CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They went back to the club, hoping to question Leon. But the only person there was Tony, working on his inventory and taking a day or two to keep the place closed while the case was actively open. It was, in Ava’s opinion, a smart move. And while she thought Tony might very well be the one being dishonest (or at least just as likely as anyone else involved) she thought it best to stay on track and focus on Leon first.
After getting his Harlem address from Tony, Ava found herself being driven through yet another dingy Harlem street with the same scenery and sense of quiet desperation as the street Robert Love and his wife lived on. The streets weren’t necessarily dirty, but there was a clear distinction between what was acceptable here and what was acceptable closer to the heart of the city, where buildings were being built high up toward the clouds and men were trying to make money hand over fist despite a stock market that had anyone with even a small amount of wealth shaking in their boots.
Leon’s apartment was easy to find because he was sitting on the front step. The step was essentially a short concrete block jutting out from the underside of the door to the apartment building. As Ava and Frank approached him, Leon was watching a child at play. The kid was black, no older than seven or eight. He was currently using a stick to whack at a tin can, trying to get it to smack off of a sickly-looking tree on the side of the street.
Leon saw them before either detective said anything. He gave them a smile that seemed genuine enough and didn’t seem all that disturbed by their presence.
“Hello again, Leon,” Frank said.
“Hello! It was Gold and…Winston?”
“Wimbly,” Frank corrected. He then nodded over to the boy with the stick and asked, “Is he yours?”
“Not my son, no. My nephew. I watch him sometimes while my brother is out looking for work.” He eyed them for a moment and then shifted his posture slightly. “Something new come up with the murder?”
“Yes, actually,” Ava said. “But it’s not something you’re going to want to hear. First of all, we know that everyone in that club conveniently left out the fact that there was a missing bass player. A man named Robert Love. We just spoke to him. And when we spoke to him, he mentioned another thing that no one bothered to mention. Something about you, Leon.”
Leon sighed and nodded his head. “He told you that me and Monty Lincoln had words, right?”
“He did,” Frank said. “Why didn’t you bother telling us about it?”
“Because it wasn’t important. It was just a disagreement, some cross words. And I knew if we did mention it, you’d take his side.”
“And why is that?” Ava asked.
Leon looked at her like she was stupid. “I wish you wouldn’t make me come out and say it.”
“Say what?”
He chuckled nervously and said, “You’d take his side because he’s white. White and dead. And where I come from, if you’re a big black man and there’s a dead white man anywhere nearby…well, it’s only going to go one way. Now, I think Tony would have probably had my back, but even then…I know how it goes.”
“Leon, we just want the truth,” Ava said. “I don’t have the time or patience to let prejudice get in the way of a case where a man has been killed.”
“I think I believe you, Detective. But I also know there aren’t many like you out there. Of course…you’re a woman so you know what it’s like to be thought of as less than everyone else.”
The comment came off as sympathetic rather than biting, and she understood him perfectly. “So, Leon, tell us about the argument you and Monty Lincoln had. Start with when you had it.”
“Ah hell, it wasn’t anything serious.”
“Serious enough to keep from us at the start,” Frank pointed out. “Come on, Leon. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Leon looked back out to his nephew, thinking things over. “I didn’t kill him,” was all he said.
“That’s not what we asked,” Frank said. “We need to know the details and—”
An approaching figure distracted all of them. The person was coming in from the right, from just down the street. It was a woman, walking quickly and with her eyes looking straight ahead. When she saw them looking her way, she stopped. And in seeing the woman’s face, Ava recognized who it was at once.
It was Ma, the singer in Carter Epps’s band. Even from about twenty feet away, Ava could tell that Ma was slightly mortified to see them. Leon smiled at her and waved her on over. She came, but slowly, and never taking her eyes off of Ava and Frank.
“Something wrong?” she asked when she approached the concrete stoop.
“Nah,” Leon said, not bothering to stand up from the concrete slab. “But these here cops know about Robert.”
“You tell ’em?” Ma asked.
“No.”