K Road

by Ted Dawe

  ‘Who’s Keats?’

  Shorty got this irritating superior grin. ‘Just a guy I used know.’

  Jazz stood. He was beginning to see why Sonny would pull a knife on him. Shorty was up himself. Thought he was smarter than everyone. Maybe he was, but he had to prove it all the time by making you feel dumb.

  ‘Off so soon?’

  Jazz nodded. Shorty looked disappointed. ‘I could loan you Yao here. Cheer you up.’ Yao smiled.

  ‘Don’t need favours. See ya.’ He went back inside, pleased he didn’t have to look at Shorty’s yellow false teeth and listen to the smug Scottish accent. Nothing else to do but wait it out in the tower.

  It was nearly nightfall when Api and Ruby showed up. He had been dozing on the mattress when he heard the sound of Ruby singing. It was the soft, effortless voice she used when she didn’t know she was doing it. Some Samoan hymn. He climbed down and went to their room. She was plaiting Api’s hair. They both looked at him when he walked in, but they said nothing.

  ‘Hi, where you two been?’

  Neither answered for a moment. Something was up. Then Api said softly, ‘Where you been, more like it.’

  Jazz could tell that a lot hung on this question. It would be passed around when the opinions were formed about who did what, whose fault that night was. All that stuff.

  He shrugged. ‘I got the feeling that Roxy was finished with me. It was all Cujo and sugar time.’

  They didn’t say anything, so he let it sink in. ‘I figured, once that happens, best thing I can do is get out of the way.’

  ‘So where was you?’ Api asked again.

  ‘I got tired. I slept in Myers.’

  There was that look of disbelief. Then Ruby said, ‘DTKs are all over that park. No-one saw you.’

  ‘Was there a search for me?’

  They both nodded.

  Ruby stared at him. ‘That girl loved you and you treat her like shit.’

  Jazz was angry. Sentence had been passed already.

  ‘Yeah. What am I meant to have done?’ His voice cold, aggressive.

  ‘It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what you haven’t done,’ she replied.

  Now Api, who had been quietly listening, joined in. ‘Like that was a test man, and you walked out.’

  ‘Roxy’s been saying you’ve been wrapped up in your guitar, got no time for her.’

  ‘After our raid on Newmarket, you hardly said anything. And that chick was really hot. Really out there eh?’

  They were heating up.

  ‘She was trying to make you jealous, man.’

  ‘Make you show some emotion.’

  Jazz raised his hand. ‘OK. I get it. I get it. So tell me where is she now, eh?’

  The other two went quiet. They knew something, that was for sure.

  ‘Not saying huh?’ He knew, now, that his fears were right on the money. With Roxy gone and Sonny and Gigi’s fight, the whole scene had shifted. Now it was all accusations. Finger pointing. He was having none of it.

  ‘I reckon Cujo might figure in it, eh?’

  They wouldn’t look at him.

  He continued. ‘All the rest is bullshit. Just the crap people say when they want to cover up something bad they’ve done. Reasons.’

  They weren’t talking any more. He’d hit a nerve, that was for sure.

  Days passed.

  For Jazz they were long, empty days.

  Sonny was in a bad mood all the time because Gigi had cleared out. Half his empire had gone. The sisters wouldn’t talk to Jazz: shut up real quick whenever he came near. The only person who would talk (any time, any place) was Shorty. But he was sick of Shorty.

  Jazz did the long walks around the city. Places he would have been more careful about before. The Owl Bar. The graveyard off the K., where the psychos lived. The internet cafés where kids slumped in front of streamed music clips. The undead. He trawled the bus depot, a gathering place for out-of-towners. The young. The desperate. The 11-year-old runaways. He wandered under the motorway bridges where the seasoned streeters had built their angry dens. Went past the P nests in boxes at the back of buildings where kids slept like puppies, huddled together, waiting for the next feed. He tracked down all the other clans, some powerful and organised, others just lost kids.

  There were crews where he knew no-one, some where he met angry silence, but everywhere, he was greeted with suspicion, as if he’d broken the code, or was after their secrets. He was sure now that Roxy had left the Central Auckland scene. It figured. Cujo was from South Auckland. He only came in to deal, to be the man to the DTKs. And they weren’t saying anything. Some sort of ‘don’t talk to Jazz’ agreement. They were tight.

  After a week Jazz realised he had nowhere else to look. If she had headed to South Auckland then she was gone. He couldn’t go there, not without being taken. Wouldn’t last a day by himself. Began to set up on the Road again. Playing on the K., but sometimes in the bars and cafés. They fed him. The money coming in was less than on other streets. But so was the boredom. If he let the boredom grow, behind it waited P, his old enemy, always there, offering to take him away from all this. The express service to Nirvana. But it was getting harder, not easier, as time went on.

  He was in this space when something happened. It always does if you want it badly enough and wait long enough. That guy showed up.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you. You haven’t been at the office.’

  Jazz woke up blinking, trying to get a grip. He was snoozing in the K. Bar at the back of St. Kevin’s Arcade.

  ‘Diego, man. Remember? Talent scout.’

  That’s right, the Gypsy guy who reckoned he could fix him up with a big gig.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. OK, I’ve got you now. I been on the road. Sort of busy eh?’

  ‘Playing?’ Diego was all in black, except for a pair of spotless white basketball boots. The white teeth, the gold earring, the flashing eyes: his presence seemed to light up the room.

  ‘Not much. Other stuff, I guess.’

  ‘Well, remember last time you wanted to know, why you? I told you it’s kinda what I do. I can’t walk past an opportunity. It’s like walking past money on the street.’

  ‘Yeah. I remember. Something come up?’

  ‘Could say that. You know Elton John?’

  ‘You mean the old singer dude?’

  ‘Yeah him. Well I met the guy who brought him out here. Three times. Long time ago mind you. He’s retired. Lives across the bridge. Big house. Full of platinum disks and photos of him shaking hands with famous people.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like the Queen.’

  ‘Freddie Mercury?’

  ‘No man, the real Queen. The one that lives in England. The one on the coins.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘So what’s the story? Elton wants me to play lead in his band?’

  Diego grinned at the sarcasm as he lit up. ‘Not yet. The deal is this. This guy knows music. He knows talent. He’s spent most of his life around it. Like I said before,’ he indicated the other people in the K. Bar, ‘other people don’t know shit, man. They trip over a diamond. Complain about a sore toe. This guy, he knows.’

  There was a confidence, a certainty about Diego: it gave Jazz a warm boost of hope. ‘You say he’s retired.’

  ‘When you make a fortune doing something, when you’re the best in your field, you don’t retire. Can’t. Ego’s too big. Can’t bear not being a player. Always got one crocodile eye looking, looking, looking. Looking for the thing that set you up. The thing that you did once that made you what you are.’ Diego acted out the spying croc.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Diego shrugged. ‘Beats me. This is just stuff I know, OK, like you know guitar.’

  ‘And he wants to hear me?’

  ‘I don’t know about wants. He’s willing to hear you, but this is the thing, he’s off in a few days, to what he calls “the northern hemisphere”
.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Top half of the world, man. Didn’t you go to school?’

  ‘Not much. Not if I could help it, anyway.’

  Diego laughed. ‘Doesn’t matter. You play well enough and you can hire professors to do your thinking for you.’

  They both sat back and savoured the idea of grey bearded men doing the hard thinking for them.

  ‘So this guy spends half the year on the top of the world and half on the bottom.’

  ‘Yeah? And what’s the deal.’

  ‘Deal is I set up a chance for you to play. He says, “If you got a voice, who knows what might happen”.’

  ‘Man, I’m a guitarist, not a singer. I do sing, but it’s Diablo who really carries it. I’m just backing for people who like words with their music.’

  ‘Hear this, man.’ Diego and Jazz both stared at the cigarette he was grinding out in the ash tray. Then Diego fixed Jazz with those eerie green eyes. ‘He says there are only a small group in the world who can give the guitar a voice. Like its own special sound. People like Hendrix, or Clapton.’

  ‘Mark Knopfler?’

  ‘He doesn’t rate Knopfler. He’s in another group. The guys he talks about are dead guys mostly. Guys I haven’t heard of. All the rest, Knopfler and co, are just players.’

  ‘Kurt Cobain?’

  ‘Yeah. He rates Cobain.’

  ‘Bob Marley?’

  ‘You can ask him that.’ Diego’s attention was caught by the waitress clearing away the plates.

  ‘So when can you get me over?’

  ‘You keen?’ It was a challenge.

  ‘Damn right. I’ve been stuck on this street so long I’m starting to grow cobwebs.’

  ‘Soon as I can set it up. As in, tomorrow or the next day.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Listen, man. I can set it up, but you got to light the fire. You can’t do that, then nothin’s gonna happen.’

  ‘And if I can?’

  ‘If you can, well, who knows. He’s connected eh? What he says carries weight, ’cause he’s made a shitload of money out of it in his life. People respect that. What you and me say doesn’t count for crap.’

  ‘So what now?’ Jazz felt a buzz flow through him. He was charged and edgy, wanted to play. Needed to play.

  ‘I need to be able to get hold of you when I’ve set this up. Where will you be?’

  ‘I’ll be here, on K. Road. All day, till you come by.’

  ‘Done then.’

  ‘Done.’

  Diego stood up. ‘I’m excited about this, Jazz. Got a feeling stuff’s gonna happen for you, sooner than you might think.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I could do with a change of luck.’

  ‘It’s comin’ I reckon. Spot ya.’

  ‘Yeah. Too.’

  Lit up with excitement, Jazz walked back to the castle. Things were finally on the move. This was why he’d headed to Auckland in the first place. This thing with Diego was about feeding the talent – the one thing he was good at. Everything else was like, just details.

  As soon as he opened the door he could tell things were in full swing. Gigi was back and she and Sonny were laughing away in their room. Mates again. The two sisters had a couple of other girls over. ‘Probably rubbishing me,’ Jazz thought.

  Even Shorty had some people over for a ‘wee dram’ out on what he called the patio.

  He headed down to Gigi and Sonny’s room, mainly to see whether they had been poisoned against him too, like Api and Ruby. But they hadn’t. Jazz guessed they were both just pleased to have sorted their own stuff out.

  ‘Hey, Gigi, Sonny. What’s happening?’

  ‘Eee it’s the music man, back to serenade us.’ Gigi was painting her toenails. So it was business as usual tonight.

  ‘Hey, man.’ Sonny seemed cool. Calm and relaxed. ‘We ain’t seen you for a while.’

  Gigi glanced up. ‘Sorry to hear about you and Rox, darling, she was a sweet thang.’

  ‘You heard about that huh?’

  ‘The sisters couldn’t stop talking about it. I reckon you’ve lost their toy, Jazz.’ Gigi wagged a scarlet-tipped finger at him. ‘They’re not gonna let you forget it.’

  ‘Couldn’t keep their dykey hands off her, specially Api, eh.’ Even Sonny had noticed.

  ‘You jus’ gotta keep goin’, Massa Jazz,’ said Gigi in this southern belle accent. She held her wrist against her forehead as if shielding her eyes from some fierce light. ‘’Cause remember, tomorra’ is a new day and there are plenty of other fish to fry in the sea.’

  They all laughed, like it was no big deal.

  Jazz told them about Diego, about the meeting with the guy across the harbour. They weren’t impressed.

  ‘Oh well, Jazz, if bullshit was money we’d all be millionaires.’ Gigi had heard her fair share. ‘Remember, I am not entirely without contacts.’ She held her hand on her heart. ‘I have this client, big man in the music industry in Oz. Comes over nearly every month. I am going to mention you to him. And I know when and how to ask … just when he’s about to …. oops I better not go on … Sonny’s told me not to bring my work home from the office.’

  It was the first time Gigi had spoken like this. Dropped her guard. It all made sense. Jazz realised that it was Gigi who kept everything going, not Sonny, or the sisters. She was smarter than everybody else, even Shorty: she just hid it behind her girly games.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, trying to show appreciation. ‘I guess that’s two chances.’

  ‘Just remember, Jazz, when yo’ hangin’ out on Rodeo Drive, don’ yo fo’get th’ little people who got yo’ started.’

  ‘No worries girl, it’ll be a big house … room for everyone.’

  There was a roar of laughter from the patio. Shorty and his mates were well ripped.

  ‘Well, maybe not everyone,’ Jazz added, looking in their direction. Jazz felt happy up in his room. It was a warm night and he sat in the open doorway picking out songs and dreaming. He could see Shorty and his two friends had a bit of a fire going in an old rubbish tin and were sitting around like they were camping in the bush.

  During one of the rare breaks in conversation – Shorty was in full form – they called to him to come down. He was so keyed up he felt like having some company, so he grabbed one of his warm lager cans, and carrying Diablo, he climbed down. Didn’t want to drink their rocket fuel.

  Shorty’s two mates were about his age, but not as rough, looked as if they might live in houses, not in an empty building, sleeping with a dog.

  Shorty introduced them to Jazz with great formality. One was Bert, ‘formerly of the Music Faculty of Auckland University,’ and the other was ‘Roger King, or King Roger of Court Room Three, or as he is more simply deferred to, The King’. The King, Shorty claimed, was ‘a leading lawyer, ex-colleague and champion of the unsung’.

  The two men listened quietly to the intros as if checking their details for accuracy.

  ‘And this is Jazz, latest addition to the K. Road Klan: musician, lover, free spirit. Like ourselves.’

  ‘Welcome to the club,’ Bert said grandly, as if he was the host. ‘Shorty here has been regaling us with tales of your prowess on the guitar, Jazz. Any chance you might play us some little ditty?’

  The King cut in. ‘We’ve become inured to Shorty overstating his case, especially when it comes to describing the antics of his flatmates, yet we were particularly interested that he had welcomed a musician into his ranks.’

  They both had rich, strong voices, like people have who are used to giving speeches. In fact, Jazz noted later, all their talk seemed to consist of one speech after another, with the other two waiting for their turn. It wasn’t talking like he was used to.

  Shorty waved a tin mug. ‘Play us that Spanish number your uncle taught you. You know the one that goes dada dada da da da.’

  The other two chuckled at his tuneless efforts to mimic the guitar sound.

  But Jazz was happy to be asked
to play. Their talk wasn’t a game he could join in on. Made him feel dumb. He tuned up and launched into it. Sometimes this piece took a lot of concentration – but not tonight. It flowed easily from Diablo so he was able to watch the faces of the men as he played. He could tell that they were impressed. Blown away.

  ‘My god. My god,’ said Bert. ‘What have we here?’

  The other two had been waiting for his response. Jazz guessed what he said about music went in their group.

  ‘Your uncle’s not Julian Bream, by any chance? No-one else can play Villa-Lobos like that. Makes John Williams sound like he’s playing in gloves.’

  ‘My uncle’s called Tere.’

  ‘Classical guitarist called Tere, eh? Can’t say I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘He gave up when I came along.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said The King. ‘Picasso’s father had a similar dilemma, similar response.’ He looked around to see if the other two saw the connection. ‘So tell me err … Jazz, what else can you play?’

  ‘Anything much, I guess. Anything I like, that is.’

  ‘I take it you don’t read music.’

  Jazz grinned. ‘Why would you want to read music?’

  The other three exchanged looks. As if there was some play they were going to make.

  Then Bert spoke. ‘So if I play you something on a tape, you can play it back to me?’

  ‘Yeah, like I said, if I like it.’

  ‘Oh, a get-out clause.’ King Roger seemed pleased to be able to get his bit in. Shorty laughed. Jazz looked at them suspiciously, not sure what was going on. He didn’t like this sort of stuff. Made him feel stink.

  Bert walked over by the doorway and picked up a little ghetto blaster. Jazz had never seen it before, thought Bert must’ve brought it along, planned some sort of test.

  He set it on the table before them with careful ceremony and then resumed his position.

  Jazz sucked from his can.

  Bert’s fingers perched on the cassette deck’s buttons. ‘If you can play this, then I’ll believe everything my friend and erstwhile colleague Shorty has told me about you. In fact, if you can even play the first part of it I’ll believe it. Are you listening?’