Oh, Play That Thing
Page 29
He stopped, and lifted a finger.
—Now, see here. You watch me now while I perform the break.
He walked away, brought his arse from side to side, skipped, hopped, gave it the Charlie Chaplin. He turned, came back, knees bent, the trumpet a walking stick, a head on him like the happiest fuckin’ eejit in the world. Straight up, and into my face.
—That the break, Smoked. My own things. The nice surprises. They my own.
—THAT WHY THEY CALL ME—
—They go on top of the riff. And that’s the jazz. The song don’t matter. It the how that matter, not the what. Mister Rockwell happy. I’m happy. All happy together.
—You’re a signifyin’ African, Mister Armstrong, said Zutty Singleton, from across the room.
—That right, Mister Singleton. We all signifyin’ Africans here.
It was the time for me to go.
—THAT WHY THEY CALL ME—
Connie’s Inn was one of the hot ones. I shouldn’t have been there. The talent was black; the suits were Italian. The actors and actresses, the writers and song men, their rich hangers-on, they gave the place its gloss. Louis would look from the stage and see big faces every night. Pickford, Fairbanks – I sat beside the fucker – Berlin, and Fitzgerald. All there to see and hear him. Durante, Keeler, Gershwin, Marx. He saw money floating in the music, turning and whirling.
But it wasn’t the money.
—THAT WHY THEY CALL ME—
He saw deals done, eyes meet; he saw sex promised, taken, the best and the most notorious; he saw them all soak and spark in his music.
In his music.
—THAT WHY—
—THEY—
He moved and they moved with him.
—CALL ME—
Because he told them to.
He closed his eyes and opened one, and knew they loved it, every move and note.
—OH BABY—
The grin, the grimace, knees bent, the eyes.
—THEY CALL ME—
He stood suddenly still, and held a note, and held it. They knew he’d stop. He held, eyes closed – they knew, they knew. He held it. Stop and don’t stop, stop and don’t – they watched his death. They groaned, they felt themselves. They screamed – stop, Louis stop. He held the note.
—Fuck you!
A roar, one night, of absolute surrender. He held the note, forever.
—Fuck you!
A movie actor, a big face, about to be killed by the talkies. His little lad’s roar shot up at Louis.
—Fuck you!
And stop! Louis pulled the thing from his lips and he was charging across the stand.
They watched, they roared.
—THAT WHY—
Bang up to the mike.
—THAT WHAH—
They stood, they roared.
—THEY CALL ME—
Blood met sweat – they saw it.
—THAT WHY—
He wiped his mouth – they saw it.
—THEY CALL ME—
He shook his head; blood hit the air and hit the lights.
—SHINE.
Blood hit a bulb and it exploded.
He’d done it. A minstrel song, a bad song, made glorious, defiant. Three or four, five times a night. Every night, and after. He never stopped.
He bowed and smiled and bowed again and wiped his mouth and turned away – a second to himself; the grin fell off – I saw it. He looked over his shoulder, the teeth, the eyes. Dazed and in control. In big pain and loving every second.
They came up to Harlem for Louis. They came to New York for Louis. They came from Europe and South America, from China and the deepest east. To see for themselves. The latest new. The latest and the newest. And they got more. They knew it, the second his force hit them.
—Oh my God!
—Fuck you!
It would never be the same again.
They felt torn away and raw, skinless, born again. Dropped, broke and bollock naked, into a very foreign world. They gasped, they drowned.
But no, they didn’t. The smile, the teeth grabbed and pulled them up. Every time. His gums bled, his lips were swollen, pushed up to the salt-block of agony.
He smiled.
—Thank you, lay-dies and gentlemen.
White ladies and gentlemen.
They felt good.
Sweat rolled over his top lip. He hid the pain behind his white handkerchief.
They loved this black man. They clapped. They loved all black men.
—Now. We going to play for you. One of the old songs. Six months old, and it’s called Dinah. Dinah. One two three.
It was grand until he stopped. So he didn’t. He charged from one song to the next, he charged across the stage, on and off the stage. Out the door, in another.
The great and the good.
Gilbert, Gish, Van Vechten, Ruth.
He played to whites for money, to blacks for nothing, later, in Barron’s, Rockland Palace, the Bucket of Blood. (Every place had a Bucket of Blood.)
He charged.
Rent parties, street corners. He took himself everywhere.
I tried to tell him. I was going. I ran after him, and waited for the chance.
Jolson, McCormack, Cunard, and O’Neill.
The great and the good. The bad and the—
—Fuck me.
Dutch Schultz.
I watched the door closing, Schultz’s fingers on the handle, closing slowly, Schultz’s eyes still there, the door closing, one eye, one bad, bad fuckin’ eye – shut.
—Jesus.
I sat down.
—What the matter, Smoked? said Louis.
Schultz had emptied the dressing room and, now that he’d gone, it stayed that way. We were alone.
I saw Louis’s handkerchief in front of me. I took it – it was wet – and wiped my brow and face. I held it out for him, giving it back, but he had a new one. He was already wiping his own face.
—You got me worried, Smoked.
—It’s okay, I said. —I’m fine.
I looked at my legs. They weren’t shaking.
—That was Dutch Schultz, I said.
—Certainly was.
—Why’s he here? I said.
—Why they all here, Pops? he said.
—To see you.
—Yah yah.
He polished the trumpet with a towel.
—Got it shining like a nice woman’s leg.
He put a finger on the lucky bullet mark. He’d be going on again, in a minute. I could hear the gathering feet outside.
—Also, he said. —Why all those types like Mister Schultz come here and hereabouts?
—The women.
—That too, the chippies. But not what I had in mind, Pops. Nay nay.
—What then?
—Mister Schultz is the silent partner. I think that mean he owns the joint.
—Fuck.
—Why fuck?
—I killed some pigeons, Louis.
—All this killing you done, Pops. Some what?
—Pigeons.
—The birds.
—The birds.
—Mister Schultz’s pigeons?
—Not exactly, I said. —A friend of his.
—Friend.
—Owney Madden.
—That some fucking friend, Smoked. You eat those birds?
—No.
—Then why?
—It’s a long story.
—He know?
—Probably. It was a big deal. There was a lot of pigeons. So Madden probably told him, and they’d have been looking for me for a while. But we never met.
—And Mister Madden? Meet him?
—No.
—That good. When did you not meet these nice gents?
I thought it out.
—Four or five years ago, I said.
—Didn’t pay you much never-mind just now, said Louis.
That was true.
—Out, Schultz had said when he’d walke
d in, and the room had emptied, fast. But he hadn’t said anything when I stayed put with Louis. I didn’t know who he was, just that he was one of the men that mattered; I could see that. I said nothing. He looked at me, but he looked at the mirrors too. Rockwell must have told him I’d be there, Louis’s boy. I’d been expected, but unknown. He hadn’t nodded to me, or spoken. He’d looked at me, at Louis.
—Great show, Louie, said the tough guy.
—Why, thank you, Pops, said Louis. —Gimme some skin.
He took Schultz’s hand and shook it big.
—Enjoy your birthday present? said Schultz.
—Sure did, said Louis. —Took some unwrapping.
They laughed, and Schultz took back his hand. He held his hat, turned it in his fingers. He smiled at Louis, almost shy. There was a kid inside the savage. The smile was bad but the eyes were lit and happy.
—We see your picture in the Daily News all the time, Mister Schultz, said Louis.
I knew now who was in the room with us.
—Yeah, said Schultz. —People are starting to bug me for my autograph.
—Got yourself a good pen? said Louis.
—Yeah.
—That’s all you need.
Schultz squirmed. He wasn’t used to nice men. He smiled again, and turned his hat.
A hand outside hit the door.
—Stay out, said Schultz.
He was in charge again, owner and breaker.
—Yeah, well, he said. —Keep it up, yeah.
—Sure will.
Schultz shut the door and I sat down.
—He owns this fuckin’ place, I said.
—Now, Smoked, said Louis. —They own all the places. You know that.
—But we got out of Chicago because of the Italians.
—Mister Schultz is not Italian, said Louis. —He’s Jewish.
Louis wore a silver Star of David under his shirt. Some family in New Orleans had been good to him, when he was a kid and heading for trouble. Every night you’ll hear her croon, a Russian lullaby. They’d given him a job or something, and the odds to buy his first cornet. Just a little plaintive tune, when a baby starts to cry. Louis had big time for Jews.
He lit up a reefer.
—I’m Jewish too, Smoked, he said. —Mister Schultz know that.
I looked. He was smiling.
—What’ll we do? I said.
What would I do?
He exhaled.
—We stay put.
No.
—We stay here. We got Mister Rockwell here. He’s good; he fits me. We’re cutting all those nice records. We got Mister Schultz. He likes me. He likes his music hot. He’s the silent partner but don’t mean the entertainment have to be. Mister Schultz is proud to have me here.
A running knock on the door.
—One minute, Louis!
—Worried, Smoked?
—No, I said. —Not really.
I was going.
—Anyway, I didn’t really kill the pigeons. I was just there.
—At the wrong time.
—Yeah.
—Same old story. Happen to me too, though I don’t recall pigeons or any shooting.
He went back up for the second show.
I’d finally met one of the big-shots. But he hadn’t met me. He hadn’t thought me worth meeting – I thought. But I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t ever be sure.
It was fine, for now.
But.
I could hear Louis now, killing himself all over again.
—OHHH—
WHEN YOU’RE SMILIN’—
Did Johnny No like jazz?
—WHEN YOU’RE SMI-SMILIN’—
Would he come uptown to see Louis? Would he come with his boss, Lepke, and sit with Schultz and Madden? And would Henry Glick be on the premises when they called?
—THE WHOLE WORLD SMILE WITH—
I was going.
But I wasn’t running. I was leaving. I was going home. I’d walk away, smiling, after I’d shaken Louis’s hand and said, So long, Louis, see you in Dublin.
The wedding dress, the brooch, the glowing hair, the folds and tears, and – I noticed for the first time – Hettie’s floury fingerprints. I saw them eaten, disappear; I smelled them bake.
Then he shot me.
It was her.
It was the hat.
Her back was to me, at the open window, haloed by the sun that baked the wall across the street.
She turned, and I was right. It was Fast Olaf’s half-sister and she was still wearing my fuckin’ fedora.
She didn’t know me; nothing went across her face. I didn’t know her. I looked at Rita and smiled.
—Hi.
The first and only time I ever said it.
—Hi, said Rita.
She knew. She saw my eyes lock on hers, my determination not to notice the half-sister. Rita knew I wasn’t looking at her.
—Is Rockwell inside? I asked.
I smiled.
—No, said Rita. —Mister Rockwell is not inside.
She smiled.
—Where is he?
—Elsewhere, said Rita.
—One of my favourite places, said the half-sister.
—When’ll he be back? I asked.
—I don’t recall you making an appointment, said Rita.
She didn’t laugh, the half-sister, but I heard her.
—It’s Louis business, I said.
It wasn’t. I knew where Rockwell was and I knew how long he’d be there.
I parked my arse on Rita’s desk, and regretted it, immediately; I was a fuckin’ eejit.
I could hear the half-sister laughing.
I’d come up here for a woman and, instead, I’d found two. Every day, in ev-ery way. What the fuck was wrong with me? The old Henry would have whooped. Two cranky women – it wouldn’t have mattered a fuck.
I stood up.
—Nice hat, said the half-sister.
—And still on his head, said Rita. —They teach you manners where you came from?
I should have left, I should have turned and walked out. It would have worked. They’d have followed me, one of them, both; it didn’t matter.
I should have kept walking.
But the half-sister did the walking. Straight past me, her shoulder touched my sleeve, the slightest tug. She stopped at the door, and turned. The sunlight was still clinging to her. She talked to Rita; I was right in front of her.
—Tell Brother Rockwell he knows where to find me.
—Will do.
—Tell him I’ll wait one day and one day only.
—Will do.
I was there, right in front of her.
—Been a pleasure, sister, she said, and she’d gone. I could hear her shoes on the stairs.
—Who was that? I asked.
—That, said Rita, —was Florence Grattan-McKendrick. Sister Florence Grattan-McKendrick.
—Sister?
—Sister Flow.
—She’s not a fuckin’ nun.
—That’s right, said Rita. —She is not a fucking nun.
Rita was blushing and furious. I could feel her heat. It suited her.
I should have stayed.
—Good luck.
I took the steps four at a time, and made the street in time to see bewildered-looking men coming from the left. (I never got used to the east or west fuckology.) I went that way and the men kept coming at me. The sidewalk was full and flowing; big-boned Yanks came between me and the half-sister. I couldn’t see her ahead. The bewildered men kept passing, but fewer of them – I was losing her. I pushed through a herd of scared and sweating out-of-towners. I was sweating myself, stupidly desperate. Rockwell could have told me where to find her. I knew, but I was more and more a drowning man, smaller, and stupid, and something was gone.
Stop.
Something I’d lost, something I’d let go.
I pushed, I shoved. I looked, but no one stepped out of my way.
I
needed a gun.
Stop.
That was it. I wanted the old me back. I wanted to be Henry Smart. I wanted a gun and a cause. I wanted to take action, get things done, see them done with a well-aimed stare. I wanted to fuck Florence Grattan-Half-Sister-McKendrick. And Rita. And those fat girls here who wouldn’t step back and let the fine man pass. And that woman in the diner window. I wanted them all and, years ago, they’d wanted me. I wanted the old days and a fuckin’ gun. A gun and a cause. When women stepped back and admired.
One of the fat girls pushed back.
—Who’ya pushin’?
I hit the glass hard and the woman in the window took my collision like she’d been expecting me. She didn’t blink and the small smile didn’t shift or quiver. Her pearl-grey hat was on the table.
I found the door and pulled.
I got to the table. She was still looking out the window.
She was still there, the same woman, but she’d changed. She’d added to herself. I had it before I sat down: she was still a doll but she’d become a guy as well. It was the clothes. That wasn’t the suit of a moll or a wife with taste and money. She’d added authority to the package. She was the boss these days. It was the hair, the hat – my hat. It was the four or five years; she’d done things with them.
I slid into the bench, in front of her.
—My hat, I said.
—How many heads you got?
I put mine beside hers.
—Sweet, she said.
—So, I said. —Florence.
—Sometimes.
Her face gave nothing.
—How have you been?
—Oh, fine.
She blew her smoke across my shoulder.
—You?
—Fine, I said. —Grand. I got out of town alive that time.
—Knew you’d make it.
There was a waitress now, flat-footed, weepy; it had been a long day.
—Coffee, said the half-sister. —You?
—Yeah.
—Two.
She put her hand on the waitress’s as the check was slid across the oilcloth. It wasn’t a grab; she held the hand gently and looked at the waitress.
—It will come to pass as you would have it come to pass, said the half-sister.
She let go of the hand but the waitress didn’t move.
—You got any of them cream-filled, big cake affairs we’re not supposed to eat?
—Yes.
—I’ll have a couple of them, said the half-sister.
She tapped the check and it glided back to the waitress. She added the items; her pencil hand was shaking.
—Thank you, she said, and was gone. I watched her move. The day was suddenly young again.