I find people who don’t want to be found and I find out things that people want to know. All depends on what needs to be done.”
He stood up and Mason realized that was the first time he’d seen Blues out of the folding chair. Watching that single movement, Mason began to get an idea of the other kinds of problems he could solve.
Blues was a solid six-three, probably went two-twenty. All of it sleek muscle. But he moved with such ease that it was clear he had power that didn’t depend on size and strength. He had straight black hair and a complexion somewhere between tan and copper. His face was chiseled, with a square chin and dark eyes. The truth was, Mason hadn’t paid much attention to who he was or what he looked like until that moment. And he couldn’t figure who or what Blues was. The one thing Mason was certain of: Blues didn’t belong to his synagogue.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“I’m half Cherokee, half Shawnee. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? You’d do better not to stare.”
“An Indian jazz piano player?”
Mason had said it without thinking, almost choking on the question.
“Used to be. Now I’m a Native American jazz piano player. Political correctness ain’t strictly a black thing, you know. And if you’ve got more fool questions, don’t ask them.”
Mason took his advice and didn’t ask any until six months later, when he needed help tracking down a drunk driver who had run over a client in an intersection and fled the scene of the accident. He hired Blues to find the driver.
A week later, Blues called and said he’d found the driver and asked Mason to meet him at Seventh and Pennsylvania on the northwest corner of the downtown. Mason knew the location. It was called the Lookout because it was on top of a bluff that overlooked the Missouri River as it wound down from the north before turning to the east and heading to its meeting with the Mississippi River in St. Louis.
It was the first week of October, and an early cold snap had sucked the last remnants of summer from the air, leaving behind a sharp, crisp sky overhead and small clouds of exhaust from the thousands of cars that flew past on the highways that wrapped around the base of the bluff. Mason parked his car and met Blues at the edge of the Lookout.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Hey, good to see you,” Mason said, his hand outstretched. It was a friendly gesture. Appropriate for greeting someone he hadn’t seen in six months and who had agreed to help him out without even negotiating a fee in advance.
Blues ignored his hand, his gaze locked on the distance.
“What are you going to do to him?” Blues asked.
“Who? The guy who hit my client? I’m going to sue the son of a bitch.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing. That’s why I wanted you to find him. I need to find out who his insurance company is so I can put them on notice.”
Blues swept his hand across the view. “What do you see out there?”
Mason started to make a smart-ass remark, like “Not the guy you were supposed to find for me,” when he remembered his last piano lesson. There was a message here and he wasn’t getting it.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Over there,” Blues said, pointing to the west. “That’s the Kansas River. The Indians called it the Kaw, and that spot, where it pours into the Missouri—right where the Missouri bends to the east—they called that Kawsmouth. Not very original. But it makes the point. Down there, where I-70 cuts across the downtown, that was all bluffs—just like this. Right down to the banks of the Missouri. Back in the 1870s, they dug out those bluffs to make the streets. At first they just cut the streets out of the bluffs, like gullies. They even called it Gullytown for a while, instead of Kansas City. To the west, over there, in those old warehouses that are used for haunted houses at Halloween—that’s the West Bottoms. More hogs and cattle were
He stood up and Mason realized that was the first time he’d seen Blues out of the folding chair. Watching that single movement, Mason began to get an idea of the other kinds of problems he could solve.
Blues was a solid six-three, probably went two-twenty. All of it sleek muscle. But he moved with such ease that it was clear he had power that didn’t depend on size and strength. He had straight black hair and a complexion somewhere between tan and copper. His face was chiseled, with a square chin and dark eyes. The truth was, Mason hadn’t paid much attention to who he was or what he looked like until that moment. And he couldn’t figure who or what Blues was. The one thing Mason was certain of: Blues didn’t belong to his synagogue.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“I’m half Cherokee, half Shawnee. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? You’d do better not to stare.”
“An Indian jazz piano player?”
Mason had said it without thinking, almost choking on the question.
“Used to be. Now I’m a Native American jazz piano player. Political correctness ain’t strictly a black thing, you know. And if you’ve got more fool questions, don’t ask them.”
Mason took his advice and didn’t ask any until six months later, when he needed help tracking down a drunk driver who had run over a client in an intersection and fled the scene of the accident. He hired Blues to find the driver.
A week later, Blues called and said he’d found the driver and asked Mason to meet him at Seventh and Pennsylvania on the northwest corner of the downtown. Mason knew the location. It was called the Lookout because it was on top of a bluff that overlooked the Missouri River as it wound down from the north before turning to the east and heading to its meeting with the Mississippi River in St. Louis.
It was the first week of October, and an early cold snap had sucked the last remnants of summer from the air, leaving behind a sharp, crisp sky overhead and small clouds of exhaust from the thousands of cars that flew past on the highways that wrapped around the base of the bluff. Mason parked his car and met Blues at the edge of the Lookout.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Hey, good to see you,” Mason said, his hand outstretched. It was a friendly gesture. Appropriate for greeting someone he hadn’t seen in six months and who had agreed to help him out without even negotiating a fee in advance.
Blues ignored his hand, his gaze locked on the distance.
“What are you going to do to him?” Blues asked.
“Who? The guy who hit my client? I’m going to sue the son of a bitch.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing. That’s why I wanted you to find him. I need to find out who his insurance company is so I can put them on notice.”
Blues swept his hand across the view. “What do you see out there?”
Mason started to make a smart-ass remark, like “Not the guy you were supposed to find for me,” when he remembered his last piano lesson. There was a message here and he wasn’t getting it.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Over there,” Blues said, pointing to the west. “That’s the Kansas River. The Indians called it the Kaw, and that spot, where it pours into the Missouri—right where the Missouri bends to the east—they called that Kawsmouth. Not very original. But it makes the point. Down there, where I-70 cuts across the downtown, that was all bluffs—just like this. Right down to the banks of the Missouri. Back in the 1870s, they dug out those bluffs to make the streets. At first they just cut the streets out of the bluffs, like gullies. They even called it Gullytown for a while, instead of Kansas City. To the west, over there, in those old warehouses that are used for haunted houses at Halloween—that’s the West Bottoms. More hogs and cattle were
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