The Paradise Gig

by Laurence Shames

  They turned away from the beach at Bertha Street and the breeze died within half a block. Pete’s glasses fogged up again and he mopped them on his handkerchief. “No,” he said. “Not really.”

  Cooch collected himself and shrugged. “Okay, what can I say? I guess if everyone found the same thing funny, the world would only need one joke.”

  Two minutes later the pink cab pulled up in front of Pete’s house. After the fare was paid, Cooch said, “You want a couple gummies? I got a real good stash right now.”

  “No. No thanks.”

  “You sure? No offense, Pete, but they might help you lighten up a little bit.”

  “Cooch, did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t want to lighten up?”

  “Not want to? No, that would not occur to me. Why would it? Why would a person not want to lighten up?”

  “Because…” Pete began, then discovered he really didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not that light a guy. See you at Bayview at five.”

  3

  T hree steps led up to the porch of Pete’s perfect little house on Petronia Street. They were warped, they needed painting, and each made a different sound when stepped on. The first one groaned. The second squeaked. The top one gave a little cry as a bent nail chafed in its cavity of swollen wood. Pete knew all the house’s sounds by heart. The clank of the exhaust fan when it was first switched on. The scratch of the traveler palm against an upstairs shutter. The click of the pool pump starting up, the whooshing exhalation when it stopped. Companionable noises. The sweet music of being home alone and unharassed.

  He climbed the steps, put down his luggage, fished in his pockets for a house key. Then he made a terrible mistake: He grabbed his mail from the cracked and sagging wicker basket that hung crookedly on a peg next to the front door. Why? Did he really have to grab it right away, before he’d even stepped inside the house, before he’d even had a shower and put some music on? What was he expecting anyway? When’s the last time anything good had actually arrived by mail, anything more pressing than offers on cut-rate cruises or low-cost but dignified cremation options? He should have let it wait. But he didn’t. He tucked the sheaf of mail under his arm and stepped into his living room.

  Where he promptly made a follow-up mistake. He dropped his bags, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and started riffling through the catalogs and envelopes. Again, why so soon, except maybe for the bleak pleasure of tossing the whole worthless bundle straight into recycling?

  He sorted things. The discard pile grew. Then he came upon a hand-scrawled and apparently hand-delivered note written on a torn-out page from one of those cheap little souvenir notepads that motels always have on desks and night tables. But this wasn’t from just any motel. As the classic deco font proclaimed, this was from The Key Wester—and The Key Wester was part of history. It was where The Beatles stayed in 1964, when Hurricane Dora forced the re-routing of their planned private flight to Jacksonville. People used to sell vials of water from The Key Wester’s swimming pool because John, Paul, George, and Ringo had once had chicken fights in it; there were photos of them, pale and skinny, sitting on each other’s shoulders, laughing and splashing like kids, which is of course exactly what they were: the world’s most famous and adorable kids. Anyway, the motel had been demolished twenty or so years ago to make room for yet another time-share complex. So the question was, what kind of person would still have a Key Wester notepad and would actually be writing notes on it? It could only be someone who’d been around Key West a helluva long time and who would either not know or not care that he was so casually giving away collectors’ items.

  Pete started reading. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, which was small and mostly tidy though with a definite quaver running through it. But the peculiar grammar tipped him off to who the sender was even before he’d followed the twisted prose to the flip-side of the page where it was signed. The note read: Pete, sorry to bother you, as I gather you may be out of town or elsewhere, but a lady I slightly know, maybe someone you’ve also come across, Callie her name is, short blond hair, cute, nice, does yoga on the beach, works at Luigi’s but probably other places too, anyway maybe you know who I mean. Thing is, I think she might be in trouble, or even, so to speak, danger or some jeopardy, but then again, I could have it all wrong and everything might be just fine and no big deal at all or whatsoever. But I am a little bit concerned as you can probably surmise or figure out because otherwise why would I walk to your house and drag the dog along who didn’t want to go and get all sweated up and write a note? Anyway, could you please call me when you get back to town? Thanks a million. Bert.

  Pete finished reading and put the note on the coffee table in front of him. Then he picked it up and read it again. Callie? Cute, short-haired, nice. Yoga on the beach? That part didn’t seem to fit. But then again, how many cute, nice blondes named Callie were there likely to be in one small town? All in all this certainly sounded like that Callie, like the Callie he knew. Oh boy, did he know her, though it had been quite a while since they’d run into each other.

  But a few years before, the two of them had been an item for a stormy and exciting few months. Back then it wouldn’t have surprised Pete at all to hear that Callie had landed herself in some trouble. She was pretty wild in those years. Edgy, daring, the type who’d go naked on a sailboat and swim with barracudas. She drank a lot, too much really, occasionally did coke or pills if they were offered, kept crazy hours. She could be thrilling and she could be exasperating and she could, at least at moments, be tender in a way that came as an aching and bewildering surprise. But the relationship couldn’t last and didn’t last. She was way too volatile for the staid and steady Pete, and Pete was way too staid and steady for the volatile Callie, as both of them had realized pretty quickly, though not without regrets on either side. But then, weren’t there always regrets? Especially between lovers whose only problem was the same thing that had drawn them together in the first place: that they were intriguingly and infuriatingly different.

  He exhaled and put the scrawled note down again. He got up from the sofa and paced around the living room. After a couple of circuits, he bent low over the coffee table and touched the note once more, but only at the corner, as if it were on fire. He really didn’t want to get involved. He never wanted to get involved. He didn’t know Callie anymore. Maybe it wasn’t even the same person. Maybe she wasn’t really in trouble. And even if she was, what made him think he had the chops to help?

  But of course he knew that he would get involved, that in fact he was involved already. This was a woman he’d once cared for. And how could anyone say no to Bert?

  Well, so much for the homecoming idyll, so much for the prospect of getting his selfish little life back. Bye-bye to the serene hour of wine and music. Bye-bye to the tennis game with Cooch. He went to the kitchen sink, threw some cold water on his face, and called his old friend at the Paradiso condo.

  4

  B ert suggested they meet at the bar of Luigi’s Porch.

  It was November and the sunsets were coming earlier each evening. The sun had moved far enough into the tropics to clear the spur of Southernmost Point, so Luigi’s was a perfect place to watch it slip into the ocean. The tourists hadn’t yet arrived in force. A person could have a civilized drink without the selfie sticks and the group photos and the tipsy bachelorettes with their swag-bags full of bawdy souvenirs that would end up stashed way at the bottom of dresser drawers back home.

  And besides, Luigi’s was where Callie said she worked, or used to work before she was abducted three days earlier, if in fact she’d been abducted at all. Bert, in his busybody mind, had already been spinning various scenarios and thought that Luigi’s would be a logical place to ask around and look for clues. So he arrived early, wearing one of his more low-key outfits—a lime-green linen sports shirt with midnight blue piping, monogram, and pocket square folded into a rosette. He claimed an oceanfront table, settled his dog bene
ath it, ordered an Old-Fashioned, and began making inquiries of any waiter or waitress who happened to walk by. He learned nothing. No one had seen Callie. No one knew if her days away from work had been scheduled. No one knew when or if she was coming back. Everyone seemed to be telling the truth, but who knew better than an old Mafioso that people tended to keep secrets? So you never knew. Having run out of questions, if only for the moment, the old man sipped his drink and watched the sun droop toward the horizon, the way it went from yellow to orange to a rather slutty powder-puff pink as it got closer.

  Pete arrived. Bert started to get up to greet him, but the younger man, realizing that the courtesy would burn a lot of effort and a lot of time, hopped closer and nixed the gesture with a clap on the shoulder and a handshake. Then he bent down to pet the dog. The dog licked his fingers, which Pete was not crazy about. He liked the dog just fine but he feared and hated germs and grew squeamish at the thought of dog spit being carried in the normal course of things to his own lips. He discreetly wiped his hand on his shorts before settling into a chair. The two men made some small talk while Pete ordered a glass of Sancerre, then finally Bert said, “So about my note—”

  “Yeah, your note,” Pete interrupted, half-consciously making one last stab at deflecting or denying trouble, fending off commitment if only for a few more precious seconds. “That pad you wrote it on. You sure you want to use that pad?”

  “Why not? It’s paper, ain’t it?”

  “Well, it’s a, you know, a memento. Beatles memorabilia. Might be worth money.”

  “Might be,” Bert considered. “But money, I don’t need. Money, I got sufficient to my modest or you could even say humble needs. What I do need, I need somethin’ to write on. Scratch paper. Besides, I got dozens a those.”

  “Dozens? From the Key Wester? Did you used to stay there?”

  “Stay there? No. But it was right next door to the Paradiso. Had a nice bar, poolside. Friendly feel to it. And a pay phone in a nice snug booth right off the lobby. Understand, guys in my profession or line a work as the sayin’ goes, we used ta spend a lotta time in phone booths. Cell phones, fuhgeddaboutit, there weren’t any. Home phones, office phones, no one in their right minds used ‘em. Too paranoid. Wiretaps. Snoops. So it was pay phones. One guy might be in a diner in Queens. Another guy’s at the back of a mozzarella joint on Arthur Avenue. Me, I’m in a lobby in Key West. When I was down here, that is. I was still part-time back then. Still had, let us say, certain obligations in the City. My wife, God rest her soul, was still alive. She loved it heah. Condo was brand spankin’ new. Everything worked. Stove, lights. It was nice. Anyway, whatever. Phone booth’s a phone booth. So every time I used the phone over at the Key Wester, I glommed a notepad. I figured it in to the cost of the cocktail.”

  “What years we talking, Bert?”

  “What years?” The old man pursed his lips then leaned down, grabbed Nacho’s leash, and dragged the little dog by the neck to where he could reach under his belly and sweep him up onto his lap. He often did this when he was trying to figure out or remember something. He seemed to think more clearly when he was cradling the chihuahua and stroking its head like he was stroking his own chin. “Musta been the ‘60s,” he resumed. “Early ‘60s, mid-‘60s.”

  “The Beatles were there in ’64,” said Pete.

  “Oh yeah. I remember that. I got off a phone call and saw ‘em singin’ in the pool.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The four of ‘em. Standin’ in the shallow end. Water was like up to their ribs. Christ, were they pale. Like they hadn’t seen the sun in years. I mean, so white, they were blue. Their hair was wet, plastered down. And they were singin’. No, wait, only three of ‘em were singin’. Ringo, thank God, he wasn’t singin’. The others—John, Paul, what’s the other guy’s name?”

  “George.”

  “Right. George. The three of them are singin’. Just soft, y’unnerstand. Sorta to themselves. Workin’ out a harmony, I guess. But I could hear it. It was nice. It was more than nice. It was fuckin’ beautiful. I sang in church once upon a time, ya know. I know a good harmony when I hear one. So I went over a little closer to listen. And we got into a nice little chat.”

  Pete tried with only moderate success to keep the wonderment out of his voice. “You chatted with The Beatles in 1964?”

  “Christ, Pete, whatcha gettin’ so starry-eyed about? Look, they were just four guys. Human beings like the rest of us. Probably lonely bein’ onna road so much. I mean, except for each other, who did they have to talk to? Okay, adoring fans, groupies I suppose you’d say, but I mean people you could just relax with. Ya know, just shoot the shit. So I’m just bein’ friendly. I tell ‘em I’d seen ‘em on the Sullivan show. John, he was a kidder, he says, ‘Oh good, we were afraid nobody was watching.’ I tell ‘em I liked ‘em way better than that other act, the one with the ugly singer with the flubbery lips who just jumps around and screams. And Ringo says, ‘Ah yes, our colleague Mr. Jagger.’ And does a very funny imitation. And I say, ‘Shit, the guy’s on national TV, ya think he’d wash his hair.’ So we have a laugh and that’s about it.”

  “And that’s about it,” Pete mimicked. “Just another day at poolside, schmoozing with The Beatles.”

  Bert shrugged. “What can I say? Ya live long enough, you’re gonna run into some inneresting people. A few at least. Law of averages.”

  The sun had set by then. All that was left of the daylight was a swath of coppery sheen on the water that looked like it had been poured out of a bucket. After a pause, Pete said, “I wonder what song they were singing.”

  “Hm?”

  “In the pool. Working out the harmony. What song was it?”

  “Ya mean the title? I have no idea.”

  “Did you know any Beatles songs, Bert?”

  “Shit yeah, I knew all of ‘em. Who didn’t? How could ya not? She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. But that song, whatever it was, I’d never heard it before. In fact I’d never heard anything quite like it. It was soft, sweet, sad, beautiful. Not a hymn, not a love song, some a both. It was like three pale angels singin’ it. Really, no exaggeration. It’s givin’ me goose bumps even now when I remember it.”

  He finished his drink and rattled his ice and scratched his dog between the ears before continuing.

  “And I’ll tell ya somethin’ else about that song. I never heard it again, either. Not on the radio. Not in a jukebox. Never. Weird, right? That song, it was like it never existed except for a couple minutes in that swimming pool.”

  “Maybe they recorded it later,” Pete said. For some reason he badly wanted to believe they had. The thought of a beautiful song that simply went away without the chance of being heard was too distressing otherwise.

  “Nah, they didn’t,” Bert said with finality. “Look, I’m an old fuck now and who’d believe I ever followed pop music, rock’n’roll. But I did. Course I did. AM, FM, albums. What, I didn’t have a hi-fi? Sure I did. I knew all the songs. And trust me, that song never got recorded. If it did, I woulda heard it. And I woulda remembered it for sure. But who knows, maybe the band didn’t like it as much I did. Maybe they just put it back in that big notebook they had and forgot about it.”

  “Notebook?”

  “Yeah, a big fat notebook. Ya know, the kind wit’ rings like a kid would bring to school. The chair I was sittin’ in, it was right next to the lounge where their towels were stacked. Four big towels piled up. Fluffy. Good towels. And on toppa the towels there was this notebook. Cover was all beat up. Warped. Coffee cup rings, cigarette burns. I mean, it was a mess. But it was fat. There were like dog-eared and ripped corners of paper leakin’ out the sides. Guess it’s where they stashed the songs they were workin’ on. Ya know, sketches or doodles or whatever that came to them when they were onna road, I guess.”

  “Wow, that notebook should be in a museum somewhere. Under glass. On display.”

  “There ya go again, Pete, gettin’ all starry-eyed and goo-goo.
But fuhgeddaboutit, cause it ain’t gonna happen. The notebook got thrown away.”

  “Thrown away?”

  “Thrown away. By accident, next day. Tossed. Shit-canned. Human error. Damn shame, but that’s life. There was quite a stink about it.”

  “I’ll bet there was. What the hell happened?”

  “Well,” said Bert, “it’s kind of a long story.”

  “That never stopped you before,” said Pete.

  “Okay, you asked for it. Ever hear of a jam session known as the paradise gig?”

  “Hear of it? It’s only like the most legendary music event in the history of Key West.”

  “Okay, so what happened that night—”

  “Hang on a second, Bert. You were there?”

  “Well, course I was. I mean, I’d just been jawin’ wit’ the band earlier that day. I’m gonna blow it off? Besides, it was right next door. Anyway, it started out as just a quiet evening, and I guess the guys got bored.”

  “Guys? You mean The Beatles?”

  “Yeah, The Beatles. I mean, they were used to playin’ every single night, right? So what’re they gonna do, just sit in their room? So at some point they grab their instruments and go down to the bar. They’re just pissin’ around. Ya know, jammin’. There’s not even a stage. They’re sittin’ on barstools. But somehow word starts ta get out that The Beatles are playin’ a gig. Coconut telegraph, people used to call it, for how fast news travels in Key West, even before texting and all that shit. Anyway, pretty soon people start showin’ up and pretty soon it’s packed. Local piano players. Guys wit’ guitars. Harmonicas. Bongo drums. Jammin’ wit’ The Beatles. Unbefuckinglievable, right? They’re mostly playin’ flat out rock-n-roll. Nothin’ too fancy. Elvis songs. Little Richard. Twist and Shout. Ya know, just straight-ahead, feel-good stuff. So bottom line, everybody’s havin’ an amazing time and buyin’ drinks for everybody else, and the thing goes on till 4 am, by which time everybody, including John, Paul, George and Ringo is shitface. So it was all fabulous and wonderful, as long as you don’t count the very unfortunate or you could even almost say tragic thing that happened the next day.”