The old Buick bounced down the poorly maintained alley, and stopped by
the back door of the Right Spot. The driver got out and walked around to
meet Shaggy, who was off the stoop and looking into the back seat.

"So you found him. Where was he?"

Tommy sighed. "In the studio, sleepin' in the control room. He gonna
need a bump. I had to carry his ass out to the car."

"Damn right I need a bump. A line the size of a road stripe will do,
thank you." Delano sat up and opened the door, taking the folded-up
paper from Shaggy as he did so.

"Hurry up and do this, Spoondog. Then get in there. Lucky I got the
manager to give us a second chance, after your no-show last night."

"Who the hell's the boss 'round here? Tellin' me to hurry up." Delano
pulled out a razor blade, and proceeeded to chop the white chunks into
two parallel lines.

Shaggy patted his pocket. "Who's got the coke? Jes' hurry it up, son.
That crowd is ready to dance or fight."

Tommy tugged at Shaggy's sleeve. "Let's get on in. I still gotta tune
up." He wasted a pitying look at Delano, who was busy licking the last
granules off the packaging.

Alone now, Delano re-shuffled the snowy powder one last time. When the
lines were of of a satisfying equality, he reached for a rolled dollar
bill in his jacket pocket.

"What are you doing, mister?"

Delano looked for the source of the question, found it when he switched
from looking around to looking down. There, standing by the car, was the
prettiest young black girl he had ever seen. All of six years old, a
pink ribbon in each of her pigtails that matched the dress she wore, and
which set off her smooth chocolate-colored skin perfectly.

"I'm not doing anything, honey."

"You are so!" She laughed, and pointed at the roof of the car.
"What's that?"

"That's medicine, sweetheart. Headache powder." Delano wanted to do the
lines, but couldn't bring himself to do it, not in front of such innocence.

"You don't have a headache, mister."

"No, you're right, honey. I don't." Delano looked around. Someone was
missing this little girl. If they weren't, they didn't deserve her.

He looked back down, and saw a doll in her left hand that he hadn't
noticed before. It looked oddly familiar.
"Who's that, little missy?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

She flashed a winning smile as she said, "This is the German you
killed."

Delano wasn't sure he heard right. "Say that again, honey?"

"My doll wants to know why you kilt him. He says you didn't have to. He
says you kilt others, too."

The doll looked at Delano. Blood was running from a tear in the fabric
on the side of its head.

"I got other dolls, too. A mexican doll, a boxer doll, a Spoonbill
doll. That's a funny name. I got a Lucius doll...."

"Girl, stop it! How do you know all that? Who are you? Is your Mama in
the bar?"

"Others died because of you. Is that why you take the 'medicine'? Go
ahead mister, snort it up."

"Snort it up, man. People are gettin' up and leavin'." Shaggy and Tommy
were in front of the back door. On the step behind them was one large
and angry manager.

"I was talkin' to this little girl. I think her people are inside." He
saw his bandmates look down beside him, back at him, then at each other.
both shook their heads; the manager just glared.

Delano looked down. The girl was gone. He looked back down the alley. He
saw a shadow disappear around the corner. There was a squeal of tires
and a clatter of voices.

"No! She's been hit! And he ran towards the road.

The manager, one Mr. Boone, spit the remainder of his cigar into a
pothole. "Five minutes, kiddos. He's on stage in five minutes, or I sue
for breach of contract."

Shaggy reached Delano first. He was staring at a car full of white kids
verbally harrassing a hooker. There was no little girl that Shaggy could
see. He put his hand on Delano's shoulder. "C'mon man, we got a gig to
play."

"She was there...she knew things...".

"Yeah, man," Shaggy said sadly as Tommy caught up.

"We gettin' a new singer, Shag." He panted, "That's all, we gettin' a
new damn singer."

"Not now, Tommy. Just let's get him onstage." Shaggy looked at Delano,
who'd started crying and shaking. "And hope for the best."
------------------------------------

"So he gets onstage, all confused. Didn't know what name he was using.
He'd forget words and just scream the rest of the line. And the crowd
ate it up, Grampy said. They were ornery, drunk, and ready for a party.
Their response seemed to urge Delano on, or make him more agitated.

Then he stumbled into the wires, and unplugged Tommy's bass, and he fell
down and curled up in a ball. Grampy got the crowd to clapping, and he
told Anthony, the rhythm player, to play on out while they wrapped a
blanket 'round poor Delano and led him off the stage."

Jack played the song in his head as Dinah related her Grandad's story.
The way the instruments dropped out made sense now.
"So they were recording the band that night?"

"That was pure luck. Some man from the Smithsonian was in town doing a
project, adding to the field recordings they had made years ago. The guy
thought it would be nice to balance it out with what us city Negroes
listened to. He gave the tapes to Shaggy, thinking they were no good.
Shaggy had been watching Delano in the studio, though, and he and Marisa
worked on it some, and made a decent record somehow. They shopped it
around to some regional stations, and then it went national. They dealt
hard with the record company, and kept the rights, Just like Delano
always done. So Shaggy and Marisa made a bit, and Delano made a lot. For
those days, anyhow."

"Then what happened to Delano?"

"Aunt Marisa was telling Nancy when I took out the tea. But I can give
you the long and the short of it. They took Delano...."

Jack's cell phone began it's tinny ring. He took it out and looked at
the number. It was his client. He held up a hand to Dinah. "I have to
take this, sorry." Hello Melissa. I've been trying to reach you. I'm in
Augusta with good news. Oh? You okay?

In California, sitting on her barstool, Melissa Harshbarger poured
another three fingers of scotch in her glass. "No Jack, I am not too
okay. When were you going to tell me that Daddy was a gangster? When you
were sure? Well, I'm sure, detective. I took your advice, and went
through the old medical records. I found a box containing a report from
some tri-state police inquiry. It's preliminary, but it says he was
involved in killings and whores, Jack. And, and...", She stopped, blew
her nose, took a sip. "And that nice Delano, with his thoughtful letter,
he was a snitch. Yes, he's mentioned in the report, so is his death. I
don't care, Jack. I don't want to know any more. Send a bill, please, I
will pay you through Friday. No, I don't want a god-damned report. I
know more than I wanted. I'm sorry I started this, so, so sorry."

On the other end, Dinah listened to Jack. She got the gist, he was off
the investigation, Delano was presumed dead. She waited until Jack hung
up. "I guess that was a surprise."

"Yeah, like having a trap door open. I wish she had been sober. I want
to know more about that report she mentioned."

Dinah pulled the cast-iron skillet containing the cornbread out of the
oven. It was homemade and smelled heavenly. She rubbed a pat of butter
on the browned crust as she spoke.
"I met Frank once, when I was a little girl. He and Grampy were doing
something with wires in the workroom out back. He did not seem like a
gangster. They were unhappy about something to do with the music they
were playing, but I thought it was real good. Of course, I was maybe
seven then."

She uncovered the beans, and once again the wonderful aromas filled the
room. Jack gratefully accepted her offer to stay for dinner.

"Don't mention it. It's the Christian thing to do, you and Nancy bein'
unemployed and all. After we eat, we can check out that back room. Some
of Delano's stuff is still boxed up in there."
---------------------------------------

June 3, 1950

Mitch wiggled his toes in the tepid water. "I feel like a kid again." He
said as he drew his rod back and set the hook in whatever had been
stealing his bait.

He and Frank were sitting on the edge of the dock at the lake house.
Between them a stringer of bream and catfish dangled in the water. Both
were wearing straw hats to ward off the summer sun.

"Kids got problems, but they can just forget them for hours at a time."
Frank let out a sigh. "I wish I could."

I don't know if Danvers is coming at you sooner or later, Frank. But
it's one or the other."

"Can you get me a copy of that report?"

"Frank, I am violating everything I believe in just telling you this.
No, I couldn't if I wanted to. Danvers has told everyone not to talk to
me. Looks like you got a bite." Mitch put a fresh worm on his hook and
cast his line out a good fifty feet. "A couple more, and we'll have
enough for dinner for the four of us." Francesca had brought a friend
from college. Frank was polite to her, but his mind was on other things.

From the shore behind them came a cough. They turned to see Titus
stepping onto the dock.

"You two look like a couple of shines, fishin' barefoot in them hats."

"Titus!" Frank stood up and shook Titus' hand. "Bein' white can be a
drag sometimes. Not that you would sympathize."

"Right, Frank. Bein' lynched is so much easier than doin' the lynchin'.
Makes me sympathetic as all hell." Titus nodded to Mitch as he pulled a
letter from his pocket and handed it to Frank. "I thought you might want
this right away. It's from Delano's wife."

Frank took the letter, saw 'Urgent' written twice on the envelope.
Fearing the worst, he tore it open and began reading.

Mitch spoke first. "What is it, Frank? What's happened?"

"Looks like I need to make a trip to Augusta. Gotta get Delano out of
the pokey again."

"Can I go with you?" Mitch asked. When Frank gave him a quizzical look,
he added, "As a concerned friend, not a cop."

"Yeah, but I wanna go right after dinner. Titus, you'll stay for fried
fish?"

"Damn straight, Frank. And let me have that pole. I'll show you
peckerwoods how to catch the big cats. You know," Titus mused
dramatically, I've never been to Georgia."