When Belchar’s wife told me he played the piano, I’d imagined an entire band. I’d imagined wrong. A small baby grand sat in the center of the tiny wooden dance floor. Tall stools were placed around the piano, ashtrays on its top.

The piano’s stools competed with those at the bar for empty. Despite the few customers, the saloon was full of stale tear-stained smoke.

I looked around the room for someone resembling a musician but came up dry. We ordered our drinks, walked over to the piano, and sat. I hoped Belchar would get the message. It took about five minutes and a cigarette before he did. A tall, gaunt man, in a well-worn tuxedo, he wandered into the tavern from the restrooms’ shadow. He looked at the bartender, who pointed in our direction. This wasn’t the Tom Belchar I remembered.

The emaciated tux sauntered to the piano, and slid onto the bench. He nodded toward an empty glass in front of his face. “Cash or trade buys you what you want to hear.” He ran his hands lightly across the keyboard for emphasis, but he kept his face down.

If this was Belchar, he used as much as he sold. And I didn’t mean marijuana. His cheeks were sunken; his hairline started at the top of his head. He reminded me of Pacino’s partner in Dog Day Afternoon. Still, there was something familiar about him—maybe the light touch of his fingers on the piano keys. I remembered the hang-out nights in The End when we listened to Tom play. But now was a thousand piano keys later. And more than a few too many clubs, pubs, and taverns to be sure.

The waitress arrived with his drink and set it down. Without looking at either of us, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Thanks. What do you kind people wish to hear?”

“I want to hear whether you’re Tom Belchar.”

He looked up and stared at Boots. “What does the lady want to hear?”

Before I could respond Boots piped up, ‘“Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”‘

His eyes went back to the ivory. “You don’t look old enough to like Ellington, lady,” he mumbled, as Duke’s opening notes filled the room.

“I’m old enough,” I said. “Are you Belchar?”

Without looking up he said, “Are you the guy who came to the house looking for me?” He seemed completely disinterested.

“Yes.”

“You want more?” He glanced at us as Boots nodded, then segued into another melody. It brought a smile to Boots’ face.

From the bar, a voice called out, “Christ, get into the twentieth century, fella.” Belchar grimaced and replied, “Paying customer here, Captain.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Boots said.

“Lady, trouble is when I play “Send in the Clowns” for the tenth time.” “You’re really good,” Boots said.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He kept his eyes down, but nodded his head in my direction. “How come you look familiar?”

Before I could respond he began shifting back and forth between “I’ve Got a Crush on You” and “I’m Just a Lucky So and So.” Gershwin and the Duke. Boots looked delighted.

“Jenny said you were an old friend. I don’t have old friends. I figured you for another dun, but now I don’t. Who are you and what do you want?” He suddenly brought the music to a close, and drained his drink. I signaled for another round.

“I’m Matt Jacob. We knew each other twenty years ago.” “Matt Jacobs, huh?”

“Jacob. Without the ‘s.’ You knew me as ‘Jake.’ I was a community organizer in The End.” He screwed up his face. “Maybe I remember you, I don’t know. It’s five kids and one hellacious bitch later. That’s a long time to remember anything.” “Well, you knew me.” I had counted on his remembering.

“I believe you. Like I said, you look familiar. What other songs you like, lady?” “Play anything you want. It all sounds good,” Boots said.

He began to play a show tune. I’d have to tip Charles to the place. It had been a long time since Boots and I had fun together. Part of me wanted to leave the hunt alone, sit back, and enjoy the night. But, like the lady said, I was a stubborn fuck. “We’re not really here for the music.”

“I didn’t think so, but I’m not in the market for an organizer.” I laughed. “That’s okay. I’m out of the business.”

“What business are you in now?” He raised his head and his eyes followed a group of people who had noisily entered the place. I hoped they would stay at the bar. It’d be even tougher to question him in a crowd.

“I want to know about drugs,” I bludgeoned.

Boots leaned away from the question, and Tom stared at me, though his song didn’t falter. “You don’t look like a meth head.”

Well, we knew his diet. “I’m not.”

His eyes were back on the ivory. “You a cop?” “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” He slipped back into Ellington.

“I’m a private detective and I’m trying to find someone related to your side job. No Law involved, not even a client. It’s personal business.”

“A private cop, huh? I didn’t think any kind of cop could catch a pretty girl.” His hands swung into “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.”

I chuckled. “I’m not so sure I caught her.” “He’s not so sure he wants to,” Boots amended.

A woman from the party at the bar stumbled over. It was clear she had passed the midpoint of her night’s festivities. She pushed her very soft, very uplifted pale white breasts close to Tom’s face as she stuffed a rolled-up bill into the glass. “How ’bout “Send in the Clowns”? Do you know that one?” she slurred.

Tom made his fingers work the song—his touch weighed heavier by automatic pilot. Unfortunately, the lady wasn’t ready to let me go back to work. She turned to Boots and asked, “Can I dance with him, honey? He looks large enough for two.” She rocked her hips at me, and I wanted to hide under my seat.

“He just looks big on the outside,” Boots replied sarcastically. “You know what I mean, don’t you?” She Groucho’d her eyebrows, and winked lewdly.

Tom’s chuckle brought a wobbly glare from the woman. He quickly dipped his head and schmaltzed the song. The lady decided not to take offense.

Instead, she clasped her arms around her bosom and began swaying with herself on the dance floor. A man with a string tie and cowboy hat walked over and stuck another bill in Tom’s glass. “Play that tune again, champ.”

Tom nodded, waited until the cowboy locked steps with the woman’s sway, and smiled toward Boots. “Are you a friend of his?” He nodded toward me. “Or are you a private cop too?”

“Friend. Why do you work here? You’re a really good musician.” “Good ain’t all it takes.”

I found myself growing impatient, but stayed smart enough to keep still. The vibes between Boots and Tom were better than any I could produce.

Boots shook her head. “Look, I know the music business sucks, but you’re talented.” Tom laughed bitterly. “Sometimes things don’t work out the way you figure.” “That’s for sure,” Boots agreed.

I was about to demand what she meant when Tom continued, “I got married, had a couple of kids, then had some more. That Catholic thing can really screw up a career.”

The dancers were done and Tom slipped back into the Forties. “You know how it is, gotta work to keep all them mouths fed.” He looked at me, then back to Boots. “Your friend could probably tell you why I work here.”

“He can sell a little dope on the side,” I supplied.

“You got it,” Tom said. “What do you want to know about? And who turned you on to me?” “I’m looking for someone who tried to run me out of The End with a 4×4. I figure it was drug related.”

“Why do you figure that?” Belchar kept his eyes fixed on the ivory. “My ex-client deals,” I shrugged. “No other reason.”

Tom stopped playing and looked at me. “Where I live nobody’s got reason to run you out of anywhere. If someone really tried to scare you off, you’re reaching higher than me. Us little shits just say, ‘Thank you.’”

“The guy that started me on this is just a little shit.”

A smile curled the corners of his thin lips. “The End, dope, a littie shit, me.” He shook his head. “What the hell were you doing working for Emil Porter?”

Before I could answer someone from the bar bellowed for music. Belchar began to tongue-in-cheek “Feelings.” Boots was right, he really was good.

“What makes you think I’m talking about Emil?” I asked.

He glanced up at me. “The End is a small place. Those that collect on the bottom know each other.”

I enjoyed his music though I wasn’t ready to take him at his word. “Maybe the Leonard is getting too small for your part-time job.”

He wagged his head, and grimaced. “It wouldn’t matter.” He sounded wistful. “I just make enough to use. Believe it or not, I like music better than drugs.”

His head dipped again, and he murmured in a quiet voice, “But I like drugs better than everything else. Your information is lousy. I got no reason to run anyone out of anywhere. No matter what Emil told you.”

“The bartender said you do time with someone named J.B. That lousy too?”

“That’s right.” Belchar’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “You gave the afternoon greedhead money, he had to tell you something.”

It was his first lie. And he knew I knew it. I signaled for three for the road as Belchar mumbled something I couldn’t hear. “What did you say?” I asked.

He kept his eyes closed, but talked louder. “What’s this really about?” “I told you. I want to know who doesn’t like me—and why.”

“Me too,” he nodded. “What did Emil say that sent you this way?” “You were his dealer.”

He burst into muffled laughter; the music stopped midstream. The bar’s customers reacted with scattered applause. Tom stopped laughing, looked at Boots, grimaced and shrugged.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

He went back to his playing. “I don’t sell dope to Emil. He has you chasing your tail. You oughta ask him why.”

I drained my drink and waved my hand for another. My mind drifted to my afternoon’s match for the initials “J.B.” I didn’t like my hunch but, in its own way, it made for a perverse set of possibilities.

I drank while Boots and Tom talked about the great music of the Forties. They reviewed every composer and major musician of the decade. It was disconcerting and a little exciting not to have known about Boots’ interest. The excitement urged me to take her home. All the while Tom’s hands rippled over the keys, lilting and sweet; Belchar was having fun.

Before they started dissecting the Fifties, I rattled my keys. Boots reluctantly gathered her things. Tom suddenly stopped playing, but the noise in the bar had grown and nobody noticed. He stood and shrugged in Boots’ direction. I began to thank him when he volunteered, “I wasn’t kidding before. There really is no J.B. The afternoon man doesn’t like me very much.”

He stopped my response with a wave of his hand. “If you do get upstairs, try not to use my name, okay? I don’t like stealing the old lady’s food money for my drugs.”

I almost told him I’d use any name I damn well wanted, but he’d taken the worry lines out of Boots’ face. I closed my mouth and nodded. We left accompanied by the sounds of “The Party’s Over,” but I felt as if it had just begun. We walked to my car hand in hand while I wondered quietly about the “good” social worker and my opportunity to kick Blackhead’s ass. I didn’t even get angry about the parking tickets stuck on the car.