Thrilling New Detective Fiction: Death Lessons
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            Death Lessons
            by John Samony Jr.



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            .......I hadn't been practicing for more than ten minutes before the 
            pounding on the door started. I gently laid my saxophone back in its 
            case and went to the door. "Who is it?" I said, knowing full well 
            who was going to answer back.
            ......."It's Mrs. Koler."
            .......Her voice was like the sound of a finger rubbing on a 
            balloon. I opened the door.
            ......."What did I tell you about that racket?" she scolded. She had 
            curlers in her hair and wore a floral print housecoat. She was 
            definitely a relic of a bygone era.
            ......."It's after eight," she continued. "You're interrupting my 
            shows."
            ......."Too much TV'll rot your brain. You should be reading a 
            book," I suggested.
            ......."You think I could read with all that racket?"
            .......She had a point.
            ......."Practice is supposed to sound bad," I said. "That's why it's 
            called 'practice.' How am I supposed to get better if I don't?"
            ......."That's your problem."
            ......."Don't you want me to play like Coltrane?" I smiled.
            .......She gave me a dull look. "Coal train. Coal truck. Don't 
            matter. I'd tell him just what I'm telling you. Put it away."
            .......She stomped back upstairs.
            .......I closed the door.
            .......Aside from Mrs. Koler's taste in music, she was okay. She 
            didn't pry into my comings and goings and I usually returned the 
            favor. The only time I found myself at all interested in her daily 
            affairs was when I hadn't practiced in a while. She went away for 
            the occasional weekend up north to see her sister, or at least that 
            was her story. Frankly, she was so reticent about the whole thing 
            that I suspected she had a gentleman friend--but all I cared about 
            was that she was out of the house. When I was in grave need of 
            practice, I could usually worm her plans out of her and spend that 
            weekend playing. If she knew I practiced in her absence, she'd 
            probably get upset, even though she wasn't home to hear it--just the 
            fact that I disobeyed her would get me evicted.
            ....... I was getting ready to wipe down my sax before I put it away 
            when the phone rang. I picked up.
            ......."McFetter?" the voice said, wavering.
            ......."Yes?" "There's been...a murder." The voice was hysterical. I 
            couldn't make it out. It could have been male or female.
            ......."Calm down. Who is this?"
            ......."In...the alley...behind the Evergreen Lounge." The line went 
            dead.
            .......I had never really gotten a call like this before. My normal 
            casework consisted of the quiet mundanity of divorces and missing 
            persons. I usually didn't have much to do with murder. Once or twice 
            it had become part of a case, and I hadn't liked the ensuing 
            investigation.
            .......Still, since whoever was on the phone had known my name, and 
            since my landlady had shut down my noisemaking session for the 
            night, I decided to check it out. I had spent many nights and early 
            mornings at the Evergreen, back when playing the sax was the only 
            thing I cared about. I grabbed my coat, locked up and hit the 
            streets.
            ****
            .......He was one dead jazz musician.
            .......He had an alto saxophone rammed down his throat so deep that 
            it seemed he was smoking it like a large pipe. But that wasn't what 
            killed him--it was the bullet hole in his chest. If I had been 
            staring down at this poor soul at any other time, at any other 
            place, I probably wouldn't have given him another thought. Like I 
            said, but I wasn't a stranger to dead men, or women, for that 
            matter. I had seen a few--unlucky souls who had sunk too deep into 
            the new lives they had chosen after running away from the old.
            .......But this was different. I knew him. His name was Wallace 
            "Wigs" Morgan and I had jammed with him a few times over the years, 
            mostly on amateur nights.
            .......Like the other guys who played the Evergreen, Wigs was a 
            professional who had studied his instrument academically. They were 
            all young lions with aspirations to the big time--in jazz, that 
            meant steady work as a sideman in clubs, studio work in film and 
            television, or as a leader on records of their own. Wigs had been 
            the first to accomplish that only a few days ago. A major record 
            label had picked him up after a talent scout saw one of his 
            blistering shows in New York last month.
            .......What a way to start a career. Dead.
            .......Then I heard my name.
            ......."James McFetter."
            .......I turned to the voice. It was Detective Stelling of Homicide. 
            He strolled towards me with that languid gait of his. Behind him, at 
            the mouth of the alley, I could see marked and unmarked cars 
            arriving on the scene. An ambulance wailed somewhere in the city.
            .......Stelling walked up, looked at the body, then looked at me. 
            "Who called you?" he said.
            ......."Anonymous tip. You?"
            ......."One of the barbacks. Found him while taking out the trash," 
            Stelling said. "You recognize him? Or what's left of him?"
            ......."Yeah. His name was Wigs."
            ......."Close, were you?" Stelling asked.
            ......."I used to jam with him."
            .......He raised an eyebrow. "You play?"
            ......."Tenor sax," I said.
            ......."I wouldn't have figured you for the tortured artist type. 
            Maybe torturing an artist to get a confession but..." He grinned.
            ......."Hey, I'm sensitive. If you were female, you'd already know 
            that."
            .......Stelling eyed me curiously, then, "You may as well go home." 
            He waved a mob of people into the alley--the crime scene 
            photographers, forensics, coroner's office. Everybody knew the 
            drill. "We'll call you when we have some answers."
            ......."Sure," I said, but I had no intention of leaving before I 
            got some answers of my own.
            .......Before I walked back into the bar, I heard one of the 
            uniforms bark, "There's the toy."
            .......I turned to see him lifting something out of a garbage can-a 
            .22 pistol that he held by a pencil inserted through the trigger 
            guard. Hopefully, the lab boys would be able to produce some damning 
            prints. Crimes of passion are usually good for that.
            .......Inside the lounge, there were only a few people milling 
            about. A couple of uniforms were already grilling people. One 
            familiar face was sitting at a table, smoking. I went over.
            ......."Hey, Leeks."
            .......Leeks looked up. A slow smile spread over his face like a 
            sponge absorbing water. "McFetter. Haven't seen you around for a 
            while."
            .......I sat down. "The jet set got tired of me. They find you 
            boring when you run out of money. So here I am."
            .......Leeks' laugh was clipped short. "How 'bout Wigs? Man, we were 
            just playing our asses off a couple hours ago. Now he's dead."
            ......."Anything weird happen?"
            ......."Wigs left after the second set. He said he'd catch us later 
            'cause he had something to do."
            ......."Any idea what?"
            ......."Maybe it was with a certain lady giving him the lucky eye."
            ......."From the audience?"
            .......He took a long drag of his cigarette then stubbed it out. 
            "Sitting right at the front table. A fan, I guess. She's hardly 
            missed any of Wigs' gigs."
            ......."What's she look like?"
            ......."Sophisticated looking. Would come in wearing a funky hat."
            .......I considered this. "You seen Jimmy around?"
            .......Leeks nodded. "In the can."
            .......I got up and went into the men's room. Jimmy's sobs were 
            amplified by the tiled walls and floor. I opened up the middle 
            stall. Jimmy was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, feet 
            tucked up under his chest, arms hugging his knees. He was a barback 
            and busboy at the lounge, a slight kid with a crooked smile. 
            Everybody liked him, looked out for him.
            ......."You all right?" I asked.
            ......."Wigs..." his voice trailed. "All twisted up like that. Why 
            did I have to find him?"
            ......."We all see things we don't want to see." I cringed at the 
            cliche, but I didn't have time for originality. "That's what life's 
            all about." I took a wad of paper towels, soaked them, wrang out the 
            excess water and gave them to Jimmy. "Wipe your face. You'll feel 
            better."
            .......After a moment, I decided Jimmy was calm enough to talk to. I 
            had one angle, hinted at by Leeks. A jealous husband-boyfriend sees 
            Wigs with his gal, words fly, then fists, then the gunshot. I 
            decided to explore another. "You see anybody suspicious hanging 
            around here tonight?"
            .......Jimmy said matter of factly, "You mean like wise guys?"
            .......That's exactly what I meant. I knew Wigs had had a small 
            problem with gambling, not enough to get his legs broken but enough 
            to get his horn put in the pawn shop a few times.
            ......."No more than usual," Jimmy said. He finally came out of the 
            stall and went to the mirror above the sink to comb his hair.
            ......."Anybody else out of the ordinary?" I asked.
            ......."No. It was pretty dead. A few people at the bar."
            ......."Okay, Jimmy. You'd better get back out there. The cops'll 
            want to ask you some questions."
            .......As I walked out of the bathroom, I knew I wasn't going to get 
            much shut eye for the next few days. 
            ****
            .......After a few hours of fitful sleep, I awoke to find Wigs' 
            murder plastered all over the papers. It even got thirty seconds on 
            the noon newscast. Neither said much except that the circumstances 
            surrounding his death were mysterious and that the police had no 
            leads. So far, the only lead I had was a well-dressed female jazz 
            fan. Linking her to Wigs would be tenuous at best, even assuming I 
            could find her.
            .......After lunch, I decided to follow up the gambling question. I 
            drove downtown and parked in front of a nondescript storefront.
            ......."Hey, Leo. How's business? Any more scalps hanging from your 
            belt?"
            .......Leo gave me a nasty stare. He was short and wore a huge 
            mustache that hung down over his lips like a window shade. He had to 
            punctuate each word with a forceful blow of air to clear the hair 
            from his mouth.
            ......."You wanna place a bet? Fine," he said. "I'd like you to lose 
            your shirt. If not, get the hell out."
            .......I walked up to his window, pushing ahead of the other 
            lowlifes waiting to put their unemployment or welfare checks down on 
            some longshot. "I need some info."
            .......Leo shuffled some cash. What he held in his hand was more 
            than I made from six months of steady case work. "Why should I help 
            you? All the times you put a cramp in my livelihood."
            ......."Ever hear of a good deed? Maybe it'll help your chances in 
            heaven. Lord knows you're gonna need it when your number's up."
            .......He actually seemed to be considering this. But before he 
            could come to his senses, I sweetened the deal. "I'll ask some old 
            friends down at the precinct to lay off you a while."
            .......That did it.
            ......."What d'ya need?"
            ......."Wigs Morgan. He lay down any big bets recently? And lose?" I 
            moved aside so he could deal with his customers.
            ......."Nothing," Leo said. "I ain't heard his name anywhere."
            .......I didn't have a choice but to take Leo's word, for now. He 
            was a small time bookie but had big time ears. If Wigs hadn't 
            personally bet with Leo, some of the other bookies in the area would 
            have spilled the juice. They always liked to talk about the losers.
            ......."Okay, Leo. Thanks." As I was walking out, I yelled over my 
            shoulder, "Put me down for $50 on Saturday's playoff game."
            .......Leo mumbled something that I was glad I couldn't hear, right 
            before the door closed.
            ****
            .......I drove back home through lunch hour traffic. It didn't look 
            like Wigs had been rubbed out due to nonpayment of debt.
            .......Later that night, the Evergreen Lounge was hopping. There was 
            a line to get in but Batty the doorman waved me right through. The 
            crowd despised me for that.
            .......Inside, the place was quaking with two kinds of music--the 
            feverish, pulsing drive of the jazz quintet on the small stage at 
            the rear of the club and the more orchestral nuances of the bar 
            itself--the hum of nonstop conversation, the tinkling of glasses and 
            the tympanic thump-thwack of the bar's cash registers.
            I walked over to the bar and got a stool that had just been vacated 
            by a very large man. I slipped into it in his wake, to the chagrin 
            of another single guy. He gave me a scowl and I scowled back. I 
            settled in. I looked over at the bandstand to watch the musicians, 
            but instead, my attention was drawn to Jimmy, who was off to the 
            side of the stage.
            .......He was engaged in what looked to be a heated dispute with two 
            burly men dressed in muscle shirts and wearing matching pony tails, 
            the short kind that you sometimes see on Sumo wrestlers. I hated 
            that look on anybody but Sumos. Every now and again, one of the guys 
            would grab Jimmy by the shoulder and shove him violently.
            .......Just as I was about to get up and offer Jimmy some 
            assistance, they left. Jimmy stood there a moment. His mouth hung 
            open, and his eyes were vacant . Then he snapped out of it and 
            started walking over to the bar.
            .......I called his name. He came over.
            ......."Hey, Mr. McFetter. You gonna play tonight?" His voice was 
            tremulous.
            ......."No way, Jimmy. Tonight's for the big fish. I'm just a small 
            fry. They'd eat me alive." When it looked like he wasn't going to 
            offer any comment on what had just transpired, I asked him.
            ......."That was nothing," he said. "Couple of guys got sore 'cause 
            we didn't have valet parking."
            .......I didn't press it further. Instead, I pushed a ten on the 
            bar. "Tell Bill to get me a gin and tonic."
            .......Right after Jimmy left to give the bartender my order, I 
            noticed her.
            .......A woman wearing a funky hat had just walked in. I remembered 
            her as the only detail Leeks could give me about the night Wigs was 
            murdered, and I realized she was really my only lead.
            .......She walked over to the other end of the bar. A man saw her 
            and gave up his seat. When all she did was nod an imperceptible 
            "thank you," light a cigarette and focus her attention on her 
            reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I saw his lips move in an 
            angry way before he stormed off.
            .......I got comfortable and watched her. I could tell she was older 
            by the way she carried herself. Her movements were confident, 
            direct. There wasn't any hesitation in any thing she did, which 
            really wasn't much, unless you called blowing smoke in a thin stream 
            toward the ceiling and staring at me, "doing something."
            .......This went on for five long minutes. Then I turned around 
            toward the bandstand in response to an exceptionally piercing high 
            note from the trumpet player. When I turned back around to take 
            another hit from my drink, she was still watching me.
            .......I couldn't pass up this chance to talk to her. Besides, I 
            hated sitting at bars alone....and after all the time she'd spent 
            sizing me up, I couldn't disappoint her.
            .......I grabbed my drink that Bill had placed in front of me and 
            snaked around the bar, through the three-deep crowd, to get to her. 
            There wasn't a free stool next to her, so I stood to her left and 
            leaned in.
            ......."Hello."
            .......She was in the middle of taking a drag, but courteously blew 
            the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, into the face of the woman 
            next to her.
            ......."Hello," she said.
            .......This was going good. I downed my drink. While she suddenly 
            gave in to a compulsion to look in to her purse, I saw Jimmy coming 
            up the small set of stairs by the waiter station, carrying a rack of 
            glasses.
            ......."Hey, Jimmy," I yelled, holding up my glass. "Get me another, 
            will you?" He nodded.
            .......She closed her purse and put a pack of matches on the bar.
            ......."So, you come here often?" I cringed when I said that. Boy, 
            was I rusty.
            .......She reached for the bowl of peanuts on the bar. She popped a 
            few in her mouth. "Yes, I do. And I've seen you here before, too."
            .......I took a drink. "I'm a friend of the musicians."
            ......."Oh, you play too?"
            ......."A little."
            ......."I hope you're not like these guys." She made a motion toward 
            the stage. "All they do is take and take from those before them. 
            They never give anything back, like a piece of their soul. That's 
            what you have to do to be a great player."
            .......She saw my reaction to her bitterness. "I'm sorry," she said.
            .......I nodded. "You seem to know a lot about paying your dues."
            ......."Let's just say I've seen it first hand."
            ......."You're serious about the music?"
            ......."Very."
            ......."Do you take your musicians seriously, too?"
            ......."I'm married."
            ......."Where's your ring?"
            ......."It didn't go with my outfit. I left it at home."
            ......."Come on. Diamonds don't clash with anything."
            ......."Who said it was diamonds?"
            ......."It's always diamonds," I said.
            .......She looked down at her drink. "Not in this case. My husband 
            couldn't afford diamonds when we were married."
            .......There was a break in the music. "I'm going to try and get a 
            table," she said. "Join me?"
            ......."No thanks. I need to be close to the source," I said, 
            patting the bar.
            .......Before she left, she reached up and started taking off her 
            hat. So far I had refrained from making any comments about it. But I 
            had to say something.
            ......."Interesting hat." She couldn't argue with that.
            ......."Thank you. The damn pin was sticking me."
            .......Ahh, the hat pin. How old school.
            .......After she got it off, I helped her off the stool.
            ......."Nice meeting you," she said.
            .......I watched her move through the crowd, carefully holding the 
            hat out in front of her like it was bleeding and she didn't want to 
            soil her dress. Then she disappeared. This would have been a good 
            time to down my other drink, but Jimmy hadn't gotten it yet. So I 
            left.
            .......Outside, Batty saw me.
            ......."Leaving so soon?" he said.
            ......."Some of us have to earn a living." I walked to my car which 
            I had parked across the street, diagonally to the entrance of the 
            lounge. There I waited for Mrs. Hat to appear.
            .......And she did, two hours later. I figured I had nodded off a 
            few times by the way my neck hurt from that jerking reflex which 
            snaps you awake whenever your head droops.
            .......She stood on the corner and hailed a cab. I followed her.
            .......After twenty minutes, we stopped in what used to be a strong 
            middle class neighborhood; it now teetered back and forth between 
            economic renaissance and utter desolation. She got out and walked 
            into a brownstone.
            .......I parked across the street. I walked over, stood in the 
            vestibule and read the four names on the mailboxes. Then I realized 
            how stupid I was -- I had forgotten to ask her name at the bar. 
            Luckily, only one of the names was a Mr./Mrs. so I figured Mrs. Hat 
            was indeed Mrs. John Morris. I jotted the name down in my notepad 
            and took off.
            ****
            .......After another night of not practicing, I woke up, made some 
            breakfast and hit the phone. I got the Morrises' number from 
            information. I dialed and expected someone to answer---the someone 
            who had been boozing it up the night before while wearing a funky 
            hat. But all I got was the answering machine with a male voice.
            ......."You've reached the Morrises," the machine played. "Please 
            leave the pertinent information and we'll get back to you as soon as 
            possible. If this is a student, please direct all inquiries to the 
            Templeton University Music Office at 555-1324."
            .......I tried the office since it was about ten thirty in the 
            morning.
            .......I waited a few rings and hit paydirt.
            ......."Hello . You've reached the Templeton University Music 
            Department."
            ......."Hello," I started. "My name is James..."
            ......."If you would like Professor Handel, press one; Professor 
            Marks, press two; Professor Morris, press three. If you would like 
            to speak with a graduate student..."
            .......I hung up. Damn. Fooled again. God, how I hated voice mail. I 
            redialed after I wiped the egg off. 
            "Professor Morris," a man's voice said.
            ......."Professor Morris, my name is James McFetter and I'm 
            investigating a murder. I'd like to come over and ask you a few 
            questions..."
            ......."...about Wigs Morgan. I was waiting for this," he said.
            ......."You knew him?"
            ......."I was his music teacher for ten years."
            .......Paydirt wasn't the word. "I'll be right over."
            ****
            .......Morris' office was a mess. Piles and piles of staff paper 
            were stacked on an upright piano and were spilling over onto the 
            floor as well as taking up half his desk. Music stands stood in the 
            corner like silent choir members waiting to open their arms to 
            receive their sheet music.
            .......I sat in a dusty chair in front of his desk while he 
            reminisced. He was about fifty and had a lilting quality to his 
            voice.
            .......'Wigs. Bright kid. One of my best students."
            ......."You meet him at the university?"
            .......He laughed. "No. We're from the same neighborhood albeit two 
            generations apart. His mother brought him to me as a young boy, 
            hoping to keep him off the streets. The fact that he became a 
            virtuoso was unforeseen."
            ......."What about you?"
            ......."What about me?"
            ......."Did it bother you that a student of yours hit the big time 
            while you toil in obscurity?"
            ......."How do you know I'm not comfortable in obscurity?"
            ......."Just speculation."
            ......."Save that for the stock market." He leaned forward. "I'm 
            happy for what Wigs accomplished. It pains me that all his hard work 
            was for nothing."
            .......I looked around the office. I tried a new angle. "Does your 
            wife have extravagant tastes?"
            ......."What does she have to do with it?"
            ......."I was just wondering if your salary is keeping her happy."
            .......He stood up. "That's none of your business as I don't see how 
            this line of questioning is pertinent to Wigs' murder."
            ......."But I see. That's all that counts." I stood up and walked 
            over to the door. "I might need to ask you a few more questions in 
            the near future. I'll be in touch."
            .......I let myself out.
            ****
            .......Driving home, I tried to sort out what facts I had, and 
            frankly, there wasn't much sorting to be done. How did it all fit 
            together? I decided to start from the beginning.
            .......When I got home, I called Stelling.
            ......."Did you ever find out the caliber of the slug?"
            ......."Not slug, slugs. A few .22s to the heart."
            ......."Any make on the gun?"
            ......."We traced it as far back as a pawn shop on South Street. 
            Some woman bought it for protection. Name of Janine Traver. Nothing 
            on her yet."
            .......I sank a bit. Was I really expecting to hear the last name of 
            Morris?
            ......."Anything else? Prints?"
            ......."Just the shop clerk's."
            ......."What about you?" Stelling asked. "What have you..."
            ......."Thanks." I hung up before he could grill me for what I had 
            dug up on the case. It's not that I didn't like sharing but I wanted 
            this finale for myself. I wanted to look into the eyes of whoever 
            extinguished the flame of a genius in his prime.
            .......Since I didn't have anything else pressing, I decided to 
            check out the pawn shop. I couldn't very well have any loose ends 
            flapping about.
            ****
            .......I knew the pawn shop Stelling had mentioned. It wasn't the 
            typical, desperate last stop for the drug crowd or the fugitives 
            from gambling debts. It catered mostly to musicians who swapped 
            their old instruments for someone else's old instruments. A lot of 
            players changed axes (this is a musician's term for his/her 
            instrument, originating with jazz players) like Madonna changes her 
            image.
            .......I walked in and introduced myself to the clerk.
            ......."I already told the police what I know," he said.
            .......Obviously he hadn't been impressed by my introduction. I 
            slipped him a twenty.
            .......I asked him about the woman. "You sure her name was Janine?" 
            I said.
            ......."That's what she said."
            ......."You have her signature. A receipt anywhere?"
            .......He looked at me like I was stupid. "Some people don't like to 
            leave a trail. We traded even up."
            ......."That sounds illegal. I thought there were reporting 
            requirements for pawnshops."
            ......."And you never popped a guy's chin for a little 
            co-operation?" He stared at me in challenge.
            ......."I know enough law to know they call that aggravated 
assault."
            ......."Alright, Perry Mason. What'd she trade you for?"
            .......He bent down behind the counter and popped back up. "This 
            ruby ring."
            .......It was a pretty good sized ring. "A ruby for a .22 pistol?"
            ......."Yeah, I know. There's one born every minute."
            .......I thanked him and started walking out. Before I got to the 
            door, I stopped and spun around. "By the way, was she wearing 
            anything distinctive?"
            ......."Hell, yeah. She was wearing a fur wrap. I hadn't seen one of 
            those since my grandmother had a fake one made to impress my 
            grandfather when they were courtin'. Or so family history tells it."
            ......."Okay, thanks." I turned back around to go out.
            .......Before the door closed, though, I heard him say, "It made 
            that purple hat she wore seem almost normal."
            .......I sat in the serenity of my car, the street sounds outside 
            muffled by my rolled-up windows. Janine Traver had to be Mrs. 
            Morris. How many people go around town wearing clothes like that? If 
            this were true, presumably she'd popped Wigs. But why? Were they 
            having an affair and in a twist of irony, she found him with another 
            woman? It was certainly possible. The musician's stereotype was true 
            in Wigs' case--love'em and leave'em before the next gig.
            .......I started the car and merged into traffic. I figured it was 
            about time to pay Mrs. Morris a visit.
            ****
            .......I parked in front of the Morrises' brownstone. I walked up 
            the stairs, a lot of unanswered questions swirling around in my 
            head. I buzzed their apartment and, as I waited, I wondered how I 
            was going to broach the subject of murder with Mrs. Morris.
            .......Out of boredom, I let my eyes roam around the vestibule. 
            There was the usual accumulation of unwanted grocery and department 
            store circulars in one corner; in another was a bunch of mismatched 
            shoes. Then I noticed the inner door was open slightly.
            .......Not one to ignore any kind of advantageous opportunity, I 
            pushed open the door and climbed the stairs to the Morris' 
apartment.
            .......I found another open door.
            ......."Hello?" I called. "Mrs. Morris?"
            .......I pushed the door open and walked into the apartment. There, 
            on the floor, was a good reason not to have that conversation with 
            Mrs. Morris.
            .......She was dead. Her throat slit. Her blood had run the length 
            of her body, outlining and hugging her like a thin shadow.
            .......I knelt down next to her body to check for a pulse, just in 
            case. None.
            .......Since she wasn't going anywhere, I closed the apartment door 
            and decided to stroll around the place to see what popped up. When I 
            turned up nothing incriminating from my initial check, I hit the 
            drawers to begin a more detailed search.
            .......Her underwear drawer was first on the list; usually, that 
            turns out to be a goldmine of illicit stuff.
            .......I flipped through bras and panties. Nothing. I checked the 
            second drawer. Still nothing. I reached my arm under and felt 
            underneath the drawer above and found something. A piece of paper 
            with a phone number written on it. Putting a bra over my hand to 
            hide my prints, I picked up the phone and dialed the number.
            ......."Yeah," a gruff voice answered. "How much and on what? I 
            ain't got all day."
            .......I hung up. That voice was unmistakable. It was Leo the 
            bookie's.
            .......I sat down on the bed and leaned against the headboard. An 
            interesting turn of events. Probably meant nothing, but anything 
            that pricked up the hairs on my neck during a murder investigation 
            was worth wondering about.
            .......I called Detective Stelling to send over the works. Then I 
            rolled over on my side facing the nightstand, figuring I had a 
            couple minutes before they came. For a minute nothing registered but 
            slowly a flashing numeral caught my attention. The answering 
            machine. It showed two messages.
            I hit "Play." The first was from one of those "You Just Won A 
            Vacation To Bermuda" scams. 
            The second one was more interesting. The voice was hysterical. "I 
            know you said not to call but I'm desperate. I need that money, 
            damnit. They're going to kill me if I don't pay. Meet me tonight at 
            midnight in the alley behind the Evergreen Lounge."
            .......It was the same voice that had tipped me off to Wigs' murder 
            roughly 36 hours before.
            .......Then I broke the law again; I erased the message. I wanted 
            tonight's meeting to be between me and the caller. No cops.
            ****
            .......Later that night, I sat in my apartment, just holding my sax, 
            silently fingering the keys. I could hear Mrs. Koler's TV above me. 
            At least if I couldn't make a sound, I could still keep my fingers 
            limber. But these exercises weren't just physical, they were mental, 
            too. They relaxed my mind and soothed my nerves, and I needed that 
            before going to meet the killer.
            .......A couple hours later, I was in the alley behind the lounge. I 
            hid myself in a crevice where I had a nice view of the alley.
            .......From a small window above and a few feet to my left, dim 
            light filtered down to me, enough that I could look at my watch. 
            11:53 p.m. The music from inside came through the walls and lingered 
            just outside of distinguishability. I could tell that the band was 
            playing a hot, fast one from the dull yet constant snapping of the 
            snare drum, but the melody was just out of reach.
            .......Then the back door opened and Jimmy stepped out. What was he 
            doing here? Catching a smoke? But he didn't smoke. I looked down at 
            my watch. Midnight.
            .......I kept my voice low and even. I didn't want to startle him.
            .......Jimmy jumped anyway. He turned.
            ......."Surprised to see you here, Jimmy," I said.
            ......."Mr. McFetter. What're you doing here?"
            .......I stepped into the light from that small window. "I'm waiting 
            for someone."
            ......."Who?"
            ......."A murderer."
            .......Even in the semi-gloom of the ally I could tell Jimmy had 
            gone pale on me. I decided to take a chance. "Why'd you do it, 
            Jimmy?"
            .......Jimmy choked up. "I..."
            ......."Spill it. I know you killed him. What does Mrs. Morris have 
            to do with it?"
            .......He made a move to run but I had anticipated it and was 
            already blocking his escape. I shoved him up against the back wall, 
            held him there by my forearm pressed against his throat.
            ......."Okay," Jimmy said, barely audible.
            .......I released some pressure from his windpipe.
            ......."Mrs. Morris hired me...to kill Wigs."
            .......I gritted my teeth to keep my rage from boiling over onto his 
            face and body. I clenched my fists, digging my fingernails into my 
            palms, trying hard to keep from digging them in Jimmy's throat. 
            "She was...jealous. She said her husband had more talent than any of 
            these young punks. He should have been the famous one, getting the 
            record deals, raking in the cash..."
            ......."Why'd you do it?"
            .......Jimmy sagged in my arms. I let him slide down the wall to 
            rest on a trash bag.
            ......."They were after me," he coughed, rubbing his throat. "I owed 
            them big time. I needed the money. She was going to pay me."
            .......I couldn't believe what he was telling me. "You could have 
            come to any one of us and asked for help."
            ......."I was afraid. I couldn't think..." His voice had that 
            desperate, high pitched tone I had heard before. On the night he 
            phoned in Wigs' murder.
            ......."Why did you call me?"
            ......."I don't know," he sobbed. He was silent for a beat. "I guess 
            I just couldn't leave him like that."
            .......I looked down at him. "That's too bad, Jimmy. Too bad you got 
            a conscience after you killed him."
            ****
            .......That night I brought Jimmy down to Stelling's office and 
            explained what I knew. Jimmy signed a confession without 
            interrogation. When Stelling told him that Mrs. Morris had been 
            killed as well, it didn't seem to faze him; he had already sunk down 
            into a deep morass of guilt and fear. He was living in his head now.
            .......Stelling eventually traced a bloody fingerprint off a carton 
            of milk to a mob enforcer who had, it seemed, satiated his appetite 
            with milk and cookies after killing Mrs. Morris. His mug shot 
            brought up another lowlife, a partner of his. They often worked in 
            tandem and were the guys I had seen shaking down Jimmy that night at 
            the Evergreen Lounge. They had hoped to get the money Mrs. Morris 
            was going to pay Jimmy, in order to cut out the middle man. But the 
            source was all dried up. According to her husband's statement, she 
            wouldn't have been able to pay off Jimmy or anybody else. When the 
            collection guys found out, they exacted a different form of 
            payment--Mrs. Morris' life.
            .......Leo had tipped them off to Mrs. Morris' deal with Jimmy; it 
            seemed she was a gambler , too. Leo had introduced the two of them 
            in the first place. I planned to pay Leo a visit about his part in 
            all of this. It wouldn't be a social call.
            .......It was only after the entire case had been wrapped up that I 
            began feeling Wigs' absence. The chaos of solving the case had 
            forced him from my mind, but now, as I sat in my ragged old armchair 
            and stared out the window, he came to me.
            .......I thought about what Morris had said, about music keeping 
            Wigs off the streets. I imagined Wigs as a child, painstakingly 
            learning his scales and circle of fourths and fifths while his 
            friends played stickball or tag. If only he'd known that all the 
            time spent on lessons would end in his death, that each new lick he 
            mastered, bringing him closer to virtuosity, would ultimately be a 
            factor in his demise. But then another image came to me--him, on the 
            stage, his face contorted in ecstasy as he poured his soul through 
            the bell of his horn. If he had known about the future, would he 
            have cared?
            .......I opened up my sax case and saw the gold glint of my old 
            friend. I strapped it on, silently warmed up my fingers on the keys 
            for a few minutes and put my lips to the mouthpiece.
            .......I started soft and steady, staying in the low register, 
            slowly building, slowly getting louder and louder until I was truly 
            wailing the blues. This is for you Wigs, I thought as the sound 
            enveloped the room. I was on fire, playing better than I had in 
            years.
            .......I ignored the pounding on the door and the curses that 
            punctuated it. Mrs. Koler would have to wait until my tribute was 
            over, until the last note slowly faded through my open window and 
            out into the night.
            Copyright (c) 2001 by John Samony Jr.



                  John Samony has had poetry published in numerous literary 
                  magazines as well as humor in Cracked Magazine. Recently, he 
                  and his wife celebrated the birth of their second daughter, 
                  Gillian. He has been overheard to describe the experience of 
                  having two daughters--a two year old and a three month
                  old--as being "hardboiled."
                  He counts Brett Halliday and Mickey Spillane as being two of 
                  his favorite writers in the detective genre and admits being a 
                  fan more out of sentimentality. "I know there are better and 
                  more influential writers in the field, but those two are 
                  inextricably linked to my high school years," he says. His 
                  tribute website to Mike Shayne, Flagler Street, is up and 
                  running and kicking ass. Check it out, ya lout.
                  Death Lessons is his first published story in the 
                  crime/detective genre.