and all he can say is that Rocky had it coming. Less than a week with the band and he starts a mutiny and puts Rocky King off his own bus forty miles from Indianapolis. You know what your problem is Brew? Priorities. Your priorities are all wrong.”
Brew stifled a yawn and smiled again at Mary Ann. “Priorities?”
“Exactly. Now take Mary Ann here. Her priorities are in precisely the right place.”
Brew grinned. “They certainly are.”
Mary Ann blushed, but Brew caught a flicker of interest in her green eyes. So did Manny.
“I’m warning you, Mary Ann. This is a dangerous man, bent on self-destruction. Don’t be misled by that angelic face.” Manny took out an evil looking cigar, lit it, and puffed on it furiously until the booth was enveloped in a cloud of smoke.
“Did you really do that? Put Mr. King off his own bus?”
Brew shrugged and flicked a glance at Manny. “Not exactly the way Manny tells it. As usual, he’s left out a few minor details.” Brew leaned across the table closer to Mary Ann. “One of the trumpet players had quit, see. His wife was having a baby, and he wanted to get home in time. But kind, generous, Rocky King wouldn’t let him ride on the bus even though we had to pass right through his hometown. So, when we stopped for gas, I managed to lock Rocky in the men’s room, and told the driver that Rocky would be joining us later. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
“And what has it got you?” Manny asked, emerging from the cloud of smoke, annoyed to see Mary Ann was laughing. “Nothing but your first and last check, minus of course, Rocky’s taxi fare to Indianapolis. You’re untouchable now. You’ll be lucky to get a wedding at Roseland.”
Brew shuddered. Roseland was the massive ballroom under the Musicians Union and the site of Wednesday afternoon known as cattle call. Hundreds of musicians jam the ballroom as casual contractors call for one instrument at a time. “I need a piano for Saturday night.” Fifty pianists or drummers or whatever is called for rush the stage. First one there gets the gig.
“Did the trumpet player get home in time?” Mary Ann asked.
“What? Oh, yeah. It was a boy.”
“Well, I think it was a nice thing to do.” Mary Ann leaned back and looked challengingly at Manny.
“Okay, okay,” Manny said, accepting defeat. “So, you’re the Good Samaritan, but you’re still out of work, and I…” He paused for a moment, his face creasing into a smile. “There is one thing. Naw, you wouldn’t be interested.”
“C’mon, Manny. I’m interested. Anything’s better than Roseland.”
Manny nodded. “I don’t know if it’s still going, but I hear they were looking for a tenor player at The Final Bar.”
Brew groaned and slumped back against the seat. “The Final Bar is a toilet. A lot of people don’t even know it’s still there.”
“Exactly,” said Manny. “The ideal place for you at the moment.” He blew another cloud of smoke and studied the end of his cigar. Bobo Jones is there with a trio.”
“Bobo Jones? The Bobo Jones?”
“The same, but don’t get excited. We both know Bobo hasn’t played a note worth listening to in years. A guy named Rollo runs the place. I’ll give him a call if you think you can cut it. Sorry, sport, that’s the best I can do.”
“Yeah, do that,” Brew said in a daze, but something about Manny’s smile told Brew he’d be sorry. He was vaguely aware of Mary Ann asking for directions as he made his way out of Chubby’s.
It had finally come to this. The Final Bar. He couldn’t imagine Bobo Jones there.
• • •
The winos had begun to sing.
Brew watched them from across the aisle. Two lost souls, arms draped around one another, wine dribbling down their chins as they happily crooned off key between belts from a bottle in a paper bag. Except for an immense black woman, Brew and the winos were alone as the Second Avenue subway hurtled toward the Village.
“This city ain’t fit to live in no more,” the woman shouted over the roar of the train. She had a shopping bag wedged between her knees and scowled at the winos.
Brew nodded in agreement and glanced at the ceiling where somebody had spray painted “Puerto Rico Independencia!” in jagged red letters. Priorities, Manny had said. For once, maybe he was right. Even one-nighters with Rocky King were better than the Final Bar.
The winos finally passed out after 42nd Street, but a wiry Latino kid in a leather jacket swaggered on to the car and instantly eyed Brew’s horn. Brew figured him for a terrorist or at least a mugger. It was going to be his horn or the black lady’s shopping bag.
Brew picked up his horn and hugged it protectively to his chest, then gave the kid his best glare. Even with his height, there was little about Brew to inspire fear. Shaggy blond curls over a choirboy face and deep set blue eyes didn’t worry the Puerto Rican kid, who Brew figured probably had an eleven-inch blade under his jacket.
They had a staring contest until 14th Street when Brew’s plan became clear. He waited until the last possible second, then shot off the train like a firing squad was at his back. He paused just long enough on the platform to smile at the kid staring at him through the doors as the pulled away.
“Faggot!” the kid yelled. Brew turned and sprinted up the steps, wondering why people thought it was so much fun to live in New York City.
Outside, he turned up his collar against the frosty air and plunged into the mass of humanity that often makes the city look like an evacuation. He elbowed his way across the street, splashing through gray piles of slush that clung to the curbs, soaked shoes, and provided cabbies with opportunities to practice their favorite winter pastime of splattering pedestrians. He turned off 7th Avenue, long legs eating up the slippery sidewalk, and tried again to envision Bobo Jones playing at the Final Bar, but it was impossible.
For as long as he could remember, Bobo Jones had been one of the legendary figures of jazz piano. Bud Powell, Thelonious Monk, Oscar Peterson — hell, Bobo was a jazz piano giant. But Bobo’s career, if brilliant, had also been stormy, laced with bizarre incidents, culminating one night at the Village Vanguard during a live recording session. Before a horrified opening night audience, Bobo had attacked and nearly killed his saxophone player.
Midway through the first set, the crazed Bobo had leapt wild-eyed from the piano, screamed something unintelligible, and pounced on the unsuspecting saxophonist, who thought he had at least two more choruses to play. Bobo wrestled him to the floor and all but strangled him with the microphone cord. The saxophonist was already gagging on his mouthpiece and in the end, suffered enough throat damage to cause him to switch to guitar. He eventually quit music altogether and went into business with his brother-in-law selling insurance in New Jersey.
Juice Wilson, Bobo’s two hundred and forty pound drummer, had never moved so fast in his life unless it was the time he’d mistakenly wandered into a Ku Klux Klan meeting in his native Alabama. Juice dove over the drums, sending one of his cymbals flying into a ringside table of Rotarians. He managed to pull Bobo off the gasping saxophonist with the help of two cops who hated jazz anyway. A waiter called the paramedics, and the saxophonist was given emergency treatment under the piano while the audience looked on in stunned disbelief.
One member of the audience was a photographer for Time Magazine showing his out-of-town girlfriend the sights of New York. He knew a scoop when he saw it, whipped out his camera, and snapped off a dozen quick ones while Juice and the cops tried to subdue Bobo. The following week’s issue ran a photo of Bobo, glassy-eyed, in a straitjacket, with the caption: “Is this the end of Jazz?” The two cops hoped so because they were in the photo too, and their watch commander wanted to know what the hell they were doing in a jazz club if they hadn’t busted any dopers.
The