Dig by C.R. Corwin Page B

now tearing little pieces out of his Styrofoam cup and mischievously feeding them into the mail slot in Big Bertha. “Including Sidney Spikes,” he said. “They tried their best to squeeze a confession out of him apparently. But Mr. Spikes stuck to his story: The night they said David Delarosa was murdered, he was ensconced most blissfully—and according to the interrogation reports those were the exact words he used
, ensconced most blissfully
—in the bedroom of a woman.”
    “And that woman backed him up?” I asked.
    Dale nodded like Oliver Hardy. “And so did the people in the apartments adjoining hers, upstairs and downstairs and on both sides, who’d all suffered through a long night of noisy carnal excess.”
    We’d all been shaken when the police took Sidney into custody. We’d seen it as a racial thing, of course, the cops looking for the nearest black man to blame. There was a lot of that kind of justice back then, in Hannawa and everyplace else. But the fact of the matter is that the police had every reason to suspect Sidney.
    You see, Sidney Spikes and David Delarosa had a very public fight the night before the murder. It was at Jericho’s, one of the hole-in-the-wall jazz clubs that thrived in Meriwether Square back then. It was Easter vacation, today what they call spring break. Most of the students had gone home to be with their families, but there were still enough of us bohemian-types on campus to keep Jericho’s jumping. In fact, the only Baked Beaners missing that night were my Lawrence and Gwen’s unlikely beau, Rollie Stumpf. Both were in Columbus, at the state debate tournament. Rollie was debating. Lawrence was covering it for
The Harbinger
.
    Well, anyway, Sidney that night behaved as Sidney always behaved. He played himself into a horny sweat during his hour-long sets and then during his breaks sought out as much physical contact as possible with the women in the audience. It didn’t matter whether you were young or old, married or single, good-looking, or as ugly as a bread and butter pickle. And he’d readily admit it. “I’m the same with chicks as I am with my music,” he’d say. “I’m always ready to go just as far as my abundant talent takes me. What can I say daddy-Os and daddy-ettes, I have been profoundly blessed, rhythmically and romantically, beyond the historic bounds of prim and proper behavior. I am such a
rascal!”
    That’s how Sidney talked and that’s how Sidney behaved. But Sidney was not really a rascal. Beneath all the huff and puff he was a gentleman. He never pushed his musicians or his women any further than they wanted to be pushed. And he was rewarded for his good manners with all the affection he needed, on stage and off.
    And so Sidney was just being Sidney that night at Jericho’s when he encountered David Delarosa’s darker instincts. It was after his third set. He’d just finished a twenty minute version of Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug” which, to everyone’s enthusiastic finger popping approval, didn’t sound a bit like Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug.” He jumped off the stage and started hugging the women, purring in their ears about how
gone
they were, suggesting they disappear out the back door with him for little
impromptu love-orooni.
    He propositioned his way through a half-dozen women before reaching our table. “How’s my happy little tribe of egg heads tonight?” he asked. He orbited the table, as he always did, slapping the men on the back and pulling the women to their feet for a hug. He hugged Gwen and Effie and then danced to the side where I was sitting between Chick and David. He bent over me and cooed in his easy bebop way: “How ’bout a squeezaroo, Dolly?”
    I didn’t mind Sidney’s attention at all. It was all in good fun. But David Delarosa for some reason did mind. He yanked Sidney’s hand off my shoulder. “Save it for your horn, sonny boy,” he said. There was beer foam on his upper