Augie leaned back in his chair—focused, reflective, a different man from the one who’d made a fool of himself in Court Square. “What do you think of my project?”
“I think your family went through hell. What was your mom’s name?”
“Dahlia Poston.”
“Beautiful name.”
“She was a beautiful woman. Brave woman.”
Billy balled up his sandwich wrapper, giving himself time to think. He wanted to know more about the journalist. “Does this guy write for local publications?”
“No, a big paper in the Northeast. He was investigating a dirty politician who got in bed with the paper’s publisher. The politician managed to have my guy canned. This book is his comeback.”
Of course Augie had believed the guy. Who can resist a good comeback story? “Any money passing between you?” Billy asked.
“I’m paying for research.”
Augie’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want anyone poking around in his business, which was understandable. So tomorrow, after meeting with the chief about his reinstatement, he decided he would run down to central records and pull Dahlia Poston’s file. If the journalist had visited records, his name should be on the checkout register. Billy would take it from there.
Augie yawned and pointed at the sack under the table. “What’s that you’re hauling around?”
Billy considered whether to bring up Red’s and Little Man’s deaths, then remembered he’d seen Augie talking with both men at a show they’d played in a club a couple of years ago.
“Did you know that Little Man Lacy fell into that construction dig next to the Blue Monkey the other night?”
“I heard. Rough luck.”
“Red Davis died this morning on a bench outside of Central Station.”
Augie’s eyes widened. “Man! I hate that. Was it a stickup?”
“More like a heart attack. I ran into Red in the terminal last night. A cop named Frankie Malone came by on patrol. He was all right when we left him.”
“Right. Mz. Police Goddess. She’s intense. I wouldn’t want to tangle with her.”
“Mz. Police Goddess.” That fit. “Frankie caught the call on Red this morning. The scene bothered her, so she asked me to take a look at the body. I didn’t like what I saw, either. We searched a house where Davis and Lacy had been squatting. Red told us about a cursed jacket, some Santería thing. You know anything about Santería?”
Augie reared back. “Oh, buddy, that’s strong stuff to the people who believe it. A lot of the Cuban players are into it.”
Billy opened the bag and pulled out the photo of the girl sitting at the piano. Her waist-length hair, pulled to one side, revealed a backless gown cut to the base of her spine.
“We found this in their room. Have you ever seen this girl?”
Augie stared at the photo. “Wowee-wow. Is she related to one of the guys?”
“I don’t know.” He took out the staff paper with the song “Old Fool Love.” “I figured the Blues Hall of Fame would want this song if we can’t find his relatives.”
Augie frowned. “A couple of weeks ago, I ran into Red at Confederate Park. He asked for a short-term loan of two thousand.”
“Two thousand dollars?”
“He said he had a sure thing coming through. As collateral he offered to sign over the publishing rights to ‘Burning Tree Blues.’ We went to the bank, got papers notarized. I guess ‘Burning Tree’ is mine now.”
Billy thought a moment. “He called it a sure thing?”
“Maybe he called it a business deal, I don’t remember. He talked like it was solid.” Augie shook his head. “This wasn’t about booze and lost weekends. Red was kind of solemn when he asked. That’s why I went ahead.” His head dipped. “And I have to admit, I collect blues history. I wanted the publishing rights. I didn’t care if he paid me back.”
Billy pulled out the jacket, a camel-colored tropical-weight wool with wide lapels and stylized side pockets. They spread it on the table. He flipped back the right panel of the jacket and read the label: TAILORED BY BERNARD.
“Bernard had a shop on Main Street in the fifties,” Augie said. “He dressed Elvis, Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison, B. B. King. If you wanted quality and style back then, you went to Bernard.”
“Is he still around?”
“They closed the Main Street shop. Bernard would be in his late eighties.”
Billy ran his hand across the right inside breast pocket and felt a lump. Slipping his fingers in, he pulled out a stack of three-by-five photos. He shuffled through them. The Chevy Impala and Ford Fairlane parked in the background suggested the photos had been taken decades ago. One of two men appeared in every shot, taking turns behind the camera. They both sported crew cuts and intense expressions. The taller one wore black-rimmed glasses. In every photo, they were talking with folks on the street. The majority of the people were black, some were white. Ages ranged from teenaged to elderly. Bell-bottoms and Afros put the photos in the mid- to late sixties.
He checked the left breast pocket. It was empty.
“May I see those?” Augie ran through the pictures slowly, frowning, and handed them back.
“Recognize anything?”
“Nope.” Augie got to his feet, scratching his crotch. “I’m late.”
“You’re not late. What could you be late for? What did you see?”
“Got to go, my friend.” Augie shot the crumpled Mr. Peanut bag into the can and took off walking across the trolley tracks.
Billy picked up the stack and flipped through them. This time he caught it. The tall guy, the one with the glasses, was wearing the Goodwill jacket.