studied the glass. “Get a lot of requests for that one. It’s gonna make my name.”

The trio returned to the stage, and the swinging melody began. Hawk closed his eyes and pictured the accident, reliving the horror of the impact as he had a thousand times before. If only he hadn’t glanced at his cell phone. But ’57 Chevys didn’t have Bluetooth. That’s all it had been, a glance—he had no intention of replying to it. The memories brought back the craving for a cigarette.

“You smoke?” he asked Greta, opening his eyes.

She shook her head.

“I’m going downstairs to bum one.”

He ran down the stairs, almost regretting that he’d requested the song. The mournful notes filled his ears, reverberating in his head as the trumpet built to the high, scorching solo. The sound punished him, pain he relished as his due. A shimmering like pixels breaking up in the edges of his peripheral vision warned him that a migraine wasn’t far behind. A cigarette would help. In the cellar, he pushed open the storeroom door, looking for a smoker. Someone congenial who wouldn’t mind sharing with a stranger.

This band was still gathered at the bar. As Hawk walked in, the trumpet player grimaced, clutching a hand to his chest, and dropped his horn. The instrument clanged when it hit the floor, then the man himself fell from his stool. A sultry brunette at one of the tables jumped up, spilling her drink on the red silk of her dress.

“Phil!” She knelt by the fallen man’s side, then raised her eyes to the crowd. Her gaze stopped on Hawk, beseeching. “Help him, please.”

Hawk froze, helpless, as he had been thirty-two days ago when he’d hit the ten-year-old. He was a lawyer, not a doctor. Others crowded around and one man loosened the trumpet player’s tie while another slapped his cheek, deliberately, with force. First the left, then the right. The man didn’t revive.

The brunette’s wail of anguish rose high and filled the room. Hawk broke out of his shock and checked his phone. No signal. He dashed upstairs. Scott Norman’s Trio was taking a bow to enthusiastic applause.

“Call 911,” Hawk said to Greta, who was browsing her cell phone. “Somebody’s in trouble downstairs. It doesn’t look good.”

“Downstairs? In the bathroom?” she asked.

Hawk saw the emergency defibrillator on the wall. Carl had insisted on it after a long-time customer nearly died on him. “Bring that. It might be a heart attack.”

Greta looked at her father, who nodded and picked up the receiver of the wall phone. Tucking her cell into the top of her boot, Greta grabbed the apparatus from the wall and followed Hawk.

The hallway was silent when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“It’s too quiet. That can’t be good.” Hawk pushed open the heavy door. The room was pitch black. “A fuse must have blown.” He jerked his head back and forth, searching for a breaker box in the dim hallway.

“Here. I’ll get it.” Greta reached past him into the room and he heard the click of a switch.

The room illuminated brightly. Instead of a sea of scared faces, Hawk looked at cases of tequila and gin and kegs along the wall, a wall he could have sworn held a large mirror and shelves of alcohol. There was a mirror on the wall above the boxes, but it was speckled and dark with age. A row of dusty amber empties stood on a narrow ledge beneath.

wasGreta left him in the doorway and peered through the cracked glass panel of the men’s room door. “Anyone in there? Do you need help?”

As Hawk turned to her, baffled, she opened the door and ducked to look under the stalls, then did the same in the ladies’ room next door.

“Nobody’s down here, Hawk.” She studied him a moment. Her eyebrows drew together slightly, then she gave him an understanding smile. “How many did you have before you came here tonight?”

He stepped past her to the men’s room and jerked the door open. Stared at the familiar cracked tiles, the scratched wooden stalls, the rust stains in the sink and the paper towel dispenser only half-way fixed to the wall. He hadn’t had anything to drink at all before he got here, had he? Hawk blinked and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I don’t remember.”