Ch. 4: There Will Be Other Nights Like This
~"My story is much too sad to be told, but practically everything leaves me totally cold. The only exception I know is the case, when I'm out on a quiet spree, fighting vainly the old ennui, and I suddenly turn and see your fabulous face—"~
On the drive out to Port Chicago he had the top of the convertible up due to the high winds, but on the way back he'd put the top down. Sara once again rested on his shoulder and had fallen asleep. He barely registered the passing scenery as he focused on driving, feeling the weight and warmth of the woman against him, and listening to the radio.
Sinatra was crooning out the opening to "I Get a Kick Out of You" and as they passed through Oakland, heading toward the bridge, he was reminded of the first time he met Sara; the woman who made his heart feel a way he hadn't felt since his wife and drove his mind crazy. It'd been during a case and neither of them knew at the time how that day would change Sara's life completely and bring her into his world.
June 22nd, 1953
~"I get no kick from champagne, mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all. So tell me why should it be true, that I get a kick out of you…"~
He'd been hired to investigate the disappearance of a woman's husband. The woman was Margo Cortez, wife of Mr. Edwin Cortez. She'd gone to the police but they refused to do anything about it, telling her that he probably ran off with another woman and since they suspected no foul play, that was that. Mrs. Cortez wanted to be sure, so she hired him.
His search led him to the Princess Inn, a bed and breakfast near Mountain Lake at the Presidio. He parked and turned off the radio before getting out of his new Chrysler Windsor convertible. Standing on the sidewalk, he looked up at the light blue colored inn located across the street from the lake, with the main office on the sidewalk off the street. The business next door to the main office, but in the same building, had a blue and white sign that read: "Hank's Kitchen". It was a three story building and on the top two floors there were four three paned windows, indicating rooms. At the very top of the building, lit up in cursive lights, read "Princess Inn".
Directly across from the building was Mountain Lake and the Presidio. The Army base had been the home of the Western Defense Command during the war. It was still an Army base and included the Letterman Army Hospital where Catherine said she'd gotten her start working as a U.S. Navy nurse. It was where she'd met Lindsey's father.
He stood for a moment, taking in the hills, the beautiful day it was, as he smoked his cigarette and leaned against the light post. Half a world away, in Korea, there was another war going on. And he turned his head to the left and peered down the street toward the bay and saw the Navy ships passing civilian ones as they headed out of the bay and across the Pacific. Past Mountain Lake was a parade field and every Friday there would be a parade by the 6th Army band. It was Friday, the parade was happening in the distance, but he couldn't hear the bagpipes. A trolly came by and as it passed he saw the bell moving but couldn't hear it dinging.
In the humid air, and mixing in with the ocean breeze, he could smell the Eucalyptus trees. The monarch butterflies would be out. He watched as birds flew in the sky, saw the men and women out driving in their cars and walking their dogs, saw their mouths moving as they walked by but barely heard what was being spoken. His ears were like the fog that rolled in at night. Things were still visible, but barely. Sound was still audible, but barely.
Carl Sandberg had written a poem called "Fog" about Chicago, but he knew it could be true about San Francisco as well:
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Not hearing felt the same way. Everything came at him like a quiet fog; sneaking up on him, settling in, until he couldn't see anything. The only two options were to either get through the thick blinding whiteness as quickly as possible and hope like hell nothing happened. Anything could come out of the fog at any moment to harm him in some way. Or, he could take a wrong turn or bad step and…lights out for good. The other option was to stay still and wait for it to pass. The fog would lift, it would roll out, then he could continue on.
It was a terrifying feeling not being able to see the same as it was a terrifying feeling not being able to hear. He couldn't hear danger until it was right up on him, and by then, it could be too late.
Then, like the silence of a room being shattered by a radio being switched on with the volume stuck on high, the honking of a car horn on the corner at the light drew his attention to it. A car nearly made a left turn right in front of another car if it hadn't been for the honking of the horn. A driver yelled out his window at the distracted driver as he drove through the intersection. In the distance, across the field, he heard the Army band playing the bagpipes for a fallen serviceman. Someone wasn't coming home from Korea.
Sometimes he hated hearing. Sometimes he preferred the fog. And he knew one day, the fog would be all there was for him to hear.
He blew out the rest of the smoke for the cigarette and put it out against the light post before tossing the cigarette into the trash bin by the light post. Turning around, he walked to the door for the Princess Inn. Opening the door, he walked inside and immediately heard yelling. A man and woman were having an argument and the woman was blocking the man from leaving the building.
"I paid—" the man was yelling.
"You paid for one night! You stayed two—"
"You can't prove that!"
"I keep receipts and I was the only one here you could have paid!"
The man went to walk around the woman when she moved in front of him and the man reached out to grab her. He immediately grabbed his arm as the woman came at the man. The woman moved around the man as he got between the two of them, shoving the man away.
"Back off," he nearly yelled as he glared at the man.
The man turned red as he stepped up to him and asked, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Pulling out his wallet ID, he showed him. "I'm a Private Investigator, and unless you want me to get my police pals down here, you'd pay the lady."
"Don't worry, I'll pay for him."
He turned his head toward the woman and blinked back as she held up a wallet. "You swiped his wallet?" he asked her in disbelief.
The cheeky smile that appeared on her face caused him to forget the other man in the room and what all this was about. He nearly forgot his damn name.
"You bet I did," she said before she opened it, removed the five dollars, and then tossed the wallet back to the man. "There, now you can leave."
The man had caught the wallet and when he looked over at him, he told him, "You heard the lady. Leave before I change my mind and get the cops out here."
Gritting out something under his breath that he couldn't hear, the man got even more red as he pushed by him, opened the door, and left as he slammed the door shut behind him. He went to the window and parted the venetian blinds as he watched as the man walked down the street to the corner, looked back over his shoulder at the Inn, and then kept walking once the light changed.
The woman walked around the counter and opened the cash register to put the five dollars in it before letting out a breath. Then, she plastered a smile on her face as she recited, "Welcome to the Princess Inn, I'm Sara, how may I help you?"
At seeing her smile, he couldn't help but smile too as he walked over to the counter. "Miss Sara—"
"Sara's fine."
"Sara," he said as he looked around. "You're the owner?"
"I am. Does that surprise you?"
He shook his head. "No." There were framed photos on the wall. Most were maps of the city, a map of the Precidio across the street, and under the maps were brochures. On the other wall were photos of a family. Sara was in the pictures. "This is a family business?"
"My parents opened it years ago. Prime real estate."
"Visiting service members' families and friends?"
"Yeah, something like that. How can I help you?" she asked again, this time with annoyance.
Turning back to face her, he saw her light brown eyes watching him. She was nearly as tall as he was and her arms that she crossed over her chest were freckled. A necklace hung around her neck with a blue butterfly pendant. It looked to be self-made. She wore no earrings and if she had on makeup, he couldn't tell. Everything about her seemed so natural. He couldn't look away, even if he wanted to. And, he didn't. Not since he first saw his wife had he felt so taken back by a woman's beauty.
Getting his mind back on track to why he was there, he asked, "Were you working here last night?"
"I work here every night. Like I told Mr. Rogers, there's no one else."
"No one else…ever? When do you sleep?"
She nearly laughed and he saw the way her entire face lit up. "Sleep? Never heard of it. You see that door behind me. That's my room."
He peered over her shoulder and saw the closed door across the floor behind her. Next to the door was a newspaper stand. Leaning against the counter, he asked, "Who's Hank?" he asked as he waved toward the door that went into the diner that was connected to the Inn.
"Hank's my boyfriend. That's his diner."
He almost felt bad for admiring another man's girl, but he wasn't sorry he had. However, since he did know that she was seeing someone, he mentally checked himself. It wasn't right to flirt with another man's girl, even if that was all he ever did and has done for the last seven years. It wasn't that he didn't consider the possibility of dating again, it was the simple fact he never really wanted to.
"I'm looking for a man who I believe stayed here last night," he told her. "And it's not Mr. Rogers."
Without checking the Registry book, she told him from memory, "Mr. Rogers was in room 2A. Mr. and Mrs. Mason in 2B. 3C was Mr. Cortez, and 3D was Mrs. Cortez, his wife."
"Mrs. Cortez was here last night?"
"Yeah, she followed him in after he arrived with…um…a woman," she told him.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. Everyone lied, he thought again as he almost took out another cigarette but stopped himself. "When did she leave? Was it before or after he did?"
"Um," she gave it some thought as she shook her head. "The woman left first. Then Mrs. Cortez a while later…Five, ten minutes. Mr. Cortez hasn't left yet."
He straightened up as he asked, "He's still here? Can you, uh, take me up to his room?"
She grabbed the key and showed him up the stairs to the third floor. As he got to the top of the steps, he immediately stopped her as he smelt a familiar smell. Sara smelt it too as she asked, "What is that? Smells like—"
"It's decomp." Looking at the door for 3C, he told her, "Give me the key." She handed him the key to the room and then he told her, "Go call the police. Tell them there's a dead body."
She didn't move for a moment, in shocked confusion, before she headed back down the steps. He headed towards the door. Taking out his gun just in case, he tried the doorknob first and found it unlocked, he wouldn't need the key. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. Without stepping inside, he saw the body on the floor.
The face of the man dead on the floor with blood staining the carpet matched that of Mrs. Cortez from the photo his wife had given him. He rubbed at his head as he leaned against the door. He figured Mrs. Cortez thought that if she was the one who reported him missing then she wouldn't be a suspect. Or she could blame the murder on the woman that Mr. Cortez had been with. But Sara was the witness. The mistress left first. Leaving the wife and Mr. Cortez alone on the third floor. Five to ten minutes later the wife left. That gave her enough time to kill him.
The police arrived and he saw Jim Brass walk in, wearing a suit and tie for the first time on duty. He noticed his smirk and said, "New standards. Every detective is required to wear a tie. I hate it."
He chuckled as he walked by him and stopped, saying, "Welcome to my world. At least you can still wear your jacket."
"Not when it's this damn hot out. So, is she okay? The girl?"
He looked out the front door at Sara who was standing out on the sidewalk and gave a nod. "She'll be fine. She didn't see the body. I'm the one who found him. You get everything from her?"
"Yeah; got her full statement. I sent a patrol car to pick up the wife for questioning. She's free to go." Brass continued into the building as he headed out.
Stepping up beside Sara, he offered a cigarette. She shook her head, telling him, "I don't smoke."
"Neither do I, except when I do." He put the cigarette case back into his suit jacket pocket. Leaning against his car, he looked her over. She appeared, if anything, annoyed. "Do you have anywhere you can go?"
She shook her head, telling him, "This building has been my home for most of my life. I was taught how to check in a guest the minute I could talk." Taking her eyes off the building, she looked at him and then his car, asking, "This your car?" He gave a nod. "It's nice. A new model. Chrysler Windsor. 119 hp flat head six engine, right?"
Never being one to judge people, or think that since a person was of a certain race or gender that they shouldn't know the things they knew, he wasn't often impressed. However, that impressed him. "Yeah. How…?"
She shrugged, saying, "I like cars. My dad used to drive me around, every Sunday, in his 1938 Plymouth. We'd go all over San Francisco, over the bridge into Oakland, just the two of us. During the drive, he would point out every car on the road we passed. He would tell me how to spot the make and model, the year they were made, the engines. Everything. He wanted a son; got me instead."
"Where's your father now?"
"The cemetery."
"I'm sorry," he said as he looked away, at the sidewalk, as he tried not to think about the cemetery.
She reached over and removed an acorn off his windshield. "You've been driving around the water."
He eyed the acorn in her hand as he asked, "You can tell that by an acorn?"
Turning it over in her hand, she explained, "I like vegetation. Trees. Do you know why Oakland is named Oakland? There used to be oak trees from Lake Merritt all the way to the bay. The coast live oaks are really the only indigenous tree in San Francisco County that existed here before European colonization, but there are many others that started to get planted, mostly, water oaks that can only be found near bodies of water." Sara showed him the acorn and said, "They have yellow acorns."
He smiled as he took it from her. "You learn something new every day."
He knew how shock worked, adrenaline and nervousness. Sara was a bursting ball of nerves and energy due to the shock of the situation. He didn't mind talking with her while he waited, for what he didn't really know. His case was solved and his client was being questioned for the murder of her husband. If Sara wanted to ramble on, talking about mindless trivia and asking him questions, he'd answer. It was the least he could do.
"Why the Chrysler Windsor? It's big and bulky—"
"That's how love at first sight works," he told her as he kept his eyes on the sidewalk. Even though he was talking about his car, he couldn't help but think of her. The way his heart skipped a beat when he'd first seen her, even if it was after she'd swiped a man's wallet. It nearly made him smile as he said, "One evening in late spring, I was walking along the waterfront when it happened; I was awestruck. An all black 1953 Chrysler Windsor Deluxe convertible with red interior. The next day I sold my old car, a '43 Plymouth coupe, and got all my savings together to buy one for myself. Doing my job, I have to drive around a lot and I have to really love the car I'm driving. I spend a lot of time in it."
"What did your wife say?"
"I'm not married." He saw the odd expression on her face as her eyes went to his left hand. Reaching over, he rubbed the ring around on his left ring finger as he realized she was probably thinking that he was lying. He was still wearing his wedding ring. It shouldn't have been so hard after all this time to say the words, but it still hurt as he spoke them. "She died."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
An uncomfortable silence fell over them and he didn't even know why he was still there. He didn't need to be there, but she was alone. And her place of business was full of cops and a dead body. He stayed because he wanted to. "Where's Hank?"
Sara's eyes looked around the street as she shrugged, saying, "He opens for breakfast, closes for lunch, and then opens again for dinner. During the afternoon hours, he makes money driving a taxi. I might have to join him. I've been wanting to close this place up and sell it. It wasn't my business, but my parents. I was keeping it going for them. Plus, it gave me a place to live. Now with this…I don't think I can work here anymore."
Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out his business card and handed it to her. "If you ever need a job. Come by. I need a new assistant. My last one went on maternity leave and never came back."
She took the card and flipped it around a few times. "You think I want to answer a phone all day after spending my days swiping customer's wallets to force them to pay for a room? I'll miss the excitement."
He smiled as he stood, telling her, "I think it's funny that you think my phone will be ringing all day. Most days, you'll be doing other things that have nothing to do with investigative work. Those days, you can…take classes to get a degree to do something better. The days where the phone does ring, you won't be sitting behind a desk. You'll be working with me. I can tell already that you have a great memory, you're intelligent, wear sensible shoes—"
"Sensible shoes?"
He shrugged, saying, "You can't chase leads in high heels. You might twist an ankle."
She laughed again, and it made him smile. "You're serious?"
"Yeah. Think about it."
The way she was looking, her smile in the sunlight, he couldn't help but think that Hank was one lucky man. He heard a beeping of a horn as a taxi pulled up to the curb across the street from the cop cars. The way Sara's shoulders slumped as she let out a breath told him everything. It was Hank, and she was glad that he was there. With a slight shy smile, he finally tipped his hat to her and got into his car to leave. He didn't have to wait with her any longer.
A week later, he arrived at his office at the usual seven o'clock in the morning. He pulled out his key and went to unlock it when he found it already unlocked. That was odd, unless he forgot to lock it. He opened the door as his hand went to his gun but came up short when he saw Sara behind the receptionist desk.
She looked up at him from writing something down and smiled, "Good morning."
He glanced around as he shut the door, confused by why she was there, and the door being unlocked. "Was this open?"
"No, I, uh...unlocked it."
"How?"
She nearly blushed as she shrugged, saying, "I have a way with locks."
He stared at her as he removed his hat and coat, hanging both up on the coat rack. "I see. Were you ever arrested for having your way with a lock?"
She looked back down at what she was writing but answered honestly, "I've been picked up, but never arrested. I was always taken right back home to my father. No cop wanted to take in a ten year old girl for B and E. You have messages," she said as she handed over the piece of notepaper. "Breaking and Entering and swiping wallets doesn't disqualify me for the position, does it?"
"No. In fact, I think it makes you more qualified," he told her as he took the notepaper from her. "Anything else I should know about you?"
"Uh, I'm sure there are lots of things. For starters, I speak French, German, and Spanish."
She just kept on impressing him. He took out his glasses from his breast pocket and as he slipped them on to read the messages, he asked, "Why learn French and German?"
"I learned French so I could read Les Misérables in its original text and I learned German because when I was younger, I was so scared that we would lose the war that I didn't want to get killed because I didn't know the language of the fascist Nazi dictatorship."
He stared over at her and saw she was trying not to laugh at the stunned look on his face. Trying not to laugh as well, he asked, though almost afraid to, "And Spanish?"
Smirking, she said, "Don Quixote."
"Ah." He let himself smile as he pointed to his office, "Well, I'll be in my office, returning these calls. Thank you. And, uh...you got the job."
She smiled and he nearly forgot how to walk. "Great. I'll make us some coffee."
After he shut the door to his office, he tossed the messages onto his desk as he sat down in his chair and let out a breath. Even though he was glad that Sara took him up on his offer, he couldn't help wondering if it had been a huge mistake. She could be trouble, dangerous, as she threatened the wall that he'd built around his heart.
Pushing down whatever feeling was creeping up, he got down to business. Reading the first message on the paper, he picked up his phone and dialed the number. It was time to get to work.
July 4th, 1955
They arrived back at the office and he found the door unlocked but this time he knew who it was inside his office. The moment he opened the door, he heard the squeal of Lindsey Willows as she called out, "Uncle Gil!"
Since Catherine had the day off, he decided to call her to sit in the office in case the phone rang. Then once he and Sara returned, they could all go over to the park together. Lindsey surprised him by slamming into his legs and giving him a hug. He stilled for a moment before patting her on the back. He didn't know what else to do; she'd never done that before.
Looking over at Catherine, she was equally as surprised. Then Lindsey hugged Sara who looked even more surprised then they both had been.
"She must have really missed you two," Catherine said as she stood up from behind the desk while grabbing a piece of notepaper and walking over to him. "You had a call come in."
He took the sheet as he removed his glasses from his breast pocket. Slipping them on he read the words: "Mr. Warrick Brown. Nighthawks Jazz Club, come immediately." "I have to go."
"Gil—" Sara said as she tried to pry Lindsey from her leg.
"It's about the case. I'll be quick. Meet you guys at the park."
Catherine grabbed Lindsey up into her arms as she asked, "Where? It's huge."
"I want to see the windmills," Lindsey said as she rested her head on her mother's shoulder.
He smiled as he gestured to Lindsey as he opened the door. "We'll meet at the windmill."
They all left the office together but split up once they got outside into the afternoon sun. As Catherine, Lindsey, and Sara headed across the street to Golden Gate Park, he got into his car and headed toward the Nighthawks Jazz Club on Pacific Avenue.
He parked a block away and walked the rest of the way to the club. The front door was open and he heard music coming out of the jazz club. The unmistakable bass-baritone vocals of Paul Robeson filled the street as he sang "Ballad for Americans". Walking inside the club, he spotted two men at the bar; one seated and the other behind the counter.
As he approached him, Warrick stood up from the stool he'd been sitting on and walked over to him, extending his hand and giving it a shake.
"You called."
"Yeah, thanks for coming. Grissom, this is the owner, Billy Dixon," Warrick said as he introduced him to the man behind the bar.
Billy Dixon was a tall man, dressed in a maroon vest over a white shirt and black pants. He rubbed his thin beard as he looked him over before coming to a decision about something before offering his hand for him to shake.
"Mr. Dixon," he said as he shook the owner's hand once he came around the bar.
"Mr. Grissom. Warrick told me that he called you. He wanted me to show you something."
He realized that Warrick calling him was something Dixon didn't want to happen. "You thought otherwise?"
"I thought it was no one's business, especially not mine. I didn't want the attention, but…since you're here," he said as he glared at Warrick before gesturing for him to follow him. The owner led him to the back of the club and out the door that exited into the alley.
Out in the alley, he looked next door and saw the delivery truck that was parked behind Madame Masque's Palace. The same delivery truck he remembered seeing behind the warehouse.
Dixon slapped his hand against his chest before pointing to the crates in the back. "I asked them once what they were delivering, and they said bottles of beer."
"And you didn't believe them?"
"We get our delivery by the same company at the same time, every Wednesday. And bottles of beer aren't delivered in long covered wooden crates like that. They're delivered in those crates."
Warrick grabbed two crates off the ground by the trash bins that were stacked up against the brick wall. There were open crates with slots for each beer bottle. There were four rolls of six slots each. "They carry them in like they're lifting weights, two at a time, or one at a time up on their shoulder," he said as he demonstrated how the crates were carried. "They also don't deliver wine or anything else like that."
"You think they're lying?" he asked him.
"I think they're not delivering what they say they are," Dixon said as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out.
Pulling out the lighter Greg had given him with the camera in it, he flipped it open and lit the club owner's cigarette while aiming the camera at the back of the truck and took a picture.
"Tell me, Mr. Dixon, does anyone come around here once a week or month to collect money?"
Dixon took a few puffs off the cigarette as he shook his head. "We run a clean business here. The only people coming around here with money are paying customers. And the tax man. Nah, Mr. Grissom, if anyone comes around to collect, or to pay, they're not on the up-and-up. You know what I'm sayin'?"
"Yeah," he said as he gave a nod. "Thank you."
Dixon took a few more puffs before walking back inside the club, leaving him and Warrick outside. There was a row of six crates in the back of the delivery truck and he watched as two men walked out through the backdoor of Madame Masque's Palace, grabbed a crate, one man on each side, and took it through the door.
He made sure to raise up the watch on his right wrist and took a few pictures. Then, he checked his real watch to count how long it took them to come back out for another one.
"What is that?" He knew what Warrick was asking about so he showed him the camera watch. "That's a camera?"
"Pretty neat, huh?"
Warrick chuckled a little as he shook his head, "Do all P.I.'s get the cool toys or just you?"
He shrugged, saying, "I don't know. I just know what I have." It took a little over four minutes for the two men to come back out for the next crate. As they grabbed the crate and headed back into the Palace, he checked his watch. "Four minutes," he said back to Warrick who followed him over to the truck.
Glancing into the back of the Palace, he saw the two men disappear down a set of stairs before he pulled out his switchblade from his pants pocket. He pressed the button to release the blade and then got into the back of the truck. Warrick leaned against the side of it while he kept his eyes on the inside of the building.
Using the blade, he tried to pry the lid open, but it wouldn't budge. Looking at all the nails, he would have to use a crowbar to pry it open. Looking around the bed of the truck, he noticed one of the crates had a broken wooden panel in the corner where a few nails had split the wood. On the floor, he saw something dropping out of the cracks. They looked like seeds. He took a few pictures using the camera watch. He needed something to put the seeds in. Thinking quickly, he pulled out one of his business cards, folding it in half and then folding both sides up to make a pocket. Using his switchblade, he scooped the seeds into the pocket of the card and then folded the open edges down to encase the seeds then stuck it into his suit jacket pocket.
"It's time," Warrick told him.
He used his camera watch to take a few more pictures before climbing out of the truck. They headed back over to the jazz club door as the men walked out of the Palace to the truck.
Once inside the club, he told Warrick, "Thanks for having my back."
"Anytime. Are you close to finding that missing woman?"
"I don't know. Once I think I have a lead, it turns into something else."
Warrick walked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of beer. After he popped the top off, he offered it to him. He took it as he slid onto a barstool. Warrick got him a bottle and leaned on the counter as he raised it in a toast, saying, "Happy Independence Day."
He smiled slightly as he raised his bottle before taking a drink. Looking around the club with red and purple velvet floors and draperies, he spotted the framed photographs that were hung up behind the bar. There were photos of all the artists that performed at the club over the years. Some he recognized, others he didn't. The man who was singing the patriot song that was still blaring from the speaker, Paul Robeson, was one of them.
"How long have you been playing here?" he asked Warrick before taking a drink.
"Goin' on five years."
"What'd you do before then?"
Warrick leaned on the counter, giving a shrug like it was nothing as he said, "Navy. I was a cook. I also played with the band."
"Thank you for your service."
Warrick smiled a little before taking a drink of the beer. "You?"
He shook his head as he took a drink. "I've been doing this since…Too long."
"Let me guess: college boy."
Sitting the bottle down, he told Warrick, "I graduated college before the war started. I applied but, I, uh…I wasn't accepted. I have a hearing problem."
"How so?"
He hesitated for a moment, but decided to tell him. "I'm going deaf."
Warrick frowned as he straightened up, saying, "Man, that's tough. I couldn't imagine not being able to hear. Music has become my whole life."
"Beethoven was deaf," he told him before taking a drink. Spotting the piano up on the stage, he got up and walked over to it, asking, "May I?"
Warrick smiled as he told him, "Go right 'head, college boy."
He smiled a little as he sat the beer bottle on top of the piano as he sat down on the bench. Once the song that had been playing from the radio was over, Warrick turned it off to give him the room, so to speak. Without much thought, he started to play "There Will Never Be Another You". His favorite version of the song was by the Oscar Peterson Trio with Lester Young on the saxophone. There was no saxophone but it wasn't hard for him to imagine it in his head as he started playing.
The original was by Chet Baker and it had vocals. The lyrics to the song were ones that broke his heart.
~"There will be many other nights like this, and I'll be standing here with someone new. There will be other songs to sing, another fall, another spring, but there will never be another you. There will be other lips that I may kiss, but they won't thrill me like yours used to do. Yes, I may dream a million dreams, but how can they come true, if there will never ever be another you?"~
Warrick walked over and leaned on the piano as he listened to him with a smile on his face. "You're good."
"I'm an amateur compared to you," he said as he watched his hands as he focused on the song.
"It's not about technique, but emotion. That's what makes it good. You feel what you're playing and it makes me feel it."
"What does it feel like?" he asked him as he continued playing the song.
"It's heartbreaking."
His hands stopped playing for a moment before he continued on with the song. In the last two years since he'd met Sara, he stopped wearing his wedding ring, but he still kept it in his house. In his bedroom on the dresser.
"You should sit in with us sometime."
He looked up at him in confused disbelief as he said, "I don't like playing in front of people, and…I'm not that good."
"You must really be deaf if you can't hear how good you are."
He nearly laughed as he shook his head and felt the blush that crept up as he finished the song. "I've only played in the confines of my own house. That's where I'd like for my playing to stay."
"Damn shame," Warrick said as he took a drink. "But, I get it. I never liked playing in front of people either. Then, I couldn't stop playing. It's like an addiction, you know? The energy of the crowd, of the other band members. You feed off it and it becomes the best drug, the biggest high you could ever experience. There's nothing better than making people feel their own soul through the music you play."
"That's how I felt when I heard you play. That your soul was coming out through your fingertips." He grabbed his beer and stood up from the piano bench as he gestured to it.
"Move over," Warrick said as he slid by him and sat down at the piano and started playing.
It was the song that he didn't know the name of. He had to ask, "What's it called?"
Warrick shook his head as he told him, "I don't know yet."
"You wrote a piece of music, and it has no name?"
He shrugged, saying, "Sometimes you can't put a name on a feeling or…a piece of music. It means something different to everyone who hears it. And, every time I play it, the meaning changes with what I'm feeling, or thinking…It takes on a life of its own even though it's the same notes, played exactly the same way."
"You know what that's called, don't you?" When Warrick looked over at him, he said, "It's called life."
Warrick grinned as he kept playing. "You know what, Grissom, I think you're right."
He closed his eyes briefly to just listen but then the music stopped. Opening his eyes, he thought the song was over but he saw Warrick's hands still moving gracefully over the keys, the way he leaned into the performance, but he couldn't hear it anymore. A sense of loss came over him as he watched the keys and imagined the sound the notes made in his head, but it lost the essence that was Warrick Brown that made it what it was.
Downing the beer, he finished it off as he stepped away to throw the bottle in the trash. It gave him a moment to collect himself and to wait out the fog once again. Once sound came back, he thanked Warrick for his time. "Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?"
"If you need me, I'll be right here." Warrick pointed up to the ceiling as he told him, "I live on the third floor."
Once outside on the sidewalk, he looked over at the Madame Masque's Palace as he pulled out a cigarette. He stuck it into his mouth without lighting it as he felt an overwhelming feeling of dread come over him. That was the word he decided to put on the emotion he felt gripping his chest as he started walking down the festive street as the Fourth of July celebration started to light up the block and beyond. Neon signs blinked on and started flashing as the doors to the various establishments were opened.
As the sun started to set, the more livelier the streets became with barbecues and parades of bands happening on every block and kids running around with streamers and sparkling fireworks in their hands. Driving through the streets to the park, the feeling of dread grew stronger and once he parked back at his office, he sat in his car as people were laughing and celebrating all around him. Fireworks were already going off in the distance and it wasn't even dark yet.
He figured a lot of people had a lot to celebrate.
Getting out of his car, he turned not towards the park but the building that housed his office and went up the stairs and down the long hall. Unlocking the door, he walked inside and shut it behind him.
He hung up his hat on the rack in the lobby and then walked into his office and laid down on the sofa that was against the wall. The window blinds made a shadow on the wall above the sofa and he saw the lights from the fireworks and the celebration in the streets reflecting off the walls. He rubbed his head and closed his eyes against the celebration as he struggled to push back the tears that he wanted to cry. In doing so, he fell asleep.
That was where Sara found him hours later. The room was darker, the sun was down, but it was bright outside the window as the fireworks were still exploding in the sky, lighting the office up in red, white and blue.
She was sitting in his chair behind his desk. And when his eyes fell upon her, she smiled. "Wake up, sleepy head."
He smirked as he tried to stretch out on the sofa but failed miserably. Checking the time, he saw it was after nine o'clock. "Catherine wasn't too mad, was she?"
"If she was, she didn't show it. I think she's used to it by now."
He felt the guilt in his chest as he sat up and rubbed his tired face. He felt so tired. So drained as he leaned his head back on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling as the world exploded in bright lights outside.
"Is it your head?"
He gave a nod. It wasn't solely his head, but his head did hurt. It wasn't a migraine, though, he didn't know how it wasn't. What was really giving him the most trouble was his heart. Everything was starting to hurt too much. It wasn't anything new. It was the reason why he hadn't been around Catherine and her daughter since Christmas. It was why he hadn't done much but work in nine years. Why he had stopped really having any friends. He hadn't seen his friend Lewis since he bought his old car after his son was born.
He'd stopped doing a lot of things since then. And now, with his hearing getting worse, he was withdrawing more and more. One day, he wouldn't be able to hear anything. Not the fireworks or the piano, or Sara's laugh. And instead of waiting for that day to arrive to disappear, he'd been slowly disappearing before it happened. He was putting up walls and creating distance between him and the rest of the world.
Except for where it came to his cases. He couldn't stop yet. He had to find Allison Murphy. If he accomplished anything from this job, that was the one thing he wanted to do. He didn't want Jack Murphy to feel what he's felt for nearly a decade.
This…dread. It was the dread of living. Of being alive. Of the world still spinning while the people he loved more than his own self were gone. He didn't know how to move on from that. He had no idea how not to feel the dread of life.
"Gil?"
Had she been talking this whole time? He had no idea. As he thought about it, he realized he didn't remember hearing anything for a few minutes. It could have been because he was so lost in his head. It could have been his hearing loss. It could have been both. He wouldn't know. It was hard to tell.
He also felt sick. He hadn't eaten all day.
Sara was in front of him and she reached out a hand for him to take. Looking up at her, he smiled weakly as he took her hand and she lifted him to his feet. Staring into her eyes, he reached out and touched her face. She frowned for a moment, confused by the touch as she reached up and covered his hand with hers.
His head was messed up; his heart full of pain. And he knew only one thing that was certain: he loved the woman in front of him. That was his only explanation for why he leaned down and kissed her. She was startled; they both were.
Closing his eyes, he ended the kiss as he told her, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that." He couldn't look at her as he kept his eyes on the floor.
As he went to move away, she stopped him as she grabbed his arm. "Gil, it's—It's okay—"
"No," he shook his head as he rubbed at the pain inside it. Never looking at her as he felt the guilt and shame that filled his chest, he told her, "It's not. I'm sorry."
Leaving his office, he grabbed his hat, opened the door and left.
He got back into his car and started driving home but somehow his car ended up parked two blocks from Pacific Avenue. He sat for a while, watching the festivities in the streets as the block parties continued well into the night. Even as the fog slipped through the streets, the people never stopped celebrating. And he was such an idiot.
Getting out of the car, he shut it and locked it before walking down the street as he kept his eyes on the passing cars and street lights. It was hard to hear but with the celebration and fireworks, it made it even harder and he didn't want to get in an accident because he wasn't paying attention to the street.
Passing the jazz club, he looked through the open door and spotted Warrick at the piano and Lillie Ivers at the microphone. He couldn't hear what she was singing, but he could tell it was amazing by how Warrick moved to the music he was playing. He walked by the men and women outside Madame Masque's Palace and opened the door and slipped inside.
This time when he told the hostess behind the mask and desk his name, he was on the invite list. He gave her his hat and she handed him the playing card. Slipping it into his pocket, he went through the curtains and saw the performance underway down on the stage. Not caring about the show, he went down the steps and headed toward Madame Masque's office.
She said that he could call her Heather, so as he knocked on the door and it opened, to reveal the woman in front of him, he said, "Madame Heather, may I come in?"
Heather opened the door further to allow him into the office then shut it behind him. He stepped inside and looked around as he worked out why he came there. When he turned around, she was right in front of him. Her green eyes on his eyes, his lips, and there was obvious intent.
His head was a mess; his heart full of pain. But there was one thing he knew for certainty as he looked at the woman who stood in front of him: she had lied to him.
There was a pull between them, an attraction, and if he was any other man or any other way, he'd want to kiss her and more. But, he was who he was and he couldn't get past the fact that she lied. "Bobby Stone wasn't strong-arming you. He was paying you to use the tunnels and to keep quiet."
Her eyes lifted in surprise. She hadn't been expecting that. She had expected him to ignore it, ignore everything, because she knew that he liked her. There was a smile on her lips as she said, "You're good. I had to lie to you. I'm being paid to not ask questions."
"You have no idea what they're smuggling?"
"It's not my merchandise. They do it during the day with all the other deliveries. It's gone before I even get here at night. Grissom, I'm sorry if—"
"You lied." He let out a breath and shook his head as he stepped away from her to put a distance between them.
Her eyes were still watching him as he turned around and ran a hand through his hair as he thought about everything. And as he pushed his emotions down so as not to get angry, or worse, to give into his need for some sort of human contact and kiss her. He couldn't have the woman he really wanted. She was engaged. Her heart wasn't his to have.
Even though he wanted the woman in the room with him now, it wasn't due to love. He could never give her his heart. He wasn't a lustful man, he didn't act on impulse and need, but he was still a man.
Then he saw it. On her desk, he saw a newspaper. It was old. The date caught his interest. July 3rd…1946.
"There aren't many honorable men anymore," she said as she started walking around her desk to look at him. "It's a shame, really...especially when you choose to be all alone. Is it because of what happened to your family?" His eyes locked onto hers as he realized she'd been reading up on him. "Did they ever find out who–"
"No, they didn't."
She gave a nod as her eyes went to the paper before looking back up at him. "Is that why you still do this job? You're hoping to solve their murder yourself?" He swallowed hard as he gave a nod. He could no longer speak. "And you can't move on; not until you know who did it and why. What if you never find out who did it?"
The dread that filled him nearly dropped him to the floor. It was unbearable. The thought that he would never know the truth. Finding his voice, he told her, "Then, I guess...I'll never move on."
She was looking at him with such sadness, it made him angry. "Makes for a lonely existence."
"Yeah...it does," he told her as he turned around to leave the office.
She stopped him as she said, "I'll help you. When they send someone else to pay me for my silence, I'll call you and let you know who it is."
Stopping at the door, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the lighter camera. He walked back over to her desk and showed it to her. "This is a camera. Lift the lid, and you'll see a viewfinder. Get the face of the man in the viewfinder and then light it. It will take his picture." He placed the lighter down and then left the office.
Handing the playing card to the hostess, he retrieved his hat. He left the Palace and went next door to the jazz club. Walking through the doors, he heard the bluesy saxophone and saw Warrick still behind the piano as the band played "There Will Never Be Another You". How fitting.
He needed a drink to go along with that sentiment.
TBC…
Disclaimer songs mentioned: "I Get a Kick Out of You" by Frank Sinatra. "Ballad for Americans" by Paul Robeson. "There Will Never Be Another" performed by Lester Young.
