Then he gave me a card with an address in Chelsea penciled on it.
Jellyroll’s body began to twitch and heave as if he were trying to expel a hot anvil from his guts. Then he began to retch.
“What’s wrong with him?” Chet Bream wanted to know.
We walked back toward Jerry’s house. I wondered how Crystal would take it, me showing up with a ChapStick-junkie reporter to talk about the death of her ex-husband.
“You know, I spoke to this guy Bruce Munger,” said Bream on the way. “He tried to hit me up for a hundred bucks to talk to him.”
“Then you got the right Bruce Munger.”
“When I didn’t pay, he told me Trammell drowned.”
“Maybe he did.”
He gave me a sardonic sidelong glance.
“You know, for a reporter you’re not very objective.”
Crystal, small in the distance, watched us approach from the porch. She waved like a sea captain’s wife to his ship in the offing. Maybe she thought then that Bream was just a stranger who happened to be going our way, until we trudged through the soft sand at the head of the beach, Chet Bream on our asses.
We stopped beneath the porch where Crystal stood. She stared down at us. Jellyroll smiled at her. “Crystal, this is Chet Bream. He’s a reporter who wants to talk to you about Trammell.”
“Tell him to beat it.”
NINE
----
I T SEEMED TO take two days to tell it all. Crystal just shook her head when I was done. Her shoulders hunched. She withdrew. I made us some coffee. It was only a little after eight, but I felt like I’d already put in a full day loading concrete blocks.
“Everything looked gray to me,” she said when I returned to the living room.
“What?”
“Even the neon lights at the beach looked totally”—she pronounced it “tot’ly”—“gray.”
“You mean back in Miami?”
“Yeah. Especially when they were taking me away in handcuff s.”
“You were depressed.”
“I was a doper.”
“You told me our first night together.”
“I’m sorry, Artie.”
“You don’t need to apologize for an unhappy past.”
“No, for getting you into this.”
“Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe this guy Bream’s just a conspiracy weirdo. He’s a ChapStick junkie.”
“He is? How do you know?”
“He kept slathering it on.”
“You think he’s just a goofball, and we don’t need to worry about it?”
“Sure. But we can get out of town if you’re worried about it.” Flight is my best response to reality.
“We are out of town.”
“Way out of town.”
“Artie, I can’t just leave. I have commitments. If you want to go I’d understand.”
“As your attorney, I’m under retainer to stay.”
“Do you mind if we go home?”
We returned in heavy traffic. The air was blue. A funk of effluviahung over the city, and the backs of our necks felt gritty just driving through it. In these conditions the population moves more from memory than intent. Everywhere, fire hydrants gushed. Gutters flooded as litter-clogged drains backed up. People sat on their stoops with their arms and legs spread so flesh wouldn’t touch flesh, a city full of prickly-heat sufferers. Rain clouds gathered over New Jersey, but they never developed into showers, dashing hopes for relief. Come nightfall, tempers would fray, and people would begin to hurt each other senselessly.
Crystal and I didn’t go out the rest of that day except to take Jellyroll to the park. We listened to Benny Carter compositions. I’m very fond of his version of “Lover Man” from the 1985 recording
A Gentleman and His Music
. Maybe Mr. Carter will live forever. We didn’t talk much; we ate Chinese food and listened. We did, however, make love, and, doing so, we felt the doubt and anxiety fade like storm clouds passing away over the horizon. Storms have a way of lurking out beyond the curvature of the earth and doubling back to clobber you when your guard goes down.
That night Crystal and Earle Grundy played high-stakes nine ball. Most of the regulars
Jellyroll’s body began to twitch and heave as if he were trying to expel a hot anvil from his guts. Then he began to retch.
“What’s wrong with him?” Chet Bream wanted to know.
We walked back toward Jerry’s house. I wondered how Crystal would take it, me showing up with a ChapStick-junkie reporter to talk about the death of her ex-husband.
“You know, I spoke to this guy Bruce Munger,” said Bream on the way. “He tried to hit me up for a hundred bucks to talk to him.”
“Then you got the right Bruce Munger.”
“When I didn’t pay, he told me Trammell drowned.”
“Maybe he did.”
He gave me a sardonic sidelong glance.
“You know, for a reporter you’re not very objective.”
Crystal, small in the distance, watched us approach from the porch. She waved like a sea captain’s wife to his ship in the offing. Maybe she thought then that Bream was just a stranger who happened to be going our way, until we trudged through the soft sand at the head of the beach, Chet Bream on our asses.
We stopped beneath the porch where Crystal stood. She stared down at us. Jellyroll smiled at her. “Crystal, this is Chet Bream. He’s a reporter who wants to talk to you about Trammell.”
“Tell him to beat it.”
NINE
----
I T SEEMED TO take two days to tell it all. Crystal just shook her head when I was done. Her shoulders hunched. She withdrew. I made us some coffee. It was only a little after eight, but I felt like I’d already put in a full day loading concrete blocks.
“Everything looked gray to me,” she said when I returned to the living room.
“What?”
“Even the neon lights at the beach looked totally”—she pronounced it “tot’ly”—“gray.”
“You mean back in Miami?”
“Yeah. Especially when they were taking me away in handcuff s.”
“You were depressed.”
“I was a doper.”
“You told me our first night together.”
“I’m sorry, Artie.”
“You don’t need to apologize for an unhappy past.”
“No, for getting you into this.”
“Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe this guy Bream’s just a conspiracy weirdo. He’s a ChapStick junkie.”
“He is? How do you know?”
“He kept slathering it on.”
“You think he’s just a goofball, and we don’t need to worry about it?”
“Sure. But we can get out of town if you’re worried about it.” Flight is my best response to reality.
“We are out of town.”
“Way out of town.”
“Artie, I can’t just leave. I have commitments. If you want to go I’d understand.”
“As your attorney, I’m under retainer to stay.”
“Do you mind if we go home?”
We returned in heavy traffic. The air was blue. A funk of effluviahung over the city, and the backs of our necks felt gritty just driving through it. In these conditions the population moves more from memory than intent. Everywhere, fire hydrants gushed. Gutters flooded as litter-clogged drains backed up. People sat on their stoops with their arms and legs spread so flesh wouldn’t touch flesh, a city full of prickly-heat sufferers. Rain clouds gathered over New Jersey, but they never developed into showers, dashing hopes for relief. Come nightfall, tempers would fray, and people would begin to hurt each other senselessly.
Crystal and I didn’t go out the rest of that day except to take Jellyroll to the park. We listened to Benny Carter compositions. I’m very fond of his version of “Lover Man” from the 1985 recording
A Gentleman and His Music
. Maybe Mr. Carter will live forever. We didn’t talk much; we ate Chinese food and listened. We did, however, make love, and, doing so, we felt the doubt and anxiety fade like storm clouds passing away over the horizon. Storms have a way of lurking out beyond the curvature of the earth and doubling back to clobber you when your guard goes down.
That night Crystal and Earle Grundy played high-stakes nine ball. Most of the regulars
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