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Webb frowned. “That’s interesting.”
“Yes, it is. And finally, he said him and Avianna broke up before he left for school last year.”
“Why would she lie about that?”
“I don’t know. But I do know two things. One, we need to get her back in here. And two, gimme one of those ribs.”
Webb laughed and pointed a barbecue stained finger at the box. Then he sat back and thought about Ms. Avianna Jones and the fact that she had lied to him about something that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the murder.
Which ultimately led him to believe it did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jaceblewasoft,steady stream of warm air into his trumpet and felt a tingle in his fingers. Adrenaline often did that to him. He had played in front of plenty of crowds before, but it was always in a controlled environment, with music he’d memorized, and his father or some other highly skilled director leading the way. Live jazz couldn’t be more different.
His father usually played these gigs when he could, but he had some pressing matter to attend to tonight. Probably a woman, and probably not his stepmother. It didn’t matter, though, because Jace loved subbing in for jazz legend Bobby Gordon. Musically, anyway.
The first time he’d filled in, he was so nervous he threw up. He still played his ass off that night, but the preamble was rather embarrassing. The second time, just three months ago, he had been much more comfortable.
The number of beautiful women in attendance had escaped him on his first go-round, but on that second night, he was much more observant. He got all kinds of phone numbers from grown-ass women who knew damn well what his age was and didn’t care.
That was a good night.
Tonight would be his third foray into the world of The Standard, a little out of the way spot in East Point off Camp Creek. Jace wasn’t a big fan of driving on the interstate, but for this, he made an exception. And he was feeling good. Relaxed. Damn near cocky. There would be no vomit tonight.
“Ten minutes, Youngblood,” Polo announced, his tenor sax hanging languidly from his neck. “Come on out here to the bar and take a drink with us real quick.”
Jace smiled and shook his head. “My pops wouldn’t want me drinking with y’all.”
“It’s a tradition,” Polo said with a shrug. “It’ll get you loose for the show.”
“Iamloose. Remember how nervous I was the first time? I’m good now.”
“Boy, you’re shivering like a little bitch. Come on out here.”
Jace laughed. Polo was one of Bobby’s oldest friends. They’d played together back in college and, as the story goes, Polo dated Jace’s mom before Bobby did. The man was fond of joking, “I could have been your daddy, boy,” as if any seventeen-year-old boy ever wants to hear some shit like that. But Jace loved Polo like an uncle.
And like many uncles, Polo’s major flaw was his insistence on living in the past. A past in which he was young and fresh and only wore collared shirts with Ralph Lauren on the label and a horse on the breast (that’s where the nickname came from). Nobody had the heart to tell him it wasn’t the 90s anymore, and it was time to grow up. He had a couple of kids but had never married. He still lived in the same apartments where he grew up.
Jace wanted kids and a wife and a house, all things Bobby had acquired. Except Jace planned to actually love and care for his family.
He followed his play uncle down a long, narrow hall lined with posters. Movies, music, black art, and a few fake-ass Warhols added color and personality to the dingy white walls. It was so hot and humid in there that every surface seemed to be sweating. Jace ran a finger down the wall as he walked and rubbed his fingers together. The grittiness excited him.
Polo led him to the small backstage bar, which was really more like a podium with a shelf of liquor behind it. The gang was mostly there: Forrest, their percussionist, who always rocked the same royal blue newsboy cap. Rumor had it he was still banging at 40 years old. Their bassist, Jeremiah, always fogged up his glasses in the club, but it didn’t matter, because he played right through it. The other trumpet, DeAnthony, was a beast. Jace struggled to keep up with him. It was a good thing, though. He needed that kind of training. Iron sharpens iron, and sometimes the best lessons are learned outside of the band room.
They all lifted their shot glasses—something clear, and they wouldn’t tell Jace what it was—and toasted to a good night. Jace downed his and managed to keep a straight face despite the burning in his throat and chest. They were watching, waiting for him to break. When he didn’t, they gave him daps and hugs.
As everyone made their way toward the stage, Jace felt his muscles relaxing. Whatever that stuff was, it was an elixir, soothing his pain and washing away his troubles, even if only for one night.
“Aye, Youngblood,” Polo said as they walked. “Good luck. And tell your pops we miss him around here. Ain’t seen him in almost a year.”
“I will,” Jace answered as they walked out onto the stage. The crowd was cheering, and the emcee was shouting something into the microphone, but Jace only seemed to hear his own heartbeat. He was still thinking about what Polo had just said. He could have sworn his father played here a few months before. The night of the party, in fact. Maybe he was mistaken.
But there was no time to dwell on it. They began to play the first song. Jace didn’t know the name of it, but he had heard it before. He listened to DeAnthony play the first sixteen counts, then he jumped in from there, taking only a few more counts to catch on fully. Improvisation is the lifeblood of jazz, so there’s no room for fear. You spend your whole musical life learning the language just so you can go out on that stage in that club and speak it. Jace wasn’t fluent—yet—but he could hold a conversation. And that’s just what he did with DeAnthony and the rest of the guys.
It was work, a lot of work, and it stretched the bounds of Jace’s ability, but damn if he didn’t feel good doing it. He felt powerful, and if he wanted, he could have had any woman in that place. Even the married ones, because they were giving him the eye, too.
As he watched the men bob their heads and the ladies sway from side to side, he felt pride. His father always said black folks have a close relationship to music. “It’s in our soul,” he’d say. “Black folks catch a beat like we’re catching the holy ghost.”
