cake sat on the table between them. Coloured lanterns threw shadows around the deck. Sleepy nighttime jazz seeped from the speakers and wafted through the backyard.
Donny blew a smoke ring. “This Marsalis?”
“You got it,” Dan said. “Is he hot or cool?”
“I’m not sure he’s either,” Donny answered. “Wynton plays like a white boy. I put him in the same category as Chet Baker.”
Dan’s face was a question mark. “Are you saying that because he plays classical?”
“Not at all. I think Marsalis is a dynamite classical player. Except for that number two Brandenburg where he sounds like a synthesizer. It’s his jazz I have a problem with. It’s too stiff and intellectual.”
“You don’t like Chet either? He’s got great tone.”
Donny took a drag worthy of Bette Davis then stubbed out the cigarette. “He’s Ivy League. I don’t like anyone who thinks ‘Over the Rainbow’ is a respectable jazz number.”
Dan laughed and uncapped a beer. “You snob!”
Donny’s eyebrows shot up. “Sugar, I work in the cosmetics industry. It comes with the territory. And you can’t touch me for that.”
It was Donny’s revenge for growing up poor, black, and — the ultimate disgrace for a Caribbean son — gay. Somehow he’d discovered he had a discerning nose for expensive scents, the perfumes and nectars of the gods. He now made a living turning up his nose for the same people who’d once snubbed him, advising them on the lotions, potions, and magic formulas they hoped would transform their looks. Maybe even their lives.
“Oh, yeah?” Dan countered. “How cool is it for some of these old black guys to be playing ‘Summertime’? That’s just tourist shite!”
“Hee-hee! You got me there.”
Dan thought for a moment. “Are you saying you can tell whether a player is black or white by how he blows a horn?”
“Sure I can!”
“No way! You’re going to have to prove that one.” Dan went inside and returned with a handful of CDs, tossing another bottle of beer to Donny. “Test time,” he said, slipping a disc into the player.
Chirpy bird-awkward notes wafted upward, drifting among the branches, cool and seductive.
“It’s Miles,” Donny said after a moment. “Probably from the mid-fifties, which means it’s the Quintet.” He listened again. “Yeah, that’s Coltrane. No mistaking that sound.”
Dan whistled. “Very good. It doesn’t even sound like the Miles Davis I know.”
Donny shook his head. “I can always tell Miles. Ellington called him the ‘Picasso of jazz.’”
“Does that make him hot or cool?”
Donny shot him a quick glance. “You have to ask? Miles Davis is the epitome of cool jazz. There’s no one better. Listen to that sound!”
A rap beat emerged from the player next. Pure street cred. Donny smiled. “Miles again. This is from doo-bop, am I right?”
Dan nodded.
“I don’t even need to hear the horn. You can’t shit me. This was his last album. I’m a true blue Miles fan.”
“Damn.” Dan shook his head and removed another CD from its case. “Okay, smart ass. Who’s this?”
A feathery drum brush dominated the speakers as a stuttering horn searched a pathway between the notes. Donny listened quietly for a moment.
“I’m going to guess Dizzy, and you’re a dead man if I’m wrong, ’cause I hate to be wrong when it comes to my horns.”
Dan grinned. “Right again.”
“I don’t know this piece. What is it?”
“It’s a live performance of ‘Lullaby In Rhythm’ from a Paris nightclub. Very early Dizzy. It’s a reissue I picked up recently.”
“Cool! Catch those brush strokes! That drummer’s making love to someone. So’s Dizzy. Hear those triplets? Whenever I hear Dizzy, I feel a whiskery set of lips moving to-and-fro across my belly till I’m ready to explode.”
“So is he hot or cool?”
“He is definitely hot. Listen to that sound — the man’s on fire!”
“Define Gillespie’s tone in three words or less.”
“Hmm....” Donny put a match to a cigarette, cocked his head, and listened. “Sexual … seductive … he’s all wet and slurpy. He gets right inside your skin with that splatter of notes.”
“Too many words. How about ‘slutty’?”
Donny exploded in laughter. “You got it. That’s exactly what old Dizzy is! Slutty! Whoo, boy! I can feel those bristles on my belly! Just don’t tell him he’s making love to a man, though. He might get upset.”
“You never know. He might like you.”
The laughter subsided. Dan switched CDs. A glittery baroque theme gilded the air.
Donny snorted. “Ah, man! That’s Marsalis again.”
“You sure?”
“You can’t fool me just because he’s playing classical.”
Dan shook his head. “Nope.”
“What? Sure it is. That’s Wynton Marsalis. I know this piece.”
“What is it?”
“Something about the Bright Seraphim. It’s by Handel.”
“No, man. You are dead wrong on both counts. It’s not Handel and it’s not Marsalis.”
Donny stared, cigarette smoke leaking from his nostrils. “It can’t be. Let me see that thing.” Donny looked over the CD case, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.
“That’s Gerard Schwartz playing Scarlatti. He’s as white as they come.”
“You see? I told you Marsalis plays like a white boy.”
Dan smirked. “Gotcha!”
Donny raised a warning finger. “You say a word about this and I’ll tell everyone you gave Abe Pittman head in my bathroom because you felt sorry for him when Victor dumped him.”
“Ooh!” Dan said. “That’s mean. Okay, I promise.”
The track came to an end. The night was silent again. Donny turned to look at Ked curled up on his chair.
“You think the kid enjoyed his party?”
“Party of three, with his father and surrogate uncle?”
“Doesn’t he have any friends his age?”
Dan shot him a look. “Do you think he’d want me to introduce them to gay Uncle Donny and his dad’s boyfriend Bill?”
“I see. We’re good enough to fuck, but not good enough to be family, is that it? And what happened to His Royal Highness, anyway? He stand us up again?”
Dan shrugged off the question. “You know — work. Something came up.”
“Uh-huh. Something’s always ‘coming up’ at work. When are you going to get wise to that one?”
Dan cocked a warning eyebrow. “Whatever that means, Bill is fine. For now.”
“Yeah? Then why’s he always running around half-naked, doing E at clubs and acting like he’s still in his twenties? He’s a doctor, isn’t he?”
“He’s still a big kid at heart.”