Free Jazz Funeral by Julie Smith Page B

it, it was weird. And not only that, she was ugly. Chris probably hated her now.
    But after they all had muffalettas, he took her hand and led her up the river, to Woldenberg Park, and talked to her about his music. He played songs for her, only for her, and asked her about herself. She told him about Joel and Doug, first names only, hoping that was okay, and nervously twisted her ring.
    Chris said, “You look sad.”
    “I was supposed to go to a party tonight. At my brother’s house.”
    He put an arm around her, drew her to him.
    She said, “Do you hate the way I look?”
    He said, “Babe, it’s not the packaging. It’s you.”
    They necked in the grass till it was time to find the others and start raking in the money.
    And that night, when it was all over, when they had made nearly forty dollars apiece, and drunk a couple of beers, and once again sat by the river, Melody made love with him. She didn’t even think of it anymore as doing it. What she felt for Chris was like nothing so much as cotton candy—so light, so magical you could barely see it, so sweet it would melt in your mouth. He touched her everywhere, for a long time, and he let her see him slowly, so she wasn’t too shocked. She hadn’t said she was a virgin, but he seemed to know, and he was so gentle, so careful, she might have been a small animal with delicate bones.
    She loved the way his body felt, she loved him, but she didn’t love It. Sex. Her pussy hurt and that was almost all she felt there. Everywhere else felt wonderful.
    “It’ll be better,” he told her, and she knew it would.
    It was in the morning, when they did it again. She almost liked it for itself, not just for the feel of his skin, the twin bumps of his butt under her fingers, the smell of him.
    She showered and was surprised to see blood, but there wasn’t much, it was no big deal. She looked in the mirror and almost recognized herself without the makeup. She was sure the eyes were changed, were more knowing—Desdemona instead of Juliet eyes. But they were still blue, still Melody Brocato’s eyes, so she put on the funny shades she had bought with the others—red with little three-dimensional hearts at the top. She wore the pedal pushers again, with a lavender T-shirt to match her hair.
    When she stepped back in the living room, Chris grabbed her, as if he couldn’t stop himself, and licked a drop of water from her neck that she’d missed. She’d never been happier in her life.
    And then, as they stepped out into the sunlight, she and Chris, she was happier still. She’d had no idea life could be so sweet. They linked hands, heading for Cafe du Monde for coffee and beignets. Could anything in the world be more romantic?
    Chris said, “Want a paper?”
    “Sure.”
    He popped into a store, but she stayed outside, feeling the sun on her freshly-fucked body. Feeling fine.
    “Here.” He handed her the paper. It was like having a knight to do her bidding, she thought, and absently unfolded it. The headline said, JAZZFEST PRODUCER STABBED TO DEATH.
    She realized she must have screamed. She saw her brother’s name below the main headline: HAMSON BROCATO MURDERED . She was suddenly, unaccountably, hot, burning up, and sick in the pit of her stomach, and she felt herself falling.
    A voice yelled, “Janis!” and before she went out, she wondered briefly who Janis was.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Joe Tarantino shook his head. He was a blunt-featured, pear-shaped, working-class kind of guy, dark and dandruffy. Today he needed a shave and, shaking his head like that, as if it were the end of the world, he looked inconsolable.
    “Where in the hell is Carlson?” Joe looked easygoing, but he hated tardiness, hated wasting time, and hated waiting. Skip thought it was fair to assume he was also feeling fairly pressured by so public a murder as Ham’s.
    Carlson was an officer from missing persons. Joe had asked him to join them this morning—himself, Skip, and Sergeant Sylvia