by Ted Dawe
‘Oh yes, and throw in a pair of those spotted boxers for my good man.’ It was Roxy’s turn. She produced these silky white boxers covered in large red spots. ‘Here, put these on. I want to see how they look.’
Jazz gave a quick scout around and dropped his pants. He couldn’t resist this sort of challenge. All three girls shrieked and looked away.
‘Well, how do I look?’
‘Hey, what you got in there?’ asked Rusty.
‘Mystery package. Want to check?’ Jazz put his thumbs in the waist band, as if about to drop them, then he noticed Roxy’s face cloud over so he pulled his pants up.
She was sulky after that. He had gone too far.
Armed with their new things about eight of them went off to this nightclub called Blade. Even though it was R18, the bouncer let them all past, without even the usual shake down. Even Wings, who at his staunchest looked about 14. The place was packed and there were a few DTKs waiting in one of the corners. One of them, obviously the king pin, sat back and waited for the intros. Sharday began to tell him about the night’s adventures but you could tell he wasn’t interested. He just stared at the new pair. It was pretty easy to see which of the two really caught his eye.
He leaned forward and shook their hands, but when he shook Roxy’s, he held onto it just that bit too long. Jazz looked at this guy, all of 16, acting 20-plus: tall, had a mini-aff with the big clip across the front, wore a Dodgers shirt, and big, baggy jeans. So this was Cujo. Yeah, he might have been impressed once, but now all he saw was this guy who worked too hard on image. It had to come easy to rate. Too many music videos. Too much mirror work. But Jazz noted that Roxy didn’t think the same way. Suddenly her mouth, which had been in a pout ever since he dropped his pants, had picked up. Her eyes were flashing.
All bets were off. He hadn’t wanted to come out. For a while it seemed OK. Now this.
The night bore on. The moves, the talk, the noting got bigger as the music got more techno, less hip-hop. Cujo was passing around the pipe. He called it sugar time. Jazz passed it on, but Roxy didn’t. After a while everyone else but Jazz was ripped. Their talk got louder and dumber. It was hard to fake an interest, so he didn’t bother. Roxy tried to get him onto the dance floor but he was reluctant to leave Diablo with other people. Anyway, her excitement, her wish to involve him, struck him as fake, P driven.
Cujo was carefully making a move on her. A lot of eye work. Careful with where he put his hands. The little casual touches. It was like the careful way a cat moves in on a bird. Slow creeping and then the pounce.
Jazz stood up and went outside. He needed some clear air. Needed to figure out what to do. Outside it was cool. The pulse of the music softer, less dominating. He looked back at the lighted entranceway, quiet now, holding just the silhouette of the bouncer. He walked over and leaned Diablo against the bonnet of a car. It was a relief. Just to be outside. Away from that scene. He looked up. Between the buildings he could see a few pale stars.
He headed across the road, wondering what he should do. It felt right. The further away from the club he got, the better it felt. He headed up Queen Street, began the climb up to K. Road. There was a long strip of back to back restaurants, little bars, coffee places. One of them had a guy playing in it. A bit like him. He stopped to listen. He went inside and bought a coffee. It was a different sort of scene. These people looked like students. The traces of school and achievement still clung to them. Prefect, swimming champ. Out of uniform, out of school, but it was still there all right. That freaky mix of friendship and competitiveness. Like at Blade, but a different style. There everything was buried in the beat, here there was a sort of quiet for the guitarist. A sort of politeness. A sort of clap that seemed like a grading. Yeah, stuff was being sorted here. Sorted and graded.
The guy playing sat on a chair and had a little foldaway stool for his foot. He leaned his head right over the sound box of the guitar and picked out Spanish songs. Jazz knew a couple of them. He watched his finger-work and listened hard. It was tricky, but it didn’t sound like anything. Easy to ignore. Like the difference between an electric heater and an open fire. He became bored and made to go. There was this really stunning chick standing in front of him. Kind of blocking his way, challenging him maybe.
‘Going already, and not even playing a note?’
He grinned. ‘I don’t play like that. I got other styles.’
‘Got a guitar in there?’
He didn’t answer. Dumb question.
She started again. ‘If there actually is a guitar in there I think you should play it.’
‘You think that?’ Taken by her boldness.
She nodded.
He looked around. A few people at the nearby table had tuned in on what was going on. She obviously had a rep for this sort of thing.
‘Maybe you’re just carrying it for someone else.’
He grinned. It was a pretty easy hook but he liked it.
‘Yeah. I’m carrying it. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.’ He pulled Diablo out of the case and showed it to her.
She stroked the fret board. ‘Whew! What a weapon.’
‘True. In the right hands it can do the damage.’
She reached forward. ‘And are these the right hands?’
He picked out his little signature riff. The room became silent. He looked around. They all wanted more. The woman stood in front of him. She wanted more. The seat where the previous guitarist had sat was empty, and waited for him in its own little pool of light. It was funny, he felt almost nervous. After all the playing he had done he had never given a performance like this. He knew he was being sorted and graded too. What type? How good?
He began a bracket, slipping from one song into another without pause, seamlessly building up momentum. He had an instinct with audiences. He could feel their appreciation in particular directions and knew where to go. What their style was. When he finished they did more than applaud. They stood up. He turned to the chick. She was beaming. He guessed her stakes had just risen a little higher too.
Someone brought over a beer. People yelled out requests but most of it was for stuff he hadn’t heard of or didn’t like. There were a few Goths down by the back wall near the toilets. Their white faces glowed behind the curtain of super-black hair. Without thinking, he let his fingers begin to find the Joy Division song, ‘Love Will Tear us Apart’. One he didn’t know he knew. It happened sometimes, as if he was a radio tuning into the airwaves. The words came to him too so he sang them. It was easy, like he was on automatic. One by one the Goths began to stand up. When he finished they all stood in a group without clapping. That was how you did it if you were a Goth. He touched his face. It was wet. Tears. What was that about? Roxy? Who knows. Weird shit happened when he played. He’d long since given up trying to figure it out.
The chick led him back to her table. There were two others there. Looked like her. Glossy black hair cut short. Lots of eye make-up. Clothes like the ones Roxy had ripped off. Designer stuff. Not your $49.95 off-the-rack specials.
‘So what’s your name?’
‘Jazz.’
‘Do you play jazz?’
‘You heard me.’
‘No I mean do you play jazz the music?’
‘Oh. I thought it was a joke. It’s all just music to me. Sometimes I play something and someone says, “Hey, that was jazz”. I think, “Big deal”.’
‘I’m Claire. This is Cordelia and this is Selina.’
They both offered their hands for a shake. Someone passed him a beer, as if he had asked for one. He had a good pull on the can and felt himself start to relax. First time for a while.
‘So, Jazz, what do you do when you aren’t playing?’
‘I eat and sleep. Sit around, that sort of stuff.’
‘You mean you’re a professional?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t work at a job.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Here. In the city.’
&nb
sp; ‘You’ve got an apartment?’
He gave a little laugh when he thought of his and Roxy’s little hidey hole in the tower. ‘Yeah, I got this little place in a high rise.’
They sat and talked for a while. No-one seemed interested in playing after Jazz. Claire told him she was at Elam. The other two were at Law School.
‘What’s Elam?’
‘Art School.’
‘Painting pictures and stuff?’
It was her turn for a little laugh. ‘My major is in sculpture. Installation mostly.’
She began to tell him about it but he quickly became bored and wished he’d never asked.
‘You heard of Tui? She’s a street artist. Walls mostly.’
Claire shook her head. ‘It’s valid. I’m not up with it. A bit visceral for me. What sort of things does she do?’
‘Just the face. Women’s faces.’
‘Good?’
‘I reckon. My walls are covered in them.’
After a while they reached that point where something had to happen. Jazz was looking to clear off. Claire was reluctant to let him slip off into the night.
‘Where are you going now, Jazz?’
‘Back to my pad I reckon. Nothing else to do.’
‘Like to come back to our place for a coffee?’
‘You three live together?’
Cordelia spoke. ‘Claire and I do. Selina’s still at home. We’re over in Ponsonby.’
Jazz quickly ran through his options. Roxy could end up anywhere. Maybe he should go back and try to sort it out. Drag her back to the castle. Something said no. Said if you do that, you’ll be on the back foot forever, always looking over your shoulder. It had already gone too far. The moment had passed. Roxy had gone. He gave a little shudder. She had chosen Cujo over him. Sugar time and the DTKs. Her call. She could drown in it.
‘I’ve got nothing on. Coffee sounds good.’
The other two must have picked up some vibe, because it was just Jazz and Claire who drove back in this little red car to a house in Ponsonby. It turned out that neither of them felt like coffee, either.
Claire’s body was different from Roxy’s. She was more of a woman. Roxy was small, hard, had the body of a teen athlete: muscles and bones mostly. Claire was bigger, softer so their sex was slower, more drawn out. She wrapped her legs around him. Controlled him. It was something new. When Jazz finally threw himself on the bed beside her he felt lighter, free of all the stuff that had been clogging him for days. He felt no guilt, just that old feeling of inevitability, of being caught up in some bigger plan that he had no choice in. And he was happy with that.
In the morning though, they were back. The feelings. Claire lay next to him on the bed, facing him. Her hair hung loosely over her face. He could see the fine strands moving with her breath. He looked around the room, which was covered in framed pictures of what some people called art. A few photos too, but bad ones, blurry and off-centre. The room was not him.
And Claire? He and she were already finished. Roxy was back. No matter how angry, how disappointed he was, he knew that it wasn’t over. Not for him at least.
He slid, softly and gently, out of bed, picked up his clothes and dressed in the other room. Diablo waited on the couch. Through the French doors he could see the city. It was like his view, but here you could see the Sky Tower, the water and Rangitoto in the distance. Same view, different angle.
He sat at the round kitchen table and worked through a few options. He didn’t feel like slipping off without a word, but what would they talk about? It wasn’t him she was interested in, he knew that. It was the gift Diego had talked about. Something that appeared when he and Diablo came together. It spoke to people then disappeared as soon as the last note was plucked. With Roxy it was different. They didn’t need to talk. Just a glance. A touch.
There was a little note pad on the fridge. He wrote a message.
Stuffs cum up.
Gotta go.
L8er.
Jazz.
He read it over. ‘Yep. That’s about it.’ No need for details. He picked up Diablo and slipped out the front door.
Hungry and skint, he set up in the café area of Ponsonby. The money came in so fast after two brackets he could pack it in. Tempted to stay all day and see how much he could make. Sure beat K. Road. He knew he couldn’t though. Like the note said, stuff had come up. He would get no peace until he dealt with it. He bought a pie and coffee from the bakery and sat in the park. It was going to be bright and fine today. He felt optimistic. Maybe last night hadn’t been as bad as he thought. Maybe Roxy would be there waiting for him. He hurried the scalding pie and set out for the castle.
By the time he had the castle in his sights it was mid morning. He was already rehearsing excuses. Apologies. Back downs. Lies. All the stuff necessary to smooth things over.
He could hear the vacuum cleaner whirring in the Slipper. Big clean up after a heavy night. He squeezed through the tin panel and nearly ran up the steps to the front door.
It was quiet inside. Everyone still asleep, probably. But he was wrong. He walked from room to room. They were all empty. His spirits sank with each one.
He had been kidding himself. It was as bad, no, it was worse than he imagined. They were all gone.
He called up to the tower but he knew it was no good. The cover was pulled to one side, which meant that there was no-one asleep up there, that was for sure. He sat on a box, utterly crushed, almost desperate. He hadn’t thought this far. Where were Sonny and Gigi? They kept their own hours, but they should be here now, sleeping it off.
Then he heard voices. At last! He moved quickly down the hall, back to the pole room, out the front door, but there was still no-one. No sound either. Then the voices began again, this time coming from the back. He burst out the back door only to see the startled faces of Shorty and the Thai woman from the Slipper.
‘Hey hey hey! What’s the hurry man! Nearly gave me a heart attack!’
‘Where’s everyone?’
‘You’re asking me? Like I’m the social director for the KRK?’ Then his sarcasm softened. ‘I don’t know, lad. I’ve been a bit non compis … I had a pretty big night myself.’
Shorty was sitting in an old armchair in the sun, just wearing these dirty old underpants, and the Thai was giving him a foot massage. Six, stretched out under his chair, looked up momentarily when Jazz appeared, then resumed his dream – whatever it is that makes dogs snuffle and twitch in their sleep. Most of Shorty’s usual clothes were hanging out to dry on a make-shift clothesline along the back wall. It must have been laundry day.
‘You’ve met Yao?’
Jazz shook his head.
‘This is Yao Mee. Or Meeow the Siamese Pussy as she’s known over at the Slipper.’
Jazz said nothing, so Shorty continued.
‘Yao is repaying me for services rendered.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m her daddy protector. I keep the Immigration Service tied up in knots and she makes a happy man feel very old as they say.’ He laughed. ‘I could have one of the other, or three of these, so, being a Scot, I opted for three of these. A balm for my aching old feet.’
‘How come you can keep the Immigration off her back?’
‘I write letters. Good ones. That’s what lawyers do, man. They write letters.’
‘You’re a lawyer?’
‘Am. Was. Once, in a previous incarnation. Aeons ago.’
Jazz sat on the back steps. There seemed to be nothing else to do, and to tell the truth, he felt lonely. Shorty was company at least.
‘So you’ve lost the Klan? Where’s that young Roxy?’
Jazz told him.
‘Ah yes, the jilted suitor. And where have you been?’
Jazz was going to make something up but then he stopped himself. Shorty was such a mouth that it was bound to catch him out later.
‘You got that guilty look about you. I know it well. In the legal world we have a name for people like
you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The accused.’ He laughed loudly.
Jazz felt his jaw tighten. Where was the joke? ‘Me and Roxy broke up, I think. Not sure. I went off somewhere else.’
‘With someone else, perhaps?’
Jazz was annoyed. Shorty seemed to be able to read him like a book.
Shorty stood up, carefully picking the underpants out of his crack. A seriousness settled over his face and he recalled something. ‘Tell you what, I heard something in the night, but I was in no state to make sense of it.’
‘Heard what?’
‘An argument. A fight maybe. Yes, after a while it was a fight.’
‘Who was it?’
Jazz was almost relieved when Shorty said, ‘It sounded like Sonny and Gigi. The crying was Gigi, that’s for sure. Sounded like a cow on heat. Wooaah Woooah!’
‘No-one else?’
‘Nope! Surprised I can remember that much. More life in the old bean than I thought.’
‘Sure it was Sonny? Not one of Gigi’s … guys.’
‘Guys? What do they call them at the Slipper, Yao?’
‘They call them client.’ She was emphatic.
‘No. It was Sonny all right. He’s got a nasty side that Sonny. Pulled a knife on me once. Wasn’t very sunny that night.’
Jazz perched on the steps. He wanted to know more. ‘He’s always been cool with me.’
‘Watch his eyes. After a binge on P he gets these zombie eyes. He could do anything.’
‘Why’d he pull the knife?’
‘Why else?’ he barked. ‘Money. They all think I got this money hidden away here. You probably do too.’ Shorty flashed him an angry look. He obviously didn’t like being questioned.
‘No.’
‘Good. Because I haven’t. Haven’t needed the stuff for years.’ Then he calmed down and said proudly, ‘Shorty’s entire empire was built on the three Bs.’
He waited for Jazz to ask what they were.
‘Brains, barter and balls. As Keats said, “’Tis all man knows and all man needs to know”.’