They chose a small table to one side, away from the brightest lights, but on the bottom floor, not the mezzanine. Easier to get away if the worst happened and he attracted attention.
But it seemed the clientele here was as cool as ever. Although professional spots lit the stage, instead of the haphazard arrangement that used to be there, they kept the place mercifully gloomy.
A few musicians played a version of Tiger Rag. Not too fast, not too in time, acceptable pub music, not stellar. Zazz gave Laura a wry grin. “I like it.” They sat close enough to murmur in each other’s ears if they wanted to. He did. In other circumstances, he’d have had a great evening here. But not now. It burned him that he had to wait and see, that this was his only clue to his father’s whereabouts. He’d been here before. Not now.
A woman came through the door, and to his dismay, Zazz recognized Kelsie. What was worse, behind her strode the unmistakable figure of Riku.
“Busted,” Laura said. He nodded in response but kept his attention on his friend and bandmate. Dressed fairly conservatively, for Riku, in black boot-cut flares and an asymmetrically cut coat, his boots the only sign of his flamboyance. Apart from his bottle-green hair, which flared for a moment as they walked under a bright light. He’d made up, too, but only eyeshadow and liner, not the full getup that took him hours.
He strode over to their table and glanced at Zazz’s beer, one thinly plucked black brow raised. “Your first?”
“And my last. I couldn’t order soda here. Didn’t seem right.”
Zazz kicked a chair to the table as Kelsie, looking far too smug for the occasion, found another. They sat. “I like this place,” Riku said.
“What are you doing here?”
Riku gave his easy smile. “Fine way to say hello to a friend. I came to help. Kelsie called me last night and I flew up this afternoon. Easy.”
“Sure.” Zazz cleared his throat. “Thanks.” He guessed. “I can see you’ve made an effort to appear normal.”
Riku let out a shout of laughter. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Zazz exchanged a glance with Laura, something that was becoming more of a habit as time went on. Sharing, for good or for bad, checking reactions. He didn’t need Laura’s cynical eye-slant to tell him she’d realized Kelsie’s call hadn’t been just to help. After all, how could he help, except to keep Kelsie happy? He didn’t know Manchester, he wouldn’t know where to start.
“We don’t have to leave until we find him,” Riku said.
“I thought you were going to New York to visit your family,” Zazz said.
“Even more reason to stay here,” Riku said. He leaned back, lifted his chin and half closed his eyes, gazing down his nose with a deceptively lazy expression. “The folks can wait. They weren’t expecting me. It was nothing definite.”
He read more in that, knew Riku well. Riku had flown across an ocean to get away from his wealthy family. He’d refused to ask them for financial help. He’d told Zazz that meant they’d call him back and send him on the path they’d deemed was success. He wanted some fun first. Now he’d found success without their help. Zazz could only imagine how that would feel. The only thing he’d turned his back on was death, poverty and despair.
And his father. He’d abandoned the old man. He’d never, ever forgive himself for that, even though at sixteen, he’d seen nothing else he could do. Now guilt was eating him up and he prayed Jimmy would show up.
The noodling on the stage reached a new tone. Someone had joined them, and with one clear trumpet blast, sent the band up another level.
Jimmy A was back.
Riku’s pose disappeared as he spun his chair to get a full view of the stage. There he was, the legend, the man who’d inspired a generation. Not the pathetic wreck of ten years ago, not the cheerful old man of last week, but Jimmy A. He played his horn in a different way now, holding it to one side of his mouth, necessitated by the injury the gang had inflicted on him in San Francisco. The power was largely gone, but not completely. He couldn’t sustain it. Instead, he used a new technique, shorter, more staccato, more Dizzy Gillespie than he used to sound. Jimmy had used smooth transitions to create a sound that was almost effortless, but that required a huge amount of lung power he didn’t have anymore.
Now he played differently. And as fucking amazing, to Zazz’s biased ears.
He could listen to the man all night. If that man wasn’t his father, and if he wasn’t terrified that this new technique had cost him too much.
The room fell silent, people’s faces turned toward the stage. Jimmy lived here, more alive than Zazz had seen him for a long time. Almost ever. But Jimmy didn’t have the frenetic tics Zazz was used to seeing when he was high, the twitch of the pinkie on his left hand, the tics of his eyes and brows. None of that. Was he on new stuff? No, they’d found his old favorite at the flat. Zazz had recognized the distinctive taste of the shit. White filth.
But he wasn’t on coke and Jimmy preferred that and heroin, never used skank, weed or meth much. Old-fashioned, he’d say with a wry grin. “Fetch me my works, boy.” Keeping his syringe and needles clean wasn’t Zazz’s favorite chore. From the age of seven he’d done it for his father, always aware that addiction had other terrors, infection with hepatitis or AIDS always possible from shared needles. He shuddered and Laura put her hand over his, instantly bringing him back to the here and now.
She leaned close, bringing the scent of lavender shower gel, reminding him of the soothing presence she’d given him earlier. “Hey.”
He squeezed her hand. “Hey.” She wouldn’t be able to hear him now. Jimmy was showering the air with a silver rain of notes, fast, accurate, in tune.
It didn’t mean anything. Bird Parker played his most intricate pieces when he was high as a rocket. Zazz’s father had done the same.
He could wait until the old man wore himself out and went looking for a fix. Or he could stop this and bring it to an early conclusion. He stood, jerked his head to Riku. “Since you’re here…” he said, raising his voice.
Riku grinned and got to his feet. “Sure.” They sauntered to the stage, waiting to be recognized. Jam night meant a few people were gathered at the foot of the narrow steps leading up. They might have to wait for a while. More people wanted a turn with Jimmy. But he and Riku were unmistakable together, even here, where it wasn’t cool to make a fuss.
From the stage the old man saluted them and grinned. Not too far gone to recognize them then. At least this close, they could ensure he didn’t have anything else. Zazz wondered where he’d found a vein this time. He’d used his mouth, between his toes, worse. Bad shit burned out veins, made them unusable and eventually an addict would run out of viable veins. They’d pop the stuff under the skin. Maybe he’d snorted it.
But he didn’t look wasted.
The crowd made room and Zazz and Riku took the stage. Someone handed him a guitar, and Riku found one too. Electric, not too fancy. He checked the tuning, decided on standard. From the sounds Riku was making, he’d decided on something a bit different. He always did.
Zazz glanced at him, then to his father for the cue. “You youngsters start, I’ll follow,” he said.
Zazz glanced at Riku. “Heartbreak,” he said. Laid-back, at least at first. They could do it unplugged or full, heavy volume. This place screamed for unplugged. Zazz retuned. Standard didn’t work with this one. His professional part kicked in, until the realization hit him that this was the first time he’d played on a stage with his father. Jimmy had encouraged him to play, but before his first street performing stint in London Zazz had never played to anyone but the mirror in his bedroom.
His father had heard the song at least once. They’d done it at the concert Jimmy had attended. Zazz didn’t know if he’d remember, especially in the state he presumed Jimmy was in, but to his surprise the trumpet sounded true from the first.
It sounded great. Sharper than V’s sax, edgy, but blending perfectly. Jimmy had played with a lot of musici
ans, from scratch bands to the cream of the crop, so he had far more experience jamming than Zazz had ever gained. His generation didn’t go in for long solos, and Murder City Ravens played as a unit, with only the occasional deviation into solo spins.
He had to sing. That song, the one he’d written when he thought he’d never get any of his dreams, when yet another woman had flipped him off in favor of someone with money, actual folding cash to spend. More self-pitying than he’d ever felt before, he’d written the song and somehow wrenched truth out of it. For some reason people loved it. It had remained a standard in their repertoire, something they used to gauge the mood of the audience, a versatile tune they could take up or down.
His heart wasn’t in the song anymore. Time to give it a rest. He wouldn’t sing anything he couldn’t throw his soul into. If he lost that truth, he’d lose himself. So he brought the song to an early conclusion after one verse. He ignored the groans from the audience, which had somehow grown bigger while they’d been playing, and glanced at Riku. They knew the set list. He played the first few notes of Injustice or Death and heard the familiar twang of a Strat behind him. Someone had given Riku one of his favorite instruments. They were doomed. Doomed to play until they dropped.
He loved this. Fucking loved it. He’d grown weary recently, tired of the road, the endless hotels, but these days self-pity wasn’t his thing, and he’d given himself a mocking “poor baby” and carried on. But he was glad the tour was ending, much though he loved playing live. He wanted a rest. He wanted Laura to himself for a while.
A decision arrived in his mind in the middle of the fourth song, when his father was playing a sublime and complex scale, like a bird flying.
At once Zazz felt more settled. He had his priorities right this time. He knew what would happen next. Or he knew what he wanted to happen next, a very different thing. Whatever else happened he would do it around that single decision.
Chapter Thirteen
Laura watched the playing and tried not to swoon, like a Victorian bride confronted by her first penis. To have Jimmy A, Zazz and Riku on the same stage was unbelievably good. Soon someone else joined them—a man as old as Jimmy with a brilliant touch on the drums. He took over from the mundane player, giving him a smile and a pat. Laura didn’t know who he was, but he was good. What must have once been jet-black hair had faded to a salt-and-pepper, the gnarled hands had swollen knuckles, probably from arthritis. But he could still hold drumsticks and he could still play.
They played a few Murder City Ravens songs and some jazz standards. When they swung into a soft version of Fly Me to the Moon and Zazz glanced in her direction and smiled her troubles melted away. For now, they existed for each other. He’d found his father, and she was keeping a keen eye on the old man, watching for signs of stress.
She was ninety percent sure Jimmy A was clean and sober. Whatever he’d done last night, he hadn’t carried on today, which was a blessing. But she watched carefully for any twitches, or signs that he was tiring, or hankering for more. She knew what to watch for. She’d helped Jimmy stay straight and the thought of all that work going for nothing gave her heartache.
He wasn’t the first addict she’d helped, but she’d never allowed herself to get so personally involved before. Every success brought pleasure, but it was a professional pleasure, the satisfaction of a job well done. With Jimmy she’d grown involved, fond of him, and so discovered herself and what she really wanted. She owed it to Jimmy, who’d listened to her music without prejudice and was the first man to judge it as a musician. The first one not to think she was insane for writing songs.
Before his son arrived, that was. The bitch was, she’d love Zazz if he was still James, a member of the crew of Murder City Ravens instead of the man front and center at every concert. The man thousands, maybe millions judging from the album sales, of young women lusted after. A heady thought.
Fuck, he was good. And he was good because he cared. Here, in front of a couple hundred people, he took as much meticulous care as he had in front of thousands. He showed the same dedication, the same love of the music, the same astonishing innovation. He’d skip a beat or two, speed something up or slow it down, confident the musicians with him would follow his lead. Sometimes Riku did the same, and sometimes they stepped back and gave the old guys a chance to shine. They effortlessly did so, although that seeming lack of diligence came from years of practice and playing. He forgot everything but the music when he was onstage, only he did it in a strange way. He would have won an Oscar, so real was his interpretation of songs he hadn’t written or had no experience of. He gave a plaintive, soulful rendition of Strange Fruit, a song he shouldn’t have had any connection with. She guessed he’d linked it with injustices in this country. Just as the kids from the industrial centers of Britain had given new life to the blues of the Mississippi basin and Chicago because they shared poverty and helplessness in the face of moneyed power, so did Zazz link something in his past with the fate of the lynched African-Americans of the song.
It made her want to give up. She’d never approach that kind of greatness. But, she reminded herself, she did her thing another way, and with different emphasis. If she concentrated on her music and practiced every day, she might just get there. Even if her age was against her.
When Jimmy A gave his first bum note, she turned her attention to him. So did Zazz. He turned his head sharply, before carrying on with the song and finishing it, probably sooner than he’d planned. Then addressed the audience. “This is jam night, and we’ve hogged the mic for far too long. Time we let someone else take over.” Despite the cheers and yells for more, he handed the guitar back to the guy who’d lent it to him, taking time to thank him properly. He handed over his card, the one with his private number on it. Riku behaved similarly with the woman who’d lent him her Strat, lingering to exchange a few words and eventually motioning toward their table.
She accompanied him when they left the stage, and Riku found a seat for her, much to Kelsie’s disgust. Before they reached them, Laura murmured to her, “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Like you, you mean?” Kelsie all but spat. “You should tell me your secret. Does he like anal? Spanking? Do you have to give him head all the time? I’ve heard rock stars like that, because they don’t have to do any work.”
Laura swallowed and prayed he hadn’t heard. The slight lull while the next people set up might not have helped. Although he shot her friend a glare, he didn’t have time to say anything before his father and friend were on them.
Then they had to spread more, and Jimmy introduced his friend. “Bill Altoid.” He laughed, the hoarse wheezing sound somehow joyous. “Never called him anything but Altoid. Always got a good laugh when he told people his name, and he lived up to it. Don’t ask why if you don’t know. He’s had a great career sitting at the back of bands. Probably earned more than I did at the front. Great enough to do his own thing, but he had other fish to fry.”
“Bein’ a wife and kids and now grandkids.” Altoid grinned. “Worth everything else. I got offers, but I was earning. I let other people take the strain.” Interesting accent he had. Certainly not Mancunian. More like Chicago, the twist the native Chicagoan gave to their vowels a dead giveaway. His grin widened. “Yep, I did a Jimmy A in reverse. I came here with my wife. Had a few years in London, but I did a lot of session work and paid the bills.”
“More than I did at times,” Jimmy admitted.
Laura turned so only Zazz could see her and mouthed, “Altoid?”
He laughed, the sound free and easy, and leaned closer to whisper to her. “If a woman sucks a mint while she’s giving head, it can take a man’s head off.”
She raised a brow. He laughed more. Oh she would so be trying that with him.
A blast came from the stage as the trombone player got into gear. Zazz sat behind his father so he could keep an eye on him. Laura caught his attention and didn’t have to see any more. “It’s been great meeting Altoi
d again,” Jimmy said, “but I got some news for you, and I can’t tell you here. Besides, I need my rest these days.”
Zazz held back his father’s chair and had a word with one of the Band’s staff, who came over to chat. She left, promising to call taxis, but Riku waved them off. “If you’re okay, I’ll hang here for a while.” He grinned at the new woman. “We have a lot to talk about. Thanks for calling me, Kelsie.”
Zazz and Riku did the forearm shake, a weird male custom that involved grasping each other’s forearms and backslapping. Laura assumed that meant Zazz was thanking Riku for coming, since they didn’t behave that way every time they met. Weird creatures, men.
Then Zazz glanced at her, before turning to his father and taking his arm. As she could have told him, Jimmy A shook him off irritably. “I can walk to a taxi, boy. See to your woman.”
With a grin, Zazz did as he was told and wrapped his arm around her waist, bending to murmur in her ear, “I don’t think he’s high.”
“I know he isn’t. I don’t think that’s what he was doing.”
Altoid came with them, and Jimmy paused before they climbed into the back of the black cab. “I want to show you something.”
“Now?”
“Sure. It’s not even midnight. That’s one of the things I want to show you.”
Mystified, they climbed into the cab and heard Jimmy give the address. It meant nothing to either of them, except that the area was a good one, much better than where Jimmy was currently living.
They alighted outside a large mock-Tudor house at the end of a neat, curving drive. One of the mansions built by the Victorian industrialists keen to show off their new wealth. The night enveloped them, but as they approached the front door, security lights came on. Altoid produced a key. “Wow, you’ve done well,” Laura said, unthinkingly, and heard Altoid’s low chuckle.
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