Though Melba’s place didn’t feature a live band, it had a ferocious sound system. Huge box speakers were mounted on all four walls, and B. B. King was plucking up a storm through them when Carver limped to the bar.
It was only five-thirty, and there was one other customer, a skinny guy in Levi’s and one of those athlete’s shirts made of net from the chest down. There was a big red number 22 stenciled on the front of the shirt, which looked brand-new. Number 22 was seated at one of the tables near the back, reading a paperbound book.
Carver mounted a stool near the front end of the long bar and watched the bartender amble toward him.
He was a short man with military-cropped blond hair, a barrel chest, and crescent-shaped, friendly eyes. He had a beefy face with a reckless half smile pasted on it that Carver suspected was always there as a sort of mild defense. No matter what he was doing, he was having a hell of a good time, the smile proclaimed. It probably helped him to slip through life with a minimum of confrontation. Hard to imagine the man with that smile being duplicitous or angry; hard to imagine him without the smile. A tough marine drill instructor gone hopelessly good. Nice guy no matter what.
“Not much happening here,” Carver remarked over the music.
“Early yet. What can I getcha?”
“Scotch. You Melba?” Carver was smiling as he asked.
“Not me,” the bartender said. “I’m Jerry. But there’s a sure enough Melba owns Melba’s Place.” He poured some Usher’s into a glass.
“You’re shittin’ me,” Carver said. “Al’s Lounge, Mom’s Diner, Cal’s Used Cars-there’s never an Al, Mom, or Cal.”
“Well, there’s a Melba. Want water or ice in this?”
“Straight-up’s fine.” Jerry set the pebbled glass on the bar in front of Carver on a round cork coaster with “Melba’s Place” lettered on it in black. Carver took a sip and put the glass back down carefully on the coaster, centering it as if that were important. He said, “Hard to believe there’s actually a Melba owns Melba’s Place. Usually it’s a big syndicate or something, and if there was a Melba she’s been dead for ten years or she’s retired someplace down in Florida.”
The bartender chuckled. “It’s that way a lot, but not here. I’d show you our Melba only she ain’t in. Her father died and the funeral was just this morning.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Kinda thing always is, but she and the old man weren’t that close.”
“She own the place herself, or she got partners?”
“Got a husband’s what she’s got.” Jerry said it as if he didn’t like Jack Lipp. “He’s the actual owner, only it was Melba’s money got ’em in here.”
“Rent must be high, right in the Quarter.”
“Eat you up alive. Come winter, though, the place might be bigger. Hear talk of taking over the bookstore next door, knocking out that wall. Make the place twice as big.”
“Make the rent twice as much, too, wouldn’t it?”
The bartender shrugged. “Sometimes it costs money to make money. The main thing is to turn this joint from a hole-in-the-wall into a place where tourists’ll come and listen to live music. That’s what they want here in the Quarter. Hell, they can play tapes at home, that’s what they feel like hearing. Drink at home, too, for that matter.”
“You got a point,” Carver said, and took another sip of scotch. It tasted good; he must have needed a drink and not known it.
B. B. King wrapped up his number. Winton Marsalis took over.
Another customer came in and sat at the opposite end of the bar. He had on a tropical-print shirt and broad red suspenders and needed a shave. The numbed look on his face suggested that life had been kicking him around.
Jerry wiped his hands on a towel tucked in his belt, though his hands were perfectly dry. As if he’d seen too many reruns of old Jackie Gleason shows where Gleason does his friendly-bartender routine. He wandered down to take the new guy’s order. Number 22 got up and left.
Carver downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp, felt it sear the back of his throat and warm his stomach, and swiveled down off his stool. He caught the bartender looking at him in the back-bar mirror and lifted a hand in a parting wave. Jerry widened his jaunty grin and turned away to talk to the customer in the wild shirt and suspenders.
When Carver stepped outside, he didn’t see Melba Lipp staring at him from behind the window of the pastry shop across the street. She stopped there often to pick up cream beignets and coffee before going into Melba’s Place. Her figure was one thing she didn’t have to worry about, and she’d long indulged an incurable sweet tooth.
Her mouth hung open and her eyes bulged with surprise. She’d recognized Carver almost instantly, as soon as she’d seen the cane and stiff leg. No doubt who he was. The cruel-looking guy who’d been talking with Wanda Pichet last night at the mortuary.
The evening was cooling off. Carver stopped in a restaurant with tables outside on the sidewalk and ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke.
When he was finished eating he sat and watched the Quarter residents and tourists wandering by. It was easy to tell who was who. When that got stale, he paid his check and enjoyed the walk back to the Belle Grande.
There was a new man behind the desk, young and sharp-looking. He had on a neat blue suit and wore a gold watch that looked like an imitation Rolex, a big maybe-diamond tie tack. He’d splashed on just the right amount of cologne, which gave off a crisp spearmint scent. Women who liked money and chewing gum would find him irresistible.
Carver gave his room number and asked if there were any messages, and the sharp young guy checked the boxes and said no, there was nothing for him. He hoped Carver was enjoying his stay at the hotel, he said, as if they were in the lobby of the Royal Orleans.
Carver coaxed a newspaper from the battered vending machine and went upstairs to read it while he waited for Desoto to call.
He stretched out on the bed and had barely opened the paper when he dozed off. The booze and dinner, and then the walk back to the hotel, had made him feel doped and drowsy.
The room was dark when he abruptly woke up.
What the hell? Something was wrong. His arms were stretched over his head and he couldn’t move his hands. Worse than that, he was having a terrible time breathing.
Something-somebody-as heavy as a building was sitting on his chest.