James Freeman had hired B. B. King’s Blues Club for the night, the whole damned place, to throw a Celebration of Life for Red Davis, Little Man Lacy, and Augie Poston.
Billy sat beside Freeman at a balcony table with a great view of the stage, watching a house packed with friends drinking and telling stories about the dearly beloved and recently departed. Freeman had brought in the best: Dr. Feelgood Potts, and Mr. Sipp, “the Mississippi Blues Child.” Red and blue spots lit the stage. The crowd was clapping and cheering, swaying and moaning, dancing and shouting to the music.
Billy felt good. He was back on track. He knew who he was again. He thought about his job and the people in this city, the blues and the lawless river he lived beside with its power and its secrets. He’d come home and found what he needed. One thing he’d learned, the ability to spot your own happiness takes talent.
Freeman nodded toward Mr. Sipp, smoking up the stage with his electric guitar. “You ever want to play like that?”
“Nope. You come into this world fully loaded like these guys, or it’s best to sit home and play albums. How about you?”
“Harmonica’s my thing.”
“You any good?”
Freeman laughed. “Hell no. I got no soul.”
The crowd on the dance floor hooted as Dr. Feelgood joined Mr. Sipp in trading licks on “Dust My Broom.”
The band had it cranked. Freeman leaned in so Billy could hear him. “You asked me to find a literary agent to sell Pryce’s book. Turns out, because of all the hype around Garrett, execution by train, the manuscript is hot. HarperCollins made a fat offer. I took it to Pryce this morning. By the way, he’ll be out of rehab in a couple of days.”
“That’s good. Pryce deserves a break. And he needs operating capital for his next project.”
“Pryce and I talked about the way you dogged those cases until you nabbed Garrett. You’re a force of gravity, man. You showed up in Memphis and bodies started dropping through the ceiling. It’s ironic. A kid bargains with the FBI to protect his brother then the FBI screws up and the guy gets killed.”
Billy shook his head. “No sympathy for the devil from me. Garrett killed four people, almost five, to cover what he’d done fifty years ago.”
Freeman raised his beer mug. “You know the saying, ‘Up north their stories begin with Once upon a time. Down south it’s You ain’t gonna believe this shit.’”
They clinked glasses.
“What’s the fallout going to be at Robert House?” Billy asked.
“Minimal. The shelter has a lot of community support. The museum is a different story. Media coverage about Garrett and Carter is going to make it tough, so I’ve agreed to take over the fund-raising.”
Freeman cocked his head toward the club’s main entrance. “Look who just walked in wearing red.”
Billy saw Frankie at the door, looking dynamite in heels and a strapless dress. Ramos was at her side in a charcoal suit and dark glasses, his hand on her arm. Billy hadn’t met him, only seen Frankie’s photos from the funeral. In person, Ramos looked like Antonio Banderas. They had agreed that she would bring Ramos to the party, but it gave him a jolt to see her with him.
He watched them weave through the crowd to join a table of people she seemed to know. When Ramos was seated, she spoke with him, then began looking around.
“Who’s the stud with Mz. Police Goddess?” Freeman asked.
“Her priest.”
“That’s funny,” Freeman said, leaning in, shouting over the music. “I thought you said he was her priest.”
“You got it.” Billy stood and got Frankie’s attention. She smiled at him and crossed the dance floor.
“You’re a lucky bastard,” Freeman said, standing, too.
As Frankie started up the balcony stairs, Mr. Sipp took the mike and quieted the crowd. “We have someone here tonight who meant a lot to Red and Little Man. Miss Theda Jones is going to perform the last song Red Davis wrote. It’s called ‘Old Fool Love.’”
The spotlight hit Theda, her long hair swinging, her short, sequined dress shimmering over the tops of her thighs as she crossed the stage. She looked up at the balcony and gave Billy and Freeman a warm smile and a wave. They waved back as the keyboardist turned the piano over to Theda.
“Good idea to bring her in from Boston,” Freeman said. “Red would’ve loved seeing her here.”
Frankie joined them at the rail as Theda began to sing.
“Love at the door feeling bad,
’Cause love can’t have what it needs to have.
Old fool love.
That old fool . . . love.”
When she was finished, the crowd stomped and cheered.
Freeman shook hands with Frankie. “I’m James Freeman.”
“Frankie Malone. Thanks for throwing the celebration. I’m sure the guys would love being remembered this way. Billy said you stepped up during the investigation, really went out on a limb. Thanks for that.”
Freeman grinned. “May I get you a shooter? A jelly roll? Wang dang doodle? A voodoo child?”
“Club soda for now. Thanks.”
As soon as Freeman headed for the bar, Frankie turned to Billy. “Theda Jones seemed happy to see you.”
“Yeah, and it looks like you and Ramos are pretty tight.”
“Sergio’s a nice man. He’s helping me work through those anxiety issues I told you about a couple of weeks ago.”
Her hips moved to the music. She looked relaxed for the first time since that night at Central Station.
“Great. Has he sacrificed any chickens lately?”
She looked startled. Then that knowing look came over her, the one that says, Oh, buddy. Have I ever got your number.
He felt like a dolt. Maybe it was the red dress. She was definitely showing some cleavage.
“You sure seem interested in what I’m doing with Sergio,” she said.
“That’s how it is with partners.”
She squinted at him as applause drowned out his words. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I remember thinking when we first met that plainclothes duty would suit you better than uniform.”
She shook her head, still perplexed.
“I’ve been cleared by the board. I’ll be back with the squad in a couple of days. And there’s something else. Before Augie died and things got screwed up, I talked with the chief about my reinstatement. I agreed to sign on only if I had the right to choose my partner.”
“The chief would never go for that. It’s not policy,” she said.
He spoke up this time to be certain she could hear him. “The chief asked me to tell you to come by his office tomorrow, Detective Malone.”
“Oh, my God. That’s great.” She hugged him.
“You free tomorrow afternoon, partner?” he asked.
“Absolutely, partner. You want to celebrate?”
“You know the photo and letter from the jacket I’ve been holding on to?”
“Of course. Have you decided what to do?”
“Tomorrow you and I are going to visit Walker Pryce. We’ll hand over his next investigative project.”
Outside, a train whistle blew. Theda and Mr. Sipp stepped up to share the mike for a duet: “Old Fool Love.”