He stood there as Gret wailed on, glanced at his partner. Baker had turned his back on the stage, was staring at a blank wall and Lamar caught a glimpse of his profile as Baker winced suddenly. As if seized by a cramp.

Lamar was wondering what was wrong when a nano-second later Gret from San Antone skidded off pitch, maybe an eighth note flat. A few measures later, she did it again and by the end of the verse she was way off.

Off the beat, too, hopping in too early on several verses.

Baker looked ready to spit.

How the heck had he heard the bad note before she sang it? Lamar wondered. Maybe he was so fine-tuned that the sound waves got there sooner. Maybe that was why, even though he could pick and grin up there with Adam Steffey and Ricky Skaggs- at least according to what people said- he let that F-5 just sit in the-

He stopped himself. Jack Jeffries’s throat had been cut and he was here to work.

The song ended. Finally. Gret from San Antone bowed as a pair of hands clapped lazily.

She said, “Thanks, y’all, now we’re going to do a little traveling, down to that awesome town so devastated by that evil woman known as Katrina. This is a real oldie, I wouldn’t know it but my mama’s a big doo-wop fan and back when she was littler than me, I’m talking a real bobby-soxer- y’all know what that is?”

No answer.

Gret made the wise choice of not continuing the digression. “Anyway, back then my mama just loved a boy from New Yawk named Freddy Cannon. Palisades Park?”

Silence.

“Anyway,” she repeated, “Freddy also recorded this one back in the dinosaur age.” Gret blinked and straightened up. “Okay, here we go, folks. ‘Way Down Yonder in New Awleans.’ ”

Baker walked out of the café and stood out on the sidewalk.

Lamar listened to a few sour beats, then joined him.

“Don’t you think we should at least ask if he was in here, El Bee?”

“Yup,” said Baker. “I’m just waiting for the static to die down.”

“Yeah,” said Lamar, “she stinks, poor thing.”

“Maybe she’s the lucky one.”

“Why’s that?”

“No one’ll give her any false hope and she’ll go find a real job.”

They watched from the doorway as Gret put the microphone down and resumed her waitress duties. None of the patrons needed her and she headed over to the bar. Sipping a beer, she peered over the foam, locked eyes with the detectives and smiled.

When they approached, she said, “Po-lice, right?”

Lamar smiled back. “Today we are.”

“I figured you’d be here,” she said. “’Cause Mr. Jeffries was here. I was gonna call you but I really didn’t know who to call and I figured you’d be here, soon enough.”

“Why’s that?”

That threw her. “I dunno…I guess I figured someone would know Mr. Jeffries was here and you’d be following up.”

Baker said, “Who would know?”

“His entourage maybe?” said Gret, as if answering a question on an oral exam. “I figured someone must have drove him from wherever fancy place he was staying, a celebrity like him doesn’t just show up by himself.”

“Was he with anyone?”

Gret chewed her lip. “Nope…he wasn’t. I guess I shoulda called. Sorry. If you didn’t come by tomorrow, I was gonna call. Not that I can tell you anything else except he was here last night.”

Baker turned to the bartender who’d ignored them when they entered. Pimply-faced kid, the spiked hair was dyed black. He had a long, gaunt, chin-dominated face, didn’t look old enough to drink. Shifty eyes- real shifty eyes. “Anything you want to say, son?”

“Like what?”

“Like were you on last night?”

“Nope.”

“Did you know Jack Jeffries was here last night?”

“Gret told me.”

“Man gets murdered and he was here last night. We show up and you don’t think to mention it?”

“Gret just told me. She said she’d be talking to you.”

Gret said, “I really did, Officers. Byron doesn’t know anything.”

Lamar said, “What’s your last name, Byron?”

“Banks,” said the barkeep.

“Sounds like you don’t enjoy talking to the police, son.”

No answer.

“You have experience talking to the police, son?”

Byron Banks gazed at the ceiling. “Not really.”

“Not really, but what?”

“I did nine months.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“For what?”

“Grand theft auto.”

“You’re a car booster.”

“Just once, I was wasted. Never gonna happen again.”

“Uh-huh,” Baker said. “Do you have a substance-abuse problem?”

“I’m okay, now.”

“Tending bar?” Lamar stood up and stretched to his full height. He did that whenever he wanted to intimidate. “Don’t you think it’s a little risky for a guy like you?”

“It’s tea,” said Banks. “I don’t do nothing and I don’t know nothing. She’s the one who was here.”

Greta said, “That’s really true.”

Baker said, “Where were you last night, Byron?”

“Over on Second.”

“Doing what?”

“Walking around.”

“By yourself?”

“With friends. We went into a club.”

“Which one?”

“Fuse.”

“That’s Techno,” said Lamar. “How about the names of your friends?”

“Shawn Dailey, Kevin DiMasio, Paulette Gothain.”

“What time were you cruising Second?”

“Until about one or two. Then I went home.”

“Which is where?”

“My mother’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“ New York Avenue,” said Banks.

“The Nations,” said Lamar with a quick glance to Baker. Later, if he was in a mood, he’d have some fun. Neighbors like that and your alarm sucks…

“Yeah. I’m feeling antsy. Can I go have a smoke?”

They took his stats and let him go. The kid walked past the karaoke gear, disappeared through the rear door.

“He’s really a nice person,” said Gret. “I never knew he was in jail. How could you tell?”

Lamar turned his eyes on the waitress. “We got ways. What’s back there, through that door?”

“Just the bathroom and a little room where we put our stuff. I keep my guitar there.”

“You play?” said Lamar. “How come you used the machine?”

“House rules,” said Gret. “Some kind of union thing.”

“Who else was here last night?”

Gret said, “Our other bartender- Bobby Champlain- and me and Jose. Jose sweeps up after we close so he came in maybe ten to midnight.”

“Either of them have a criminal record?”

“I wouldn’t know for certain, sir, but I wouldn’t think so. Bobby’s around seventy, deaf in one ear, mostly deaf in the other, and a little…slow, you know? Jose’s real religious- Pentecostal. Bobby told me he’s got five kids and works two jobs. Neither of them would have recognized Mr. Jeffries, especially looking…well, different. I was the only person who did.”

“Mr. Jeffries looked older than you expected.”

Nod. “And a lot…you know, fatter. We might as well be honest.”

“But you recognized him.”

“My mama loved the trio…but her favorite was Jack. He was the star, you know. She has all the old LPs.” Sad smile. “We still got a record player.”

Baker said, “Who makes the house rules?”

“The owner. Dr. McAfee. He’s a cosmetic dentist, loves music. He worked on Byron’s mom’s teeth. That’s how Byron got the job.”

“Dr. McAfee around much?”

“Almost never,” said Greta. “Bobby Champlain told me he’s too busy doing teeth; Bobby started off working here when it opened, around a year ago. Dr. McAfee worked on his teeth, too. He lives in Brentwood. Dr. McAfee, I mean, not Bobby. Nowadays, he hardly ever makes it over. Last couple of weeks, I been opening and closing, and he’s been paying me a little extra for that.”

“What time did Mr. Jeffries show up?”

“I’d have to say around eleven fifteen, thirty. We close at midnight but the music stops at fifteen to. I was just about to start my second set.”