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. Danny read every suspicious black face he spoke to for signs of holding back; all he got was a sense that these guys thought Marty Goines was a lily-white fool.
Danny hit Bido Lito’s. A sign in front proclaimed DICKY MCCOVER AND HIS JAZZ SULTANS—SHOWS AT 7:30, 9:30 AND 11:30 NITELY—ENJOY OUR DELUXE CHICKEN BASKET. Walking in, he thought he was entering a hallucination.
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. Danny felt his stomach growl, realized he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and approached the bar. Even in the hallucinatory lighting, he saw the barman make him for a cop.
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; Danny sensed that “band” was square nomenclature. “I asked you a question.”
The man wiped the bartop with a rag. “I don’ think so. Midnight set I remember seein’ him. Sultans played two late ones las’ night, on account of New Year’s.”
Danny noticed a shelf of whiskey bottles without labels. “Go get the manager.”
The bartender pressed a button by the register; Danny took a stool and swiveled to face the bandstand. A group of Negro men was opening instrument cases, pulling out sax, trumpet and drum cymbals. A fat mulatto in a double-breasted suit walked over to the bar, wearing a suck-up-to-authority smile. He said, “Thought I knew all the boys on the Squad.”
Danny said, “I’m with the Sheriff’s.”
The mulatto’s smile evaporated. “I usually deal with the Seven-Seven, Mr. Sheriff.”
“This is County business.”
“This ain’t County territory.”
Danny hooked a thumb in back of him, then nodded toward the baby spots. “You’ve got illegal booze, those lights are a fire hazard and the County runs Beverage Control and Health and Safety Code. I’ve got a summons book in the car. Want me to get it?”
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; Danny knew his fuse was being tested. Finally the man exhaled and said, “Not much to tell. The local sent him down when the Sultans’ regular trombone fell off the wagon. I’d have preferred colored, but Marty’s got a rep for getting along with non-Caucasians, so I said okay. Except for ditching out on the guys last night, Marty never did me no dirt, just did his job copacetic. Not the world’s best slideman, not the worst neither.”
Danny pointed to the musicians on the bandstand. “Those guys are the Sultans, right?”
“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.”
Danny went in for the Sultans’ alibi. “Were the other three men on stage for the final two sets?”
The manager nodded. “Uh-huh. Played for a private party I had going after that. What’d Marty do?”
“He got
Danny hit Bido Lito’s. A sign in front proclaimed DICKY MCCOVER AND HIS JAZZ SULTANS—SHOWS AT 7:30, 9:30 AND 11:30 NITELY—ENJOY OUR DELUXE CHICKEN BASKET. Walking in, he thought he was entering a hallucination.
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. Danny felt his stomach growl, realized he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and approached the bar. Even in the hallucinatory lighting, he saw the barman make him for a cop.
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; Danny sensed that “band” was square nomenclature. “I asked you a question.”
The man wiped the bartop with a rag. “I don’ think so. Midnight set I remember seein’ him. Sultans played two late ones las’ night, on account of New Year’s.”
Danny noticed a shelf of whiskey bottles without labels. “Go get the manager.”
The bartender pressed a button by the register; Danny took a stool and swiveled to face the bandstand. A group of Negro men was opening instrument cases, pulling out sax, trumpet and drum cymbals. A fat mulatto in a double-breasted suit walked over to the bar, wearing a suck-up-to-authority smile. He said, “Thought I knew all the boys on the Squad.”
Danny said, “I’m with the Sheriff’s.”
The mulatto’s smile evaporated. “I usually deal with the Seven-Seven, Mr. Sheriff.”
“This is County business.”
“This ain’t County territory.”
Danny hooked a thumb in back of him, then nodded toward the baby spots. “You’ve got illegal booze, those lights are a fire hazard and the County runs Beverage Control and Health and Safety Code. I’ve got a summons book in the car. Want me to get it?”
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; Danny knew his fuse was being tested. Finally the man exhaled and said, “Not much to tell. The local sent him down when the Sultans’ regular trombone fell off the wagon. I’d have preferred colored, but Marty’s got a rep for getting along with non-Caucasians, so I said okay. Except for ditching out on the guys last night, Marty never did me no dirt, just did his job copacetic. Not the world’s best slideman, not the worst neither.”
Danny pointed to the musicians on the bandstand. “Those guys are the Sultans, right?”
“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.”
Danny went in for the Sultans’ alibi. “Were the other three men on stage for the final two sets?”
The manager nodded. “Uh-huh. Played for a private party I had going after that. What’d Marty do?”
“He got
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