Free If I Should Die by Grace F. Edwards

small table. He was so damned handsome it was hard to stay angry, but I worked at it.
    He’s placating me. As long as he’s been on the job, he should know by now that there’s always more to a case, more to a clue, than meets the eye. Feelings, however vague and unscientific, do count for something, but I was not in the mood to work on changing his mind. I looked away from him.
    Handsome or not, I crumpled my napkin on the table, picked up my purse, and left before my temper and tongue got the better of me.
    Outside, I drew in enough breath to calm down, then headed home, which wasn’t very far. The good thing about living in the neighborhood was that if you’re on a date and it turned sour, you didn’t need two trains and a plane to get back home. You could walk if you were angry enough. One look at your face and potential muggers on the street, most of the time, gave you a wide berth and left you and your mad attitude alone.
    Once home, I intended to submerge myself in an herbal bath and listen to Dad’s record, the old 78 rpm, the original sound of “Profoundly Blue.” God only knows what Alvin had done with that tape. Probably stashed it as a keepsake in the bottom of his closet somewhere inside one of his smelly sneakers.
    “Profoundly Blue.” I don’t remember ever hearing the tune or hearing of the musicians who made it so special.Meade “Lux” Lewis, Charlie Christian, Edmond Hall. Who were they?
    I intended to lie back in the water in absolute silence, close my eyes, and let the answers come to me in the dark. Close my eyes and imagine the smoky club where the recording took place in front of a large old microphone hooked up in center stage after the place had closed for the night; the men—with their porkpies and stingy brims pulled low and their rolled-up shirtsleeves, open collars, and loose suspenders—playing the tune over and over until a particular chord cut through the haze sounding just the way they wanted.
    Or maybe they got it right the first time. Dad said it occasionally happened that way, like the classic Miles Davis recording “Kind of Blue.”
    I hurried past the bricked-up windows of the old Smalls’ Paradise and crossed the intersection of 135th Street and Seventh Avenue. The avenue traffic was still heavy with strollers, bikes, and Rollerbladers but faded into quiet once I turned onto my block.
    The bathwater was fragrant and the cluster of scented candles near the tub threw soft shadows against the pink marble walls. The water enveloped my shoulders and I decided to ignore the noise of the phone. When the machine kicked in on the third ring, Tad’s voice filled the room and “Profoundly Blue” became a small background riff against the faulty rhythm in my chest.
    “Mali. If you’re there, pick up! Why the hell did you walk out like that? I got some news and it’s not good. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
    In the minute it took to stumble out of the tub, grab a towel, and reach for the phone, the line had gone dead.
    I barely had time to towel off and slip into a T-shirt and sweats before the bell rang. I paused at the top of the stairs and listened to the voices, trying to decide if I hadthe strength to absorb any more bad news, whatever it was.
    “Is Mali home?”
    “Why, yes. Just a minute, she’s—”
    The dead tone of Tad’s voice propelled me downstairs.
    My father nodded and disappeared again into his basement study and Tad, moving like an old man, entered the living room.
    “Would you … like something—Walker and water?”
    “Yeah. That would be good. Whatever you have.”
    I gazed at his reflection in the mirrored bar, watched him sit on the edge of the sofa and rub his chin. He reached for the double Scotch and I was about to raise my own glass when he said, “You were right on the money about Gary Mark.”
    “What do you mean? What’s happened?”
    “Somebody took him out. Two bullets to the back of the head as he was getting into his car.