K Road

by Ted Dawe

  Jazz nodded, nose buried in the can.

  They all looked at him dubiously, like he wasn’t taking this seriously enough.

  Bert pushed play and this old fashioned jazz-type guitar started up. Jazz had never heard anything like it before. There was something about it that was strange and familiar at the same time. Some of it was buried behind a fiddle, so he had to separate it out. Made it a bit harder.

  When it finished, Bert leaned forward and pushed stop.

  They all watched Jazz.

  ‘Well?’ said Shorty.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Can you play it, man?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Then play it!’

  Jazz put his can down. For the first time he felt that he was on top. These old dudes – all up themselves like Shorty – wanted to test him. ‘What will you give me if I can do it?’

  They all looked a bit surprised. They hadn’t bargained on this.

  ‘Like what?’ asked the King.

  ‘Like say…’ he didn’t want to make it too hard, might scare them off. ‘Hun’red bucks?’

  ‘Hun’red bucks huh?’ mimicked the King. ‘Done!’ He opened his wallet and threw five twenties on the ground at his feet. ‘Hit it, champ!’

  Jazz’s bluff was called. He thought for a moment, wished he’d gone for more. Couldn’t believe the so-called King would have any money at all. Looked too rough. Just goes to show. You never can tell.

  Jazz got comfortable with his guitar for a moment, found the little spot in his brain where all the music lived, then began to weave his way through the melody. He watched his fingers find the notes, never told them, glanced out at the old dudes to check their faces, then went back to the tune putting a bit more into it, to make it his own. The fingering was freaky, couldn’t work out why anyone would play that way, but it sounded good. Fresh. New to him, anyway.

  When he had finished he looked up at the three men. They all just sat there. Transfixed. Mouths open. Yeah, he’d done it. The hundred bucks was his all right, no denying.

  ‘What d’ya reckon?’

  Bert spoke. ‘Have you ever heard of Django Reinhardt?’

  ‘No. Cool name, but.’

  ‘French. Never heard of him, huh?’ Bert sounded suspicious.

  ‘Frenchie eh? Django sounds more like a African name to me.’

  ‘He was the legendary three-fingered Gypsy guitarist. Never been another like him.’

  ‘Three-fingered? No wonder the fret work was wild. Sounds OK though. Do I get my hun’red bucks?’

  The King looked at Bert, like he needed approval from the expert.

  ‘Pay ’im!’ called Shorty. ‘As if you’re ever going to hear anything like that again.’ Jazz guessed Shorty’s rep was at stake.

  The King passed him the bunch of notes, which Jazz quickly tucked in his shirt pocket. Fastest hundred bucks he’d ever made. Diego had been right. Stuff was beginning to happen.

  Bert got up and stretched his legs. ‘So you’ve never had any training?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Not since Uncle Tere, and that finished when I was about seven or eight.’

  ‘And where did Diablo come from?’

  ‘Spain, it’s an old guitar. Reckon it’s a Gypsy one.’ Then he added as an afterthought, ‘Maybe that’s why I can play like Django. It’s all in the machine.’

  Jazz passed Diablo to Bert. He held it lightly on the tips of his fingers, turning it slowly and looking at it from all angles as though there might be some hidden clue. Some little engine that made it work. He passed it back. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Tell me. How do you remember all that phrasing, the asymmetrical runs, those odd rhythm shifts? It’s hard to believe that this isn’t some sting operation, set up by my friend here. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. That is, to some extent, how he came to be living here.’

  ‘I don’t remember nothing. Once I’ve got it, it sticks. I just can’t forget it, couldn’t do it. No way.’

  ‘The boy’s some sort of savant,’ suggested the King. ‘Like those brain-damaged kids who can draw the houses of parliament at Westminster, not miss a window, after one glance. It’s freakish all right. But is it pretty? What does he bring to it?’

  Jazz stood up and stretched. He was sick of being talked about as though he was some specimen. ‘Better go guys. It’s been fun. Remember, any time you wanta try some other rave from the grave, Jazz will come through. Meanwhile, I’ve got work in the morning. I’m trying to stay fresh for my big audition.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Shorty asked.

  ‘Just watch the papers.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Watch the papers, man.’ Jazz breezed out feeling that he could do anything – including get the upper hand on motor-mouth Shorty.

  For the next couple of days Jazz felt he was living in a warm breeze. Everything was mellow. No future, no past, no worries. Out on K. Road the patrons picked up on it. There was joy in his music. The torment had gone. The edgy pain that flavoured even his most up melodies had fled.

  Sure enough, two days later, Diego tracked him down. One moment the street seemed to be empty, next moment, Diego was right next to him, like some green-eyed devil. He had the ability to surprise, to come at you out of the bright light.

  ‘It’s on!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s on, Jazz. I’ve set it up for tomorrow. Four o’clock. He flies out tomorrow night and God knows when he’ll be back.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘The plan is this. I come by about three. Pick you up in the Holden. We race over to the shore. They’re mothballing his apartment.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Diego spoke to him like he knew stuff.

  ‘It’s what he calls it when the place gets shut up for a year or so. Anyway, he’s interested. But he can only give you half an hour at four. Then he’s off. Sydney, Hawaii, LA. New York, London. He’s got people at each place.’

  ‘So that’s it?’

  ‘Yep. You got half an hour to make an impression. I’ve done my bit. From here on in it’s all you, man. Reckon you can do it?’

  ‘No sweat. I got this new tune. Old guys like it. It’s by Django. Rocks their socks I tell you.’

  ‘Django? Never heard of him!’

  ‘Never heard of Django? My, my Diego, time for an update on your music education.’ It was good to get one up on this guy for a change.

  Diego stood up. ‘Not now. I got places to go, deals to close, money to make. You say this Django will do it for you, I believe you.’ He gave Jazz this wicked wink, and said, ‘Hasta la vista amigo. Seeing ya.’

  ‘Ka kite e hoa.’

  From then on, the time crept forward so slowly that Jazz thought he would go mad. He never had a watch so he had to check the time against the clocks in shops, and they all said different things. When the day finally finished he went back to his tower and lay restlessly next to the open doorway, watching the city lights and working out all these imaginary scenarios that had him flying around the world, blowing away big record company executives. The office blocks of the city seemed like glittering palaces now, all waiting to be conquered by the power of music. The world was lit with magic.

  In the morning he was stiff all over. He had slept half off the mattress, half on the concrete floor. It took him a while to wake up, work out where he was and what was going down today, but when he had fully surfaced, thoughts of the day ahead gave him a pleasant nervousness, an urgency. He stood in the doorway of the tower. It was a perfect day. A pale blue sky and a warmth in the breeze that signalled summer was nearly here.

  He tried to work out a plan for the day. Something to keep him busy, and to have him at his best. These clothes, Jazz: too much street about them, dirty too. He remembered the hundred bucks. That’s what he’d spend it on: new threads, top to toe. He needed to clean up too, no point in putting new gear on a dirty body. Maybe he’d do that first down at the Sally Army breakfast place. He hadn’t been there for weeks. Since he�
�d become ‘the bad guy’ he avoided the places where the streeties gathered. Was making his own way. Going places.

  It was about midday by the time he got out. Sonny and Gigi needed to know what was happening to him. They had never dissed him – not like the sisters had, fuck them, he thought. Gigi insisted on giving him a kiss. It was meant to be one of those Hollywood-style air jobs but she miscalculated and they rubbed faces. Jazz felt a fine sandpapery stubble and was surprised, because she was so feminine. Sonny was staunch: it was a bro handshake all the way, there.

  There was this shop near the end of the K., that had nothing over 20 bucks. He scored trousers, shoes and a cool Mambo shirt, all for under 50. Then he made his way to the Sally place down town. Being mid afternoon there were no kids there; they had all fed and cleared out long ago. Probably smashed on some park bench by now, thought Jazz. He was relieved. He was able to enjoy a quick shower and new clothes. The pants were a bit on the homey side for this gig: needed a belt, but it wasn’t a bad look. No, he looked like something you could take into a flash house.

  He checked the time. Half two. Half an hour to get to K. Road, meet Diego, and scoot. Perfect. As he walked up Queen Street he felt like he belonged there. No longer was he given those nervy glances by the straights as he approached. The glances that said ‘Here’s trouble.’ It was like he had been reborn. Reborn as something better. He reached Aotea Square and noted that there were a small group of streeties on the far side, hanging around a skateboarder. Too far away to recognise who they were, but easy to spot that distinctive glue-bag hunch. Huffers!

  The big clock on the town hall said 2:45. Better step on it.

  He hadn’t gone another 50 paces when he could hear steps behind him. Running. He turned. It was Wings.

  ‘Jazz, wait up! Wait up man!’

  It was the first time he had seen him since that night.

  ‘Yo, Wings. What’s up, my man?’

  In the daylight he could see just how young this kid was. He was much too young for this life.

  ‘I been looking for you.’

  ‘I ain’t been nowhere. Why didn’t you come to the castle?’

  ‘Scared. Scared of Sonny.’

  ‘Why you scared of Sonny? He’s a good guy. Never mind. What’s up? I’m in a hurry. Got an appointment.’

  ‘It’s Roxy, Jazz. She’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Hey man. Roxy’s not my woman any more. You should know that, word on the street says I was a bastard. OK. I’ll live with it.’

  Wings’s face fell. He looked even younger, like he was going to cry.

  ‘She’s really sick… I think she’s gonna die.’ His voice faded away. You could tell how scared he was. How desperate. ‘She’s just past the square Jazz. Only two minutes away.’

  ‘Yeah? Well I ain’t got two minutes.’

  Jazz strode off, leaving Wings in the middle of the footpath. I don’t need this, he thought. As he walked he felt something happening to him. Something pouring into him from somewhere. It made him heavy. It slowed his footsteps. He turned. Wings was still there, where he had left him. Small. Pathetic.

  He knew he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t that much of a prick. He ran back.

  ‘Where is she? Quick.’

  Wings’s face lit up, as if it had been hit by a beam of light. He turned and ran, Jazz close on his heels. Across the square. Past the staring posse of street kids. Past the big grey city building, where the Mayor’s office was. Past this old factory that they’d turned into apartments. Past the smelly back door of a Chinese restaurant, to a tight little wasteland squeezed between two towering walls. It was filled with those prickly trees that seem to grow where nothing else will: that and the rubbish of years.

  Because the walls were high and the space was narrow, it took Jazz a moment or two to focus on a sort of cardboard tent at the end. There was a pile of clothes in it and amongst the clothes he noticed a pair of feet. The feet were dirty and cut. Feet that hadn’t been in shoes for a while. Around the ankle was a thin gold chain.

  Jazz carefully lifted the old coats and bits of blankets from the sleeping figure. Well before he saw her face he heard the soft wheeze that was as familiar as his own breathing. Her face was drained of any colour and now was slightly grey. One hand was at her throat, as though holding it open. The hand, like her feet, once delicate and beautiful, was now terribly battered.

  As he crouched next to her, he felt his eyes filling with tears. How could this have happened so fast? What had happened? What had been done to her?

  ‘She’s bad eh?’ It was Wings.

  ‘Yeah. She’s bad,’ he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.

  Her eyes flicked open. He was startled by their whiteness in the dark space. ‘That you Jazz?’

  He couldn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve come for me now?’

  He nodded silently.

  Her hand found his and guided it to her stomach. ‘It’s yours, Jazz. From that first time.’

  ‘Hapu?’

  She smiled. ‘You’ve come.’

  Jazz sat down at her feet and his head turned instinctively to the sky. High above them was a thin strip of blue. It wasn’t the blue he had looked out on from the castle that morning. It was colder, more distant, much older.

  In the days that followed, Roxy slowly regained bits of her old self. Lacking the strength now to be up and about, she stayed in the tower usually, while Jazz went out gathering the things they needed. She had a small gold ring on her finger that he had got from somewhere, but he wouldn’t tell her where. She said she hoped he hadn’t stolen it, but she didn’t really push.

  He told her about Diego, but never told her about the chance that had come and gone. About the dreams that were once so close but that now danced away from him. He knew that, with Roxy’s pregnancy, a new life was closing in on them. A life neither of them knew how to deal with but one he refused to worry about it. Something would come up.

  Roxy found her beauty again. A different beauty now. She lost her greyness and her skin took on a white glow, like those thin cups you see in the flash shops. Her vitality and fire were replaced by a serene and quiet smile.

  Even Api and Ruby began to talk to him again. He had proved them wrong after all. Gigi, she got sort of mother-ish. She fussed all the time, but didn’t do much else. And Sonny, well, he changed too. Jazz could tell that behind his hard-man front he was a bit envious. That was a surprise. His warrior spirit now showed as protector.

  For his part, Jazz never asked her about her time away. The lost weeks. Cujo. The bruises on her body, the cuts on her hands and feet. The craving for the drug that had enslaved her. And Roxy, she never complained. Never asked for anything. Not even P. And he knew she wanted it. He respected that.

  It must have been weeks later, a month maybe, that the call came through. It was a Friday night and everyone seemed to be out. Up in the tower, Jazz was plinking softly on Diablo, while Roxy dozed.

  Sonny’s voice came up through the ladder shaft. ‘Hey Jazz! You there?’

  Jazz left off playing and walked to the hatch. Sonny was at the bottom of the ladder with this cool little folding cell phone. ‘I just got a call from Gigi, bro. She’s with the Aussie dude, the DJ. She says he’ll hear ya.’

  The chance Jazz had long since given up on. ‘Where’s this?’

  ‘The Sheraton.’

  ‘The Sheraton! Shit! How’re we going to get in there?’

  ‘I got a jacket you can borrow … anyway, my man Wade’s working there. He can get us in the back way. Get us to the room without being seen.’

  Jazz looked back at Roxy. She was so pale and weak he felt like crying. Her face in this light seemed to glow: her skin was almost transparent. Then her eyes.

  ‘Go, man. It’s ya big chance. I’ll be OK.’ The words came out slowly, with effort. They hadn’t discussed it, but it was like she’d known all along he’d been hanging out for this one. The one that would keep them afloat.

 
; He crawled over to her and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Didn’t want to suffocate her. ‘Got ya puffer?’

  ‘It’s all used up.’

  ‘I thought Api racked a new one for you just last week.’

  ‘All gone, I’ve been using it heaps, eh.’

  ‘We gotta get out of here … get some place decent. It’s too damp eh?’

  ‘You comin?’ It was Sonny again.

  ‘Hold on, man!’ And then almost in a whisper, ‘I’ll try to be no more than a couple of hours. Promise. This could be the big turn around.’

  ‘You can do it. Go. I wanna get some sleep. Can’t sleep with you playin’ next to me all the time.’

  ‘Hey, easy.’ Jazz grabbed his guitar and rapidly clicked it back into the case.

  ‘You rest up, Diablo,’ he muttered softly and then scrambled back to Roxy to plant one last lingering kiss on her mouth.

  She smiled and held up the hand with the ring on it as he climbed down the ladder. It almost made him go back again.

  At the bottom Sonny was waiting. He was wired. ‘We better fly, man, you know what these big time dudes are like. They don’t wait for no-one. Specially people like us who are in for the big chance.’

  ‘Where’s this coat?’

  ‘In my slot. We’ll grab it on the way out.’

  A few minutes later they had squeezed through the loose tin in the fence and were headed up towards K. Road.

  Just as they were about to round the corner, Sonny spotted something. It was this black ute parked in a side alley.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘That’s the ute.’

  ‘What?’

  Sonny turned to him, his face frozen with anger. He spoke slowly and carefully. ‘That’s the ute of the dude that beat up Maus. The guy I told you about. He’s back.’

  ‘How do you know it’s his?’

  ‘The roll bar. The spots.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Sonny was in no doubt. ‘I know it. I seen him cruising.’ Without another word he bounded off across the road, leaving Jazz standing on the footpath, no clue about what was going to happen next.