Kent heard activity on the street about half an hour later. Several months before, to help him monitor events next door, he had installed a discreet camera. It focused on the front of the neighbours’ house and fed its signal to Kent’s computer.
Kent turned off all his house lights. He took Buster in his lap and scratched his head while watching the screen. He saw the police arrive at the front door and knock. When she opened the door, the cops removed their caps and, after a brief exchange, stepped inside. Kent could not see her face but she must have been puzzled.
There was no activity next door for several minutes. Then the door opened and the police officers ushered the woman to their cruiser. Kent watched them drive away and they were gone for two hours. The silence while they were gone was blissful and Kent was thinking that this was how his life would be from now on.
He heard the police car return and watched the officers escort the woman back to her front door. They chatted briefly. She went inside and closed the door. The officers replaced their caps and left.
There was an interlude of a minute or two and then the noise that came through the wall was worse than anything Kent had heard before. The crying was louder, more devastated, and more protracted. It came in waves and, just when he thought she was done, the wailing rose again and continued to do so in crashing breakers of anguish. Kent did not understand. He had done this for her and this was how she repaid him.
Upset and angry, he picked up the air horn, pointed it at the wall, and pressed the trigger. Buster squirmed from Kent’s arms and ran from the room. The blaring masked her crying temporarily, but somehow Kent could still hear his own.
Hard Bop
(Originally published in a different form in the Osprey Summer Mystery Series.)
WHEN I FIRST READ THAT SONNY CARVER WAS playing the Palm Tree, I figured it had to be a mistake. I had assumed he was dead. And the barn-like Palm Tree usually throbbed to reggae and Latin rhythms, the dance floor gridlocked with bodies. It seemed odd that the place would be turned over to an old bebop sax player who’d spent most of his career as a sideman and whose virtuosity always seemed to pass unnoticed.
I phoned the club to confirm. Sure enough, it was neither a typo nor a joke. Sonny Carver was going to be there along with a trio, although the man on the phone wouldn’t tell me who the other players would be. But he did tell me that there was a singer named Fern Gold on the bill. I’d never heard of her, but I supposed that didn’t matter as long as the great Sonny Carver was playing that big, mellow, soft-bellied horn all night.
In the late eighties, there weren’t a lot of options for fans of live jazz in Toronto. The Café des Copains had its regular line-up of piano players like Jay McShann or Ray Bryant or Junior Mance. There was still live music at George’s Spaghetti House. But, other than that, the pickings were pretty slim.
It wasn’t like in the seventies, the first time I heard Sonny Carver. He’d been in town playing a gig at Bourbon Street, the city’s best jazz club. Bourbon Street was long gone, of course. It had initially been converted into a joint that featured male strippers, and then it became a place that sold cheap luggage. But in 1979 it was glorious -- dark and smoky and trembling with genius. It was there that I saw so many of the greats: Milt Jackson, Zoot Sims, Al Cohn. And Sonny Carver.
I was on a blind date. We had a pleasant evening, talking over dinner and, as we walked back towards the subway, we came to Bourbon Street.
“Do you like jazz?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, “I like the Carpenters.” I looked at the “Live Tonight” sign and read Sonny Carver. I had no idea who he was, but the band featured a solid line-up of Toronto regulars: Don Thompson on piano, Archie Alleyne on drums, and Dave Young on bass. I knew it was worth a risk, so we went in.
I didn’t have much dough in those days, but at Bourbon Street you didn’t have to pay a cover if you stood near the bar. We got in just as the band was coming out for the second set. By the time they got three or four bars into the opening number -- I think it was Slow Freight -- I knew I was hearing something special, and I couldn’t believe the place wasn’t jammed.
I’d always had a soft spot for sax players. Soprano not so much, but I’m a sucker for a powerful alto or tenor player, and I love the muscular sound of the baritone. Part of this may come from the fact that, in school, I played the sax a bit. I was small for my age, and my hands weren’t big enough to handle the keys on a tenor, so they gave me an alto. I loved it, but I was not a natural. The music didn’t flow easily. My attempts at extemporizing met with failure. I did not have what it took to be a real musician. So I stopped playing and just listened to those who really could.
That night at Bourbon Street, I realized that Sonny Carver could play better than just about anybody else. He had passion and freshness. His phrasing was faultless and inventive. His tone was rich, exquisite. I knew I’d be there until the place closed. My date, however, did not feel the same way. She made it plain that she was not moved by his greatness. After the third number, I gave her a subway ticket.
I started tracking down Sonny’s albums, the ones on which he was featured as a sideman and the few he made for small labels, mostly in Europe, on which he was leader.
By 1989, Sonny hadn’t made an album in some time. His name was rarely mentioned, and his records seldom played on Toronto’s few jazz radio programs. And then, to my delight, he was going to play the Palm Tree with a trio and an opening act named Fern Gold.
I arrived early. The space usually given over to the dance floor now held a few tables. I took the one closest to the stage. A waitress approached.
“I’ll have a bottle of Old Vienna,” I said.
“Are you expecting more people?” she asked.
“No, it’s just me.”
“I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to move then, please, sir. We expect a big crowd tonight and we have to hold these tables for larger groups.”
“Whatever happened to first come first served?” I asked.
“You can take any of those,” she said, pointing to some tables for two with inferior sightlines.
I hesitated long enough to make sure she understood that this was unfair treatment before I took the best of the lesser tables.
The stage set-up was sparse. A modest drum kit stood at the back. A battered bass lay on its side to stage left and, at the front of the stage, sat a chair with two microphones -- one standing and the other bending so it could capture all the brilliance of a sweet tenor horn. The horn itself was not on stage and its absence thrilled me. Sonny never let the horn out of his sight. He never let anyone else touch it. He carried it to and from the stage. This was proof that Sonny was there. I was so warmed by this evidence that it didn’t occur to me to wonder about the chair, and why the second microphone was so low.
Behind me the room filled up slowly and quietly. Like me, many of the people had probably never been in the Palm Tree before. I couldn’t recall another time when the club had featured a bop act. A musician who played with Art Blakey and Dizzy Gillespie. Who inspired Dexter Gordon and Hank Mobley. That had never happened.
Shortly before ten, the door to the green room opened. My excitement heightened as the drummer and bass player headed for the stage. Both were elderly, small, and dapper: Touch Williams and Lanford Steel.
Touch was named for his delicate handling of the skins. He was never bullying or overbearing. His infrequent solos were thoughtful and distinctive. Steel, meanwhile, was among the most melodic of bass players. I’ve never been a fan of bass solos, but I could listen to him extemporize bar after bar after bar.
After the two sidemen, a woman came through the door. She stopped and looked back through the doorway, holding out her hand. Slowly, cautiously, an old man shuffled out of the green room, He was bent over, leaning heavily on a cane, and he was carrying a tenor saxophone. I was shocked. Surely, this could not be Sonny Carver. He looked barely able to carry the sax, let alone play i
t. What happened to the man who had stood so confidently before the crowd at Bourbon Street and had seethed vitality from his horn?
Sonny made his way to the stage with agonizing slowness leaning heavily on a cane. The young woman, who I now realized must be his nurse, guided him with a hand on his elbow. She helped him up the steps and across to the chair. She stepped away as he sat and placed the sax on the stand at his right hand. The four-footed cane stood to his left. Sonny leaned back and took several deep breaths.
Steel and Williams took their places. After a moment, Sonny slowly lifted the horn and hooked it onto his neckpiece.
A round of hesitant applause went up and I wondered if others were also shocked to see Sonny looking so frail.
Then the trio started to play. It was miraculous. I shut my eyes. It might have been that night fifteen years before. Sonny’s sound was strong and bright and clear. If anything, the tone was richer than ever and the melody more eloquent. I felt an electrifying, sensual joy.
As the applause died down, Sonny took the microphone. He spoke in a rumbling tone, “Thank you so much.” He paused and looked sideways, and then up at the ceiling, and then back at the audience with a blank expression. He drew in a long breath and said, without enthusiasm, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce the star of our show, Miss Fern Gold.” To my surprise, the woman who I had taken for his nurse walked to the microphone. There was applause from the rest of the audience but there was certainly none from me.
This was unbelievable. Sonny was one of the greatest sax players ever. Lester Young. Johnny Hodges. Ben Webster. None of them had anything on him. And yet here he was, backing up an unknown chanteuse in a club that most jazz fans wouldn’t have been able to find with a map.
For a moment I thought maybe I was being unfair. After all, Billie Holiday had been unknown once. So had Ella and Sarah and Blossom. Maybe when I heard Fern Gold sing I’d feel differently. But when she opened her mouth, my worst fears were realized.
Her first number was a stiff and soulless butchery of Round Midnight. You could feel the band holding back, trying not to play too far above her level. You could feel her lack of sensitivity to their playing. She could not sing. She might have done fine at a karaoke bar or fronting a second-rate wedding band but, sharing the stage with one of the finest players of his generation, she was pathetic. In a perverse way, I gained new appreciation for Sonny’s genius because of the way he pretended to be less than he was. When that tune ended there was no relief. She moved from one bastardized standard to another. She had no feeling for the songs. Her voice was weak and her range woeful. She mangled lyrics and missed notes. I have never cared much for banter between songs, but I began to yearn for it. Finally, after five execrable songs, there was an oasis.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “It gives me great pleasure to introduce the legendary Sonny Carver.” At least she had the grace to recognize his stature. But if she had truly appreciated him she would have left the stage. She was not that respectful.
The trio bopped through a rollicking blues, with Sonny barking out his classic lyrics: “She ain’t gonna give you what I can’t get, She won’t give you nothin’ I ain’t had yet.” They swung with unbridled joy. I was so elated that I decided then that I would try my best to focus on the band for the rest of the evening and ignore Fern Gold’s presence. As they wrapped up the set, Sonny took the microphone again and said, “We’re going to take a little break but we’ll be back real soon for another set. You all be back too. On the big bass fiddle, that’s Lanford Steel, ladies and gentleman. And caressing the drums, the one and only Touch Williams. I’m Sonny Carver” -- much applause -- “and of course, the star of our show here tonight, Miss Fern Gold.” I could feel his contempt.
On my way back from the men’s room, I saw Touch Williams standing by the bar.
“You sound great,” I said. “I’ve always liked your playing.” I mentioned a couple of his key recordings and some of his legendary gigs at The Famous Door, Birdland, and The Five Spot. This warmed him to me right away. I think it was the kind of thing that most people wouldn’t know about.
“Thank you kindly,” he said with a gentle smile. He put his drink down and shook my hand.
“I didn’t know you were still touring.”
Touch laughed as lightly as he played. “No, not touring. Just the odd gig is all. One-nighters here and there. Long as I don’t have to drive too far.”
“Did you come far for this?”
“Just up from Rochester. That’s long enough these days.”
“Lanford’s sounding good too,” I said. “And Sonny. He’s amazing.”
“Yeah,” Touch said with a laugh. “Sonny’s Sonny, that’s for sure.”
I leaned towards him and said, “Sonny sounds great, but he doesn’t look too well. How’s his health?”
Touch shook his head. “His health is not what you would like it to be if you were his age. He has been poorly and he has also been unlucky.”
“How do you mean?”
“Diabetes. And he has a touch of phlebitis so standing’s hard sometimes, and walking’s worse.”
“That is bad luck.”
“That’s not what I meant. He’s had other things go wrong, too.”
“Like what?”
Touch hesitated and sipped his drink. It was obvious that he was sizing me up. Then he shrugged, having realized that I was trustworthy. “Sonny was in a motel in Iowa. He was taking a shower and all of a sudden something went wrong with the water. It got hot as blazes and he got scalded. He jumped back and slipped in the tub, broke two ribs, and got second-degree burns. That’s what I mean by bad luck.” Touch shook his head.
“Well, when he plays, you’d never know he wasn’t thirty years old.”
“Not if you had your eyes closed. The problem is he has to keep on gigging like this whenever he can to try and keep up with the doctor’s bills.”
“How did you guys end up with this gig? That woman can’t sing a note.”
Touch shook his head. “Well, Lady Day she ain’t, but I’ve heard worse.”
I was amazed. “I haven’t,” I said. “How the hell did she wind up fronting you guys?”
“It’s pretty simple, really,” he said. “She’s been a fan of Sonny’s for years and she tracked him down. It took her a while but she’s determined. He was staying with me at the time and she came down to my place.”
I slowly drew out the rest of the story. She had been the singer for a series of rock and roll cover bands but really wanted to sing jazz. Her chance came when a friend of a friend of one of the drummers she’d played with passed word along that Sonny Carver was on the ropes and needed work in the worst way. Armed with that information, she approached local club owners. She’d been turned away from the regular jazz spots but she knew that the owner of the Palm Tree had a soft spot for old jazz players and she pitched the idea to him. It was strictly conditional. He could have Sonny Carver as long as the package included Fern Gold. The owner wanted Sonny on his stage and agreed.
Booking in hand, she pursued a trail of contacts to reach Sonny. The money offered was not bad and Sonny didn’t have the option of saying no.
“It’s a sad thing,” Touch said. “Sonny ought to be able to just settle down and play when he wants with whomever he wants. At his age, wanting to is fine, but having to is a thing you want to avoid like the clap.” Touch finished his drink in one dedicated swallow. “Well, I got to go drain the spuds. Then I better see how Sonny’s doing. Been nice talking to you.” He started towards the green room.
The second set was, if possible, worse than the first. Sonny seemed slower and less steady making his way to his chair. Lifting the horn and hooking it to his neckpiece was an ordeal. But once the trio started to play, all the years, the ailments, the money woes, and the agony of having to share a stage with Fern Gold, were washed away. It was short lived, though because, after one number, Sonny leaned in to the microphon
e again and mumbled, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back the star of our show,” he paused and drew in his breath, “Miss Fern Gold.” He tried to mask it, but I could hear even more venom in his voice than in the first set, and there was a slight slurring to the words, as if he had been drinking on the break.
Fern Gold looked unhappy as she walked to the microphone. She must have felt his lack of respect and I hoped the barb would spark her performance and she’d show some of the heat that brings jazz singing to life. Such was not the case, however. She seemed thrown further off stride by Sonny’s disdain and her singing was even more ragged and sloppy. Her dismay at Sonny’s feelings about her was not surprising given the strings she’d pulled to get him the gig. Still, she should have been able to look at it from his point of view. It was humiliating for an artist of his stature to be dragged so low. Sick, crippled, broke, dependent on the charity of a talentless woman to get enough money to lurch forward for another week. It was no life for anyone, let alone a legend like Sonny Carver.
As the set dragged on, the desire to leave rose in me several times. My respect for, and dedication to, Sonny kept me in my seat. Leaving would have been an act of betrayal. If Sonny was sentenced to stay here all night then I would stay too. I’d savour the moments when Fern Gold was not singing.
Sonny and Fern Gold ignored one another, deliberately avoiding each other’s eyes. When she left the stage, all too briefly, for the band to play one on their own, they soared. Sonny’s notes rose so high and clear and fragile it was as if he was goaded on by her presence, determined to demonstrate the one thing she could never show: what greatness sounded like. It was quite possibly the finest and most moving performance of a single tune that I have ever heard. Fern Gold must have felt both the insult and the challenge to which she could not rise. She stumbled climbing back on the stage. I snickered, thinking that, even sick and old and frail as he was, Sonny hadn’t stumbled.
Kickback and Other Stories Page 7