The Jazz Singer
Part One: The Case
Rain drummed against the window of a second-floor office that had seen better decades. The desk lamp cast yellow light over cluttered case files, an overflowing ashtray, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The scent of stale smoke and aged paper filled the air.
Detective Marlowe had been working this city long enough to know when a case was going to be trouble. The knock at the door—hesitant but firm—told her this was one of those.
The woman who stepped in was all wrong for a rainy Tuesday night. Dark hair framing a face equal parts beauty and desperation. Red lipstick, red dress. The kind of dame who made men do stupid things and regret them later.
'Detective,' she said, her voice soft but urgent. 'My friend Lila Monroe is missing. I'm afraid something terrible has happened to her.'
Marlowe gestured to the chair across from her desk. 'Tell me about it.'
Clara Evans—that was the dame's name—talked fast. She and Lila were singers at the Blue Lagoon, one of the city's finer jazz clubs. Lila had been acting strange for weeks. Secretive. Talking about freedom, about escape, about a man who promised her everything. Then, three days ago, she vanished. No note, no warning. Just gone.
'The police?'
'Don't care.' Clara's jaw tightened. 'Girl like Lila goes missing, they figure she ran off with some man. Case closed.'
'But you don't think so.'
'I know so. Lila wouldn't leave Jimmy—that's the bartender, her sweetheart—without a word. And she wouldn't leave me.' Clara leaned forward. 'Something took her, Detective. I can feel it.'
Marlowe reached for her cigarette case. 'I'll look into it. Standard rates, plus expenses. No guarantees.'
'I'll pay whatever—'
The air tore open.
It happened without warning—a vertical rip in reality, bleeding light so bright it burned. Marlowe threw herself backward. Clara screamed. And something fell through the gap, landing squarely on the desk with a crash that sent papers and whiskey bottles flying.
A man. Rugged, sun-weathered, wearing clothes that belonged to no era Marlowe could place. A squirrel clung to his shoulder, fur bristling with static from the portal. He blinked at the ceiling, then sat up slowly.
'Huh,' he said.
The squirrel chittered something that sounded almost like language. The man nodded. 'Yeah, I know. Wrong place again.'
Something hooted beside him. A creature—about the size of a large dog, with the body of a bear cub and the head of an owl. It shook itself, ruffling feathers that had no business being on a mammal.
'What—' Marlowe's hand found her revolver. 'What in the hell—'
'Wrong portal,' the man said, like this was a minor inconvenience. He looked around the office, taking in the cigarette smoke, the rain-streaked window, the two women staring at him. 'This ain't the Shattered City.'
'This is Manhattan,' Marlowe said.
'Huh.' He squinted at the rotary phone on her desk, the yellowed newspapers, the fashion that belonged in a history book. 'Manhattan looks different than I remember.'
The owl-bear made a chirping sound and nuzzled against his leg. He patted its head absently.
Clara had pressed herself against the far wall. 'What is that thing?'
'Owlbear.' The man climbed off the desk, brushing broken glass from his shirt. 'Found her in the last place. Figured she'd stay there, but—' He shrugged. 'Guess not.'
Marlowe kept her revolver trained on him. 'You have five seconds to explain what's happening before I start shooting.'
The man looked at the gun. Then at her. 'Name's Merle,' he said. 'I fall through holes sometimes. Ain't figured out how to control it yet.' He glanced at Clara. 'You were talking about someone missing?'
'I—yes. Lila. My friend.'
Merle nodded like this was the most normal thing in the world. 'I'm good at finding things. Can I help?'
Part Two: The Blue Lagoon
The Blue Lagoon was the kind of joint that tried too hard to be classy and almost succeeded. Cigarette smoke hung in layers, soft golden light cast long shadows, and a piano player in the corner worked through something melancholy while patrons murmured over watered-down drinks.
Marlowe had left the owlbear in her office. It had not been happy about this. Neither had her landlady.
Merle walked through the club like he owned the place—or rather, like he didn't understand that he didn't. Heads turned. Conversations paused. His clothes were wrong, his bearing was wrong, and he was carrying a knife on his belt like that was a normal thing to do in 1930s Manhattan.
'You're going to get us thrown out,' Marlowe muttered.
'Been thrown out of worse.'
They found Jimmy behind the bar—a young man with haunted eyes and a bruise on his jaw that was three days old and fading yellow. He was wiping glasses with the focused intensity of someone trying very hard not to think.
'Jimmy?' Marlowe said.
He looked up. Saw Clara. His face crumpled for just a moment before he put the mask back on. 'Clara. You shouldn't be here.'
'I hired a detective.' She gestured at Marlowe. 'We're going to find her.'
'She doesn't want to be found.' Jimmy's voice was flat. Dead. 'She sent me a letter. Said she was leaving. Said I wasn't enough.'
'Can I see it?' Marlowe asked.
Jimmy reached into his pocket and produced a folded paper. Marlowe took it, read it, passed it to Merle. His reading was slow—lips moving slightly—but he got through it.
'This ain't her handwriting,' Merle said.
Everyone stared at him.
'How would you know?' Jimmy asked.
Merle pointed at a poster on the wall—a promotional image for Lila Monroe's performances, with her signature scrawled across the bottom. 'Loops are different. This one's written by someone pretending. Pretty good, but the L's don't match.'
Marlowe looked at the letter again. Then at the poster. Damn. He was right.
'Someone forged it,' she said. 'Someone wanted you to stop looking.'
Jimmy's face went through several emotions in quick succession. 'But who—'
The club's front door slammed open. Three men walked in—big, broad, dressed in cheap suits and cheaper attitudes. They scanned the room, locked onto Jimmy, and started walking.
'Oh hell,' Jimmy breathed. 'Not again.'
'Friends of yours?' Marlowe asked.
'They worked me over three days ago. Told me to stop asking questions about Lila.'
The lead thug cracked his knuckles. 'Jimmy boy. Thought we had an understanding.'
Merle stepped between them. 'Evening.'
The thug blinked. 'Who the hell are you?'
'Nobody. Just wondering—' Merle tilted his head. 'Who sent you?'
'None of your business, pal. Walk away.'
'Can't do that.' Merle's voice was mild, almost friendly. 'See, I'm helping these folks find a missing girl. And you're in the way.'
The thug laughed. The other two joined in.
Merle hit him in the throat.
The fight lasted about fifteen seconds. Merle moved like someone who'd been in more bar brawls than he could count—dirty, efficient, and utterly unconcerned with fair play. One thug went down gasping. The second reached for his gun—and then screamed as a squirrel launched itself at his face, tiny claws scrabbling. By the time he'd swatted the rodent away, Merle had put a barstool through his knee. The third tried to draw and found Merle's knife at his throat before he could clear the holster.
Little Merle scampered back up to his shoulder, chittering smugly.
'Who sent you?' Merle asked again.
'Tommy,' the thug wheezed. 'Tommy O'Leary. Piano player at the Velvet Note.'
'Where's the girl?'
'I don't know, man, I swear—we just do what Tommy says—'
Merle looked at Marlowe. 'We should check her apartment first. Might be something there.'
Part Three: Lila's Apartment
The apartment was small, tidy, and too quiet. Faint flower scent lingered in the air. A refrigerator hummed softly in the kitchen. Everything was eerily undisturbed, like the place was holding its breath, waiting for someone who wouldn't return.
'She didn't pack,' Clara said, moving through the space. 'Look—her suitcase is still in the closet. Her favourite dress is still hanging up. If she was leaving, she would have taken these things.'
Marlowe checked the bedroom. Nothing out of place. No signs of struggle. Whatever had happened to Lila Monroe, it hadn't happened here.
'Hey,' Merle called from the bathroom. 'Come look at this.'
They found him standing over the sink, staring down into the basin. The squirrel on his shoulder was pressed flat, fur bristling.
'What is it?' Marlowe asked.
'Listen.'
She listened. At first, nothing. Then—faint, impossibly faint—singing. A woman's voice, beautiful and sad, rising from... from the drain? No. From the water itself.
A thin film of water had pooled in the sink basin. And in that water—
Marlowe leaned closer. Her breath caught.
The water wasn't reflecting the ceiling. It was showing something else. Coral formations, pale and ghostly. Darkness beyond. The suggestion of vast underwater space, distorted and rippling, like looking through a window into another world.
The singing grew louder. Lila's voice. Pleading. Trapped.
Then the water drained away, and the vision vanished with it.
'What the hell was that?' Clara whispered.
'She's alive,' Merle said. 'Wherever she is, she's alive. And she's trying to reach out.'
'But where—'
'Underwater.' Merle turned away from the sink. 'Coral. Ocean. Someone's got her in a place that ain't quite here.' He looked at Marlowe. 'The piano player. Tommy. He knows where she is.'
'The Velvet Note,' Marlowe said. 'Let's go.'
Part Four: The Velvet Note
The Velvet Note was a step up from the Blue Lagoon—fine cigars, polished wood, clientele who thought they were better than everyone else and had the money to prove it. The piano in the corner was a baby grand, and the man playing it had fingers that danced across the keys like water.
Tommy O'Leary.
Handsome. Charming. Dark hair swept back, a smile that promised things it couldn't deliver. He played a slow, sad melody that tugged at something deep in the chest.
'That's him,' Clara whispered. 'That's the man Lila was talking about. The one who promised her freedom.'
Marlowe watched him play. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones—a pressure, like the air before a storm. A faint smell of salt and brine that had no business being in a Manhattan jazz club.
'Stay here,' she said. 'Let me—'
Merle was already walking toward the piano.
'Damn it—'
Tommy looked up as Merle approached. The music faltered for just a moment, then continued. 'Can I help you, friend?'
'Looking for Lila Monroe.'
The smile didn't waver. 'Never heard of her.'
'You sent men to beat up her boyfriend. Forged a letter from her. Got her hidden somewhere underwater.' Merle's tone was conversational. 'Saw her in the sink. Coral and everything. Where is she?'
Tommy stopped playing.
The silence was sudden and complete. Every conversation in the club died. Heads turned toward the piano.
'You're not from here,' Tommy said softly. 'I can smell it on you. The Waste. The Barren. You've walked between worlds.'
'Couple times.'
'Then you know how these things work.' Tommy leaned forward. 'The girl made a deal. She wanted freedom—freedom from her life, her obligations, her fear. I gave it to her. Her voice was the price.'
'Her voice.'
'The most beautiful instrument I've ever encountered.' Tommy's smile returned, but it was different now. Sharper. 'She's safe, in my domain. She'll live forever there. Never age. Never suffer. Is that not freedom?'
'Doesn't sound like she agreed to the forever part.'
'Details.' Tommy waved a hand. 'The point is, she's mine now. Legally. Magically. There's nothing you can do about it.'
Merle considered this. 'What if I just hit you real hard?'
Tommy laughed—a cold sound, like waves breaking on rocks. 'You're welcome to try. But I have a better offer.' He leaned forward. 'I can send you home, traveller. Back to your world. Your swamp. Your gators. One snap of my fingers, and you'll wake up in your own bed like none of this ever happened.'
Marlowe had moved closer, hand on her revolver. 'Merle—'
'That's a good offer,' Merle admitted.
'All you have to do is walk away. Leave the girl. Forget this case.' Tommy's eyes gleamed. 'What do you say?'
Merle thought about it. He thought about his trailer in Pensacola, the swamp behind it, the way the sun hit the water in the morning. He thought about Biscuit, gone now, swallowed by something dark. He thought about the holes in the world, the falling, the endless strange places he kept landing in.
He thought about a girl trapped in an underwater prison, her voice stolen, her freedom a lie.
'Nah,' he said. 'I don't think so.'
And then he hit Tommy O'Leary in the face.
Part Five: The Sea Witch
Tommy went down hard—chair splintering, piano bench crashing over. But he didn't stay down. His form rippled and changed as he rose—handsome face stretching, fingers elongating into something clawed and webbed. His skin took on a greenish sheen, scales emerging along his arms and neck. His eyes went black, then filled with the cold light of deep ocean.
'You should have taken the deal,' Tommy said, and his voice was the sound of drowning.
Water erupted from nowhere—surging up from the floor, crashing against the walls, filling the room with the roar of the sea. Patrons screamed and fled.
Merle grabbed a chair and hurled it at him. Tommy batted it aside with a webbed claw.
'Pathetic.'
'Just getting started.' Merle pulled his knife. 'Same rules as pythons. Don't let them wrap you up.'
He charged.
The fight was brutal and fast. Merle ducked under a clawed swipe, slashed at Tommy's side, felt his blade bite. Black ichor sprayed. Tommy screamed—that drowning sound, echoing in his skull—and slammed a palm against his chest. Merle flew backward, crashing through a table.
'Merle!' Marlowe had fought through the water. Her revolver was in her hand. She fired—once, twice, three times.
The bullets hit. Tommy staggered. But he didn't fall.
'Mortal weapons,' he hissed. 'You think those can harm me?'
'No,' Merle said, getting to his feet. 'But they slow you down.'
He was holding something—a lantern from the wall, oil sloshing inside. Tommy's black eyes widened.
'Fire clears things out,' Merle said. 'Works on gators. Works on things that shouldn't be here. Let's see if it works on you.'
He threw the lantern. Marlowe fired at it mid-air. Oil and flame exploded outward.
Tommy burned.
He screamed—a sound like the ocean dying—and the water flooding the room collapsed, falling flat, draining away into nothing. The creature thrashed, clawing at itself, its monstrous form dissolving in the flames.
'Where's the girl?' Merle demanded.
'The mirror—' Tommy gasped, voice human again, desperate. 'My domain—through the mirror—'
Merle looked around. A full-length mirror on the far wall, ornate, out of place. Its surface rippled like water.
He ran for it.
'Merle, wait—'
He hit the glass and fell through.
Part Six: The Oceanic Domain
The other side was silence.
Merle found himself in a vast underwater cavern, but he could breathe. Some magic held the ocean at bay, creating a pocket of air in the deep. Phosphorescent lights dotted the walls—strange creatures, or maybe just Tommy's idea of decoration.
And there, in the centre of the cavern, was a woman.
Lila Monroe.
She was beautiful, even trapped. Dark hair floating around her face, skin pale as pearl. She sat on a throne of coral—the same coral he'd glimpsed in her bathroom sink. Bound by chains of seaweed that pulsed with dark magic. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out. Her voice—Tommy had taken it.
'I'm here to get you out,' Merle said.
Lila stared at him. Confusion. Hope. Fear.
He crossed to the throne, knife in hand. The seaweed chains resisted—tougher than they looked, pulsing with Tommy's power. But Tommy was burning topside. His magic was fading.
Little Merle leapt from his shoulder, scampering across the throne, sniffing at the bindings. The squirrel chittered and pointed with one tiny paw—a knot, darker than the rest, where the magic seemed to concentrate.
'Good eye.' Merle drove his knife into the weak point.
The chains split. Lila slumped forward, and he caught her.
'Can you walk?'
She nodded. Her eyes were wet with tears, but she was standing, leaning on him.
'Then let's go.'
The cavern shuddered. The magic holding back the ocean was failing. Water began to seep through the walls.
They ran.
The mirror was still there—the portal back, shimmering against the cavern wall. Water was rushing in now, a flood that would fill the chamber in seconds. Merle shoved Lila through first, then dove after her.
They tumbled out into the ruined jazz club. Marlowe was waiting, revolver still in hand. Clara screamed and ran to Lila, catching her friend in a desperate embrace.
The mirror cracked. Then shattered. The portal closed.
Behind them, the Witch's domain collapsed into the deep.
Part Seven: New Beginnings
Dawn light filtered through the windows of Marlowe's office. The owlbear had been retrieved from a very angry landlady and was now curled up in the corner, snoring softly.
Lila sat in the client chair, Clara beside her. Jimmy—battered, exhausted, but grinning like a fool—held her hand.
'So that's it?' Marlowe asked. 'The Witch is dead?'
'Dead enough,' Merle said. He was leaning against the wall, eating something from a paper bag. Street vendor food. Apparently, he'd discovered hot dogs and found them acceptable.
'And her voice?'
Lila opened her mouth. For a moment, nothing came out. Then—soft, hoarse, but real—she spoke.
'It's coming back. Slowly.'
Clara burst into tears. Jimmy pulled Lila close and didn't let go.
'We're leaving the city,' he said. 'Both of us. Going somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.'
'Country air,' Lila whispered. 'Fresh start.'
Marlowe nodded. 'Good luck to you both.'
They left together—the bartender and the singer, walking into a future that didn't involve jazz clubs or sea witches or stolen voices. It was a good ending. The kind you didn't get often in this city.
Merle finished his hot dog and brushed crumbs off his shirt. Little Merle sat on his shoulder, nibbling a piece of the bun. The owlbear woke up, hooted softly, and padded over to him.
'What about you?' Marlowe asked. 'Where do you go from here?'
'Don't know yet.' He looked out the window at the city, vast and strange and nothing like home. 'Holes keep opening. I keep falling through. Eventually I'll find my way back to Florida. Or I won't.'
'That doesn't bother you?'
'Can't change it. Might as well keep moving.' He scratched the owlbear behind its ear. The squirrel chittered something, and Merle nodded. 'He agrees. You got any leads on weird stuff? Strange disappearances? Things that don't make sense?'
Marlowe laughed—the first real laugh in days. 'Pal, this is New York. Everything weird happens here.'
'Then I'll stick around a while.' Merle shrugged. 'Until the next hole opens.'
He walked out into the morning, the owlbear trotting at his heels and the squirrel riding his shoulder like a tiny furry co-pilot.
Behind him, the city woke up, unaware of how close it had come to something terrible. The rain had stopped. The sun was breaking through the clouds.
Somewhere, a jazz club was looking for a new piano player.
Epilogue
The oceanic domain was gone—collapsed, drowned, swallowed by the deep.
But the sea had a long memory.
In the darkness of the Mariana Trench, something stirred. A fragment of what had been Tommy O'Leary drifted on cold currents. Burning hadn't killed him. Not entirely.
It would take time. Years, maybe. Decades. Tommy would reform, slowly, piece by piece, hungry and patient.
And when he did, he would remember the man from Florida.
The one who had refused the deal.
The sea was patient. The sea remembered.
And Tommy always collected his debts.