South Central Noir

“Man,” Magrady said, shaking his head, “I once got so high there in the Three Clicks that I saw Ho Chi Minh floating through the ceiling with a deck of cards. Bobby Seale showed up and we played Spades.”

They chuckled and headed inside. Upstairs Banshall unlocked the door and, stepping inside, set his keys on a small table with a vase on it. His rooms were comfortable and tidy. There were photos and framed posters here and there chronicling his years in the music business. While not always a headliner, he’d put out a few albums of his own, and worked steady as a session man and a sideman on various tours, including ones with Herbie Hancock and various rock stars. There was also evidence of his playing gigs for causes ranging from police accountability to when Jesse Jackson ran for president in the ’80s.

“It’s okay if I drink in front of you?” Banshall asked. He shrugged off his sport coat and draped it on the arm of his couch. “Damn, don’t mean to sound like a lush.”

“Yeah, pretty sure I can resist temptation.”

After Banshall poured a glass of orange juice for Magrady and for himself a Jameson, neat, the two sat in padded chairs. On the sound system he’d put on KKJZ, the jazz station out of Long Beach. The volume was set low.

Magrady said, leaning forward, “Here’s to the long, bumpy road we’ve been on.”

“And what lies ahead.” They clinked glasses and each took a sip.

“You remember that chick Tempest?” Magrady said.

“Of course, fine as wine, as we used to say. What made you think of her?”

Magrady pointed at something on the end of the mantle. “That’s from when we met her.”

Banshall blinked at the rectangular object as if seeing it for the first time. He got up, staring at it as if it came from another dimension, and plucked it off the mantle.

“What?” Magrady said.

Banshall looked over at him, frowning. “I didn’t know I still had this.”

“You must have forgot, old-timer.”

“I guess so.” Banshall laughed nervously, setting it back on the mantle. “Hey, how about I make us a couple of sandwiches? Got some fresh smoked turkey.”

“Sounds right.”

Before he went into the kitchen, Banshall picked up his glass and drained it.

Magrady settled back listening to a Mose Allison number, half dozing.

“You want mustard on your sandwich?”

Magrady opened his eyes to see the saxophonist standing in the doorway to the kitchen holding a butter knife smeared yellow at the tip. A pained look contorted his face. He took a step back into the other room.

“Ty,” Magrady called out, rising from the chair.

“What about that mustard, huh?” The words slurred out of Banshall’s mouth as he fell to his knees. The knife slipped from his twitching fingers.

Magrady crossed the room in long strides to reach him, taking a knee. “Lie back, man, I’m calling 911.”

“Sure, great.” Banshall’s voice was wispy and fragile.

Magrady made the call, then tossed his phone aside and applied CPR. He compressed Banshall’s chest, stopping, then repeating the action. Long ago, when he gotten clean, again, he’d taken a course at one of the Narcotics Anonymous conferences he’d attended. Magrady also tried mouth-to-mouth as he’d been instructed. Soon, hearing muffled footfalls rushing up the carpeted stairs, he went to the door to let the paramedics in. It was a male and female team and they rushed in with a stretcher and their kit.

“I tried to resuscitate him but he doesn’t seem responsive.”

“Thank you. We got this.”

The two went to work on Banshall. To his face they strapped an oxygen mask attached to a small tank. After several minutes the woman rose.

“I’m afraid he’s gone,” she said flatly.

“Damn.”

“Is this your place?”

“No, his. I was visiting.”

Sometime later Magrady went back to his home, a converted garage turned into what the city called an ADU — additional dwelling unit. This one had been redone legally, though he’d lived in his share of bootleg units and on the street too. Undressed and teeth brushed, Magrady sat on the edge of his compact bed in his boxers and undershirt. Lost in the fog of Banshall’s demise, he worked Icy Hot liniment onto his knee.

Three days later he was in a strategy meeting with his boss, Janis Bonilla, at Urban Advocacy where he was an organizer, when the police came looking for him.

“That’s a cop,” he said to Bonilla. Her compact office had a window overlooking the main floor.

“He looks like any other bureaucrat from Building and Safety,” she said.

“He’s probably here for me.”

“Something I should know, Magrady?” Hardly anyone called him by his first name.

The newcomer was dressed in a suit, light-blue shirt, and colorful tie. He removed wire-framed sunglasses from his bronzed face. He was Japanese American and maybe early fifties, Magrady estimated. The man was talking to one of the other organizers, Jessica Alvaringa. She in turn knocked on the office door, which was already open.

“Yo,” Bonilla called out.

“He’s LAPD and would like to talk to you,” Jessica said to Magrady.

“Thanks, Jess,” Magrady said, already up. “Okay to use the conference room?” he asked Bonilla.

“Sure.”