Chapter 63

The room smells of fish. Outside it is raining. Water runs in fast rivers along the gutters the storm drains barely able to handle the amount of water. By the open window sits a fat black man at an upright piano. He wears a white shirt with a red and white striped bow tie. The sleeves of the shirt are held up with gold arm bands just above the elbows. His waistcoat has a brown silk back the front is red velvet. On his head is a brown derby hat cocked to one side. He is playing and singing Honey Suckle Rose. By the door stands a Joe Coolz in his best zoot suit. Above his head is a notice that reads.

FISH FRY $1

On the couch is slumped a blonde in a red silk kimono. She is either drugged or drunk or both. Sitting on the arm of the couch is a big handsome black man in a sharp suit and correspondent shoes. He is swinging one leg in time to the music. His jacket is open and as he leans forward to shake the blond awake his shoulder holster is revealed. In the backroom a game of craps is in progress. A group of sailors on shore leave are shooting with the local hoods. The room is lit by the neon sign across the street blinking alternately red and white, throwing a long shadow of Fats Waller across the room. In the middle of the room are two couples dancing the shag. A for runner of the Lindy Hop. The air is tense as if something is about to happen. Up the stairs the sound of many feet on the bare boards announces the arrival of more sailors. They have uniforms that carry the insignia of the Royal Navy. Limeys, on a courtesy visit to the Big Apple. They want to see some action. They all carry a bottle of Jamaican rum. Some half full some half empty. The accents range from Scouse to Glaswegian. The door across the hall opens and they are waylaid by a big black woman in a basque.

‘Hello boys wanna see some action?’ This is a rhetorical question. Of course they do. They want to get laid and drunk and fleeced, get stories to tell their grandchildren. Added to the red and white flashing is now the blue light of a squad car. It pulls to a halt beneath the window and a tall man in a trilby and a long trench coat steps into the rain. He pulls up his coat collar and walks up the steps to the stoop and enters the building. His slow measured tread gets louder as he mounts the stairs to the first floor, until he stands in the doorway dripping water onto the bare linolium. He calls out to Fats.

‘Hey fats seen Detective Getz?’ Fats shakes his head and carries on playing. The tall man takes out a Lucky Strike and lights it with a match struck on the doorpost. The smoke lights up, red, white, blue, red, white, blue. He takes a look around the room, taking all in including Joe Coolz, who is trying to hide his face by mopping his brow with a large white kerchief.

‘Do I know you Buster?’

‘Not unless you bin to Liverpool laa.’

‘Limey eh, you remind me of someone.’

‘Not me mate, fresh off the boat.’

Detective first class Doil, is distracted by the sound of a scuffle amongst the crap shooters.

Joe Coolz heads for the street, the sound of gunshots behind him. He meets detective Getz on the stairs who grabs him by the arm.

‘No so fast Buddy, we may need you as a witness.’ Getz cuffs him to a banister spindle. ‘Don’t move.’ Says Getz