Free The Dead Play On by Heather Graham Page A

like the nicest guys in the world. Anyway, we’ll meet the band. They can tell us about Arnie’s last night with them. You never know, maybe one of them will say something that will trigger someone else’s memory or give us something to go on.”
    When they parked near the house and got out, they could hear the mournful sound of a sax coming through an open window.
    “That’s Billie,” Danni told Tyler. “I hope you don’t mind.”
    “Fine with me. It’s not even a special sax,” he said. “I could have sworn... I mean, I played better with that thing than I ever played in my life.”
    “Like Amy said, maybe because you believed you could play better,” Quinn suggested.
    “But I saw scenes from Arnie’s life.”
    “Things you knew because you were his best friend,” Danni said. “Things that fit with the way you think he died.”
    Tyler offered them a dry half smile, tilting his head at an angle as if he could hear the music better that way. “He’s not half-bad,” he told them.
    “He’s also a bagpipe player—or was,” Danni said.
    “You’re sure it’s not
the
sax?” Tyler asked.
    “Not according to the people who should know,” Quinn said. “Do you want me to go in and get it for you?”
    “No,” Tyler said. “I have another—let him play. Go ahead and let him play.”
    “Come on, then,” Quinn said. “Let’s head over to La Porte Rouge.”
    They walked up the one block from Royal to Bourbon and turned to the left. Neon lights blazed from everywhere. Women in scanty outfits stood by doorways with placards that advertised dollar beers and cheap food. People with drinks in open containers—from those who were barely twenty-one, if that, to retirees—cruised along, checking out the various venues in search of one that drew their attention or just taking in the sights and sounds. Music flowed from every establishment. In the street, songs combined and created an intriguing disharmony. Strip joints vied for business alongside all-night pizza joints and white-tablecloth restaurants, souvenir shops, voodoo shops and, always, music clubs.
    There really was, Danni thought, nothing quite like Bourbon Street—the good, the bad and even the ugly.
    They reached La Porte Rouge and let Tyler lead the way in. The band was in the middle of a Journey number.
    The bar was like many on the street. The building itself was about a hundred and fifty years old; the long hardwood bar was about fifty itself, she thought. The stage backed up to the front wall so that the music oozed out the windows and open doors to encourage those who walked by to step in.
    Cleanliness was definitely not next to godliness, but the place wasn’t particularly dirty, either. So many people flowed in and out; so many drinks were spilled by the clumsy and the already wasted, that there was only so much the staff could do to keep up. But tonight, while there were twenty or so patrons scattered at the tables or standing in front of the band, it wasn’t particularly busy. It was a Thursday night, and there were no major conventions in town, plus it was still only about eleven or eleven thirty. Bourbon Street would pick up soon—the night was still young in New Orleans.
    Tyler was immediately recognized by a pretty blonde woman in black leggings and a corset-style blouse that was white with red trim; Danni saw the same blouse on another woman and figured it had to be a waitress uniform. The blonde wore it well; she was pretty without looking as if she should have been working at one of the nearby strip clubs.
    “Tyler!” she said, kissing his cheek and smiling at Danni and Quinn. “I thought you were taking the night off.”
    “I was—I am,” he said. “I was just bringing some friends by.” He introduced them all to each other.
    The young woman was Jessica Tate. She seemed glad to meet them—“any friend of Tyler’s...”—and especially enthusiastic when she discovered that Danni owned The Cheshire Cat
.
“I love