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Da
The lie made Da
Da
Bido Lito’s was shaped like a miniature Taj Mahal, only purple; Malloy’s Nest was a bamboo hut fronted by phony Hawaiian palms strung with Christmas-tree lights. Zebra stripes comprised the paint job on Tommy Tucker’s Playroom—an obvious converted warehouse with plaster saxophones, trumpets and music clefs alternating across the edge of the roof. The Zamboanga, Royal Flush and Katydid Klub were bright pink, more purple and puke green, a hangar-like building subdivided, the respective doorways outlined in neon. And Club Zombie was a Moorish mosque featuring a three-story-tall sleepwalker growing out of the facade: a gigantic darky with glowing red eyes high-stepping into the night.
Jumbo parking lots linked the clubs; big Negro bouncers stood beside doorways and signs a
The doormen at the Zamboanga and Katydid recalled seeing Martin Mitchell Goines “around”; a man setting up a menu board outside the Royal Flush took the ID a step further: Goines was a second-rate utility trombone, usually hired for fill-in duty. Since “Christmas or so” he’d been playing with the house band at Bido Lito’s. Da
Da
The walls were pastel satin bathed by colored baby spotlights that hued the fabric garish beyond garish; the bandstand backing was a re-creation of the Pyramids, done in sparkly cardboard. The tables had fluorescent borders, the high-yellow hostesses carrying drinks and food wore low-cut tiger costumes, the whole place smelled of deep-fried meat. Da
He held out the mugshot strip. “Do you know this man?”
The bartender took the strip, examined it under the cash register light and handed it back. “That’s Marty. Plays ‘bone with the Sultans. Comes in before the first set to eat, if you wants to talk to him.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Las’ night.”
“For the band’s last set?”
The barman’s mouth curled into a tight smile; Da
The man wiped the bartop with a rag. “I don’ think so. Midnight set I remember seem’ him. Sultans played two late ones las’ night, on account of New Year’s.”
Da
The bartender pressed a button by the register; Da
Da
The mulatto’s smile evaporated. “I usually deal with the Seven-Seven, Mr. Sheriff.”
“This is County business.”
“This ain’t County territory.”
Da
The smile returned. “I surely don’t. How can I be of service, sir?”
“Tell me about Marty Goines.”
“What about him?”
“Try everything.”
The manager took his time lighting a cigarette; Da
Da
“Right.”
“Goines played a set with them that ended just after midnight?”
The mulatto smiled. “Dicky McCover’s up-tempo ‘Old Lang Syne.’ Even Bird envies that—”
“When was the set finished?”
“Set broke up maybe 12:20. Fifteen-minute break I give my guys. Like I said, Marty ditched out on that and the 2:00 closer. Only time he did me dirt.”
Da
The manager nodded. “Uh-huh. Played for a private party I had going after that. What’d Marty do?”
“He got murdered.”
The mulatto choked on the smoke he was inhaling. He coughed the drag out, dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, rasping, “Who you think did it?”
Da
“Say what?”
“Don’t play dumb. Junk, H, horse, a fucking heroin habit.” The manager took a step backward. “I don’t hire no goddamned hopheads.”
“Sure you don’t, just like you don’t serve hijack booze. Let’s try this: Marty and women.”
“Never heard nothing one way or the other.”
“How about enemies? Guys with a hard-on for him?”
“Nothing.”
“What about friends, known associates, men coming around asking for him?”
“No, no and no. Marty didn’t even have no family.”
Da
“No, you ain’t.”
Da