Out of the Blues by Trudy Nan Boyce

OMEFRONT was a sad substitute for a home. Not quite a fleabag place, but probably better than sleeping on the bus, although not by much. A cloying, deodorizer smell emanated from the carpet, intensifying when stepped on.
    By this time of night the hotel bar patrons had thinned to a couple of sad hookers in a corner. Salt sat facing the entrance at a small table against the wall. Pyne wound his way over. “How’d you get your hair dry?” He pulled out the leatherette chair.
    â€œRestroom hand dryer.” She tugged at the one curl that covered the scar.
    â€œI’ve used them a time or two for that.” He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “Life on the road and all.”
    â€œIn the street, on the road,” she said.
    A bleary-eyed waitress in all black left a barstool and came to their table.
    â€œCoffee for me,” said Salt.
    â€œHow long will this take?” Dan asked Salt.
    â€œDepends. I don’t know how much you can tell me.”
    â€œI’m too tired for coffee and I don’t like to drink alone.” He looked up at the waitress. “I’ll just have water.”
    â€œOne coffee and one water,” repeated the waitress, dropping her arms. “Will that be on the rocks or straight up? With or without lemon?” She turned to begin her slow trek to the bar, clearly not very excited about the late-night big spenders.
    â€œWait,” Salt said to the waitress. “How ’bout a brandy?” she asked Dan.
    He nodded.
    â€œTwo brandies.”
    The waitress clicked her pen and stepped toward the bar with just a bit more energy.
    Salt shrugged off the coat and pulled her damp shirt collar out from the black linen jacket that concealed the leather shoulder holster and .38. “Where’s the dog?”
    Dan gave her a quizzical grin, eyebrows raised, his mouth in a twist. “I left him with Mustafa.”
    â€œFunny, you seem slimmer without him.” She kept a sense of humor about weed.
    The waitress set the drinks on napkins in front of them.
    Dan patted around for the cigarettes in his jeans pocket, pulled one out, lit it, and then looked up. “Do you mind?” he asked, sliding the ashtray from the center of the table, ready to put it out.
    â€œI’ve got my own.” She went into a pocket of the coat. “I carry them mostly to give away. Makes talking easier for some folks. I don’t smoke, but I don’t mind if you do.”
    She put her giveaway smokes on the table next to his. “About Mike,” she said.
    â€œOf course. It was me that found him, his body. That’s why you’re here, that and Melissa.” Dan took a draw on the cigarette. “Do you listen to the music, the blues?”
    â€œSome.” The light in the bar was low. As he talked, she leaned forward.
    â€œHe was the best, could have been the best-known bluesman of our time, bigger than Hendrix even. When I met him, I was living with friends in Inman Park, near Little Five. Were you around then? It was alive. Not all the rich, phony kids that come there now pretending they’re somehow living on the edge. One day I was at that old laundromat on Moreland. I guess it’s something else now. Mike came in wearing a bathrobe, that bathrobe, I swear.” The smoke from his cigarette curled into the air above the table candle, and he looked up as it projected the past.
    â€œI knew who he was right off.” Dan sat back up, returning his focus. “And me, I’m not shy, California boy originally. I went over while he was putting his clothes in the machine. I just wanted to tell him how much I admired his playing. He was so warm, shook my hand, said thanks, and asked if I had any quarters for the wash. We started talking about the blues. Turned out he was living about a block from where I did. After that we started hanging out. We both just loved the music.” The corners of his mouth drew up a fraction to an