Free Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) by David Fulmer Page B

way.
    There was no busy pair this time. Instead, it was the stranger who had been lurking by the door in the dance hall. Jeff heard his name called and saw a flash of white teeth, beckoning him closer^ and figured that he was going to be offered to share a hop pipe, a card of cocaine, or at the very least something from a bottle. People did that for the players sometimes as a way of thanking them for the music. A year or two ago, a fellow who played jass was about as low-down as you could get, no better than a pimp or drunkard or hopeless hophead. Now people wanted to buy his drinks.
    It was exactly that. From beneath the brim of the hat, white teeth gleamed again and a hand came up, holding a flask of burnished silver. It was a fine piece of work, with filigree tooled into a crest. It looked like a rich man's possession, not often seen in these parts. Its owner was either brave or a fool, because a sneak thief would cut a fellow's throat for such a rare item.
    Jeff accepted the flask, turned it over in his hand, feeling the satiny finish, then pulled out the stopper, a cork set in a silver cap and attached to the body of the vessel by a tiny silver chain. The lack of a screw top told him he was holding an antique. Whatever liquor was inside had an antiquated smell, too: he caught a whiff of something like old wood. He thought absinthe, a rare blend, or something just as exotic. He was in for a treat.
    The stranger gave another encouraging nod of his head, the features of the face still indistinct. Jeff tipped the flask and drank, not bothering to wipe the lip. The liquid rolled over his tongue, warm and verdant. Absinthe, to be sure, but a blend he'd never tasted before. The stranger waved a hand for him to help himself to another sip. Now the heat filled up his mouth and moved deep into his throat.
    He lowered the flask, smiling his thanks as he handed it back. With a single motion, the stranger replaced the cap, took a step backward, and raised his chin so that the night's light could play across his face. Jeff felt the eyes now fixed on him with a hard glint and he had a sudden startling rush of fear. Just as suddenly, a sharp spasm rocked his guts, his throat contracted, and he staggered, dropping his guitar case to the dirt.
    He lurched into the brick wall, then tried to make for the street, but his legs wouldn't obey, wobbling like they'd been broken. He felt a stabbing pain and a sudden spout of blood erupted from his mouth. His guts were on fire and he fell to the ground, vomiting another gush of blood. Now he tried to crawl, but his arms had no strength and he collapsed, his body curling as the acid heat roared through his guts. His eyes rolled up and he saw the stranger looking down at him, muttering between clenched teeth. The pain was tearing him in half, and with one long, whimpering groan, he threw himself forward in a last try for the street. Then he stopped moving, his body twisted grotesquely.
    The stranger stepped around the body and bent down to spit in the dead face, then strode away, kicking at the guitar case. It flipped over and broke open and the instrument tumbled out. The edges of the cobbles gouged the polished mahogany and snapped the high strings. The stranger stalked out of the alley and hurried down Marais Street, moving through the shadows on quick legs, head bent and shoulders hunched, another weary wisp of the night, creaking away home.

SIX
     
    Jelly Roll Morton had not nearly gotten his sleep out when someone came pounding on his St. Charles Avenue door. The dove lying stretched out next to him just let out a soft groan and burrowed under the pillow as he jerked upright, his brain going off on a jagged jaunt, picturing the police coming to arrest him for some unnamed evil deed.
    The pounding continued and he heard a voice that didn't belong to any copper. It was higher, almost girlish, thin with excitement. The dove who has holding the pillow over her head muttered in annoyance and kicked