by John Harvey
‘But . . .’
‘But nothin’. And if there’s anything else goin’ down, I’ll hear about it. Who do you think took care of Bobo? You know my name, man? Jones. Razor Jones.’ He smiled suddenly at Brew. ‘Bobo is my brother.’
Razor started the car and whistled for Honey. Brew got out slowly and stood at the curb like a survivor of the holocaust. The huge Doberman galloped back obediently, sniffed at Brew and jumped in the car next to Razor.
‘Bye,’ Razor called, flashing Brew a toothy smile. Brew could swear Honey sneered at him as the car drove away.
The Final Bar was now the in place in the Village. Manny had seen to that, forgiving Brew for all his past sins and recognising Bobo’s return, if artfully managed, would insure all their futures. Manny was pragmatic if nothing else. He was on the phone daily, negotiating with record companies and spreading the word that a great event in jazz was about to take place.
Driven by the memory of Razor’s menacing smile, Brew played like a man possessed, astonishing musicians who came in to hear for themselves. He was getting calls from people he’d never heard of, offering record dates, road tours, even to form his own group. But of course Brew wasn’t going anywhere. He was miserable.
‘You sound great, kid,’ Manny said, looking around the club. It was packed every night now and Rollo had hired extra help to handle the increase in business. ‘Listen, wait till you hear the deal I’ve made with Newport Records. A live session, right here. The return of Bobo Jones. Of course, I insisted on top billing for you too.’ Manny was beaming. ‘How about that, eh?’
‘I think I’ll go to Paris.’ Brew said, staring ahead vacantly.
‘Paris?’ Manny turned to Mary Ann. ‘What’s he talking about?’
Mary Ann shrugged. ‘He’s got this crazy idea about Bobo.’
‘What’s the idea? Brew, talk to me,’ Manny said.
‘I mean,’ Brew said evenly, ‘there isn’t going to be any record. Not with me anyway.’
Manny’s face fell. ‘No record? Whatta you mean? An album with Bobo will make you. At the risk of sounding like an agent, this is your big break.’
‘Manny, you don’t understand. Bobo thinks I’m Lee Evans. Don’t you see?’
‘No, I don’t see,’ Manny said, glaring at Brew. ‘I don’t care if he thinks you’re Jesus Christ with a saxophone. We’re talking major bucks here. Big. Blow this one and you might as well sell your horn.’ Manny turned back pleadingly to Mary Ann. ‘For God’s sake, Mary Ann, talk some sense to him, will you?’
Mary Ann shrugged. ‘He’s afraid Bobo will flip out again and he’s worried about Bobo’s brother.’
‘Yeah, Manny, you would be too if you saw him. He’s got the biggest razor I’ve ever seen. And if that isn’t enough, he’s got a killer dog that would just love to tear me to pieces.’
‘What did you do to him? You’re not up to your old tricks again?’
‘No, no, nothing. He just told me, ordered me, to keep playing with Bobo.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
Brew sighed. ‘Look, Manny, for one thing, I don’t like being a ghost. And what if Bobo attacks me like the last time? He almost killed that guy. Bobo needs to be told but no one will do it and I can’t do it. So it’s Bobo, Razor or Paris. I’ll take Paris. I’ve heard there’s a good jazz scene there.’
Manny looked dumbly at Mary Ann. ‘Is he serious? C’mon, Brew, that’s ridiculous. Look, Newport wants to set this up for next Monday night and I’m warning you. Screw this up and I will personally see that you never work again.’ He laughed then and slapped Brew on the back. ‘It’ll be all right, Brew. Trust me.’
But Brew didn’t trust anyone and no one could convince him. Even Mary Ann couldn’t get through to him. Finally, he decided to get some expert advice. He checked with Bellevue but was told the case couldn’t be discussed unless he was a relative. He even tracked down the saxophonist Bobo had attacked but as soon as he mentioned Bobo’s name, the guy slammed down the phone on him. In desperation, Brew remembered a guy he’d met at one of the clubs. A jazz buff, Ted Fisher was doing his internship in psychiatry at Colombia Medical School. Musicians called him Doctor Deep. Brew telephoned, explained what he wanted and they agreed to meet at Chubby’s.
‘What is this, a gay bar?’ Ted Fisher asked, looking around the crowded bar.
‘No, Ted, there just aren’t a lot of lady musicians. Now look, I –’
‘Hey, isn’t that Gerry Mulligan over there at the bar?’
‘Ted, c’mon. This is serious.’
‘Sorry, Brew. Well, from what you’ve told me already, as I understand it, your concern is that Bobo thinks you’re his former saxophone player, right?’
Brew looked desperate. ‘I don’t think it, I know it. Look, Bobo attacked the substitute horn player. What I want to know is what happens if the same conditions are repeated? Bobo’s convinced I’m Lee Evans now, but what if the live recording session brings it all back and he suddenly realises I’m not? Could he flip again and go for me?’ Brew sat back and rubbed his throat.
‘Hmmm . . .’ Ted murmured, staring at the ceiling. ‘No, I wouldn’t think so. Bobo’s fixation, brought about by the loss of a close friend, whom he’d actually, though inadvertently, assumed a father-figure role for is understandable and quite plausible. As for a repeated occurrence, even in simulated, identical conditions, well, delayed shock would account for the first instance, but no. I don’t think it’s within the realms of possibility.’ Ted smiled at Brew reassuringly and lit his pipe.
‘Could you put that in a little plainer terms?’
‘No, I don’t think it would happen again.’
‘You’re sure?’ Brew was already feeling better.
‘Yes, absolutely. Unless . . .’
Brew’s head snapped up. ‘Unless what?’
‘Well, unless this Bobo fellow suddenly decided he . . . he didn’t like the way you played. Brew? You okay? You look a little pale.’
Brew leaned forward on the table and covered his face with his hands. ‘Thanks, Ted,’ he whispered.
Ted smiled. ‘Any time, Brew. Don’t mention it. Hey, do you think Gerry Mulligan would mind if I asked him for his autograph?’
In the end, Brew finally agreed to do the session. It wasn’t Manny’s insistence or threats. They paled in comparison with Razor. It wasn’t even Mary Ann’s reasoning. She was convinced Bobo was totally sane. No, in the end, it was the dreams that did it. Always the dreams.
A giant Doberman, wearing sunglasses and carrying a straight razor in its mouth, was chasing him through Central Park. In the distance Razor stood holding his horn, laughing. Brew had little choice.
On one point, however, Brew stood firm. The Newport Record executives had taken one look at the Final Bar and almost cancelled the entire deal. They wanted to move the session to the Village Vanguard but Brew figured that was tempting fate too much. Through Mary Ann, Bobo had deferred the final decision to Brew and as far as he was concerned, it was the Final Bar or nothing. The Newport people finally conceded and set about refurbishing the broken-down club. Brew had to admit someone had really spent some money.
The club was completely transformed. It was repainted, new tables were added, blow-up photos of jazz greats were plastered on the walls and the sawdust floor was replaced with new carpeting.
When Brew and Mary Ann arrived, they were greeted at the door by Rollo, nattily attired in a tuxedo, collecting a hefty admission charge and looking as smart as any maître d’ in New York. ‘My man Brew.’ He smiled, slapping Brew’s palm. ‘Tonight’s the night!’
‘Yeah, tonight’s the night,’ Brew mumbled as they pushed through the crowd. The club was jammed with fans, reporters and photographers. Manny waved to them from the bar where he was huddled with the Newport people. A Steinway grand had replaced the ancient upright piano and a tuner was making final adjustments as engineers scurried about running cables and testing microphones.
Brew sud
denly felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned to see Razor, resplendent in a yellow velvet suit, sitting with a matching pair of leggy blondes. Honey hovered nearby. Razor flashed a smile at Mary Ann and nodded to Brew. ‘I see you been keepin’ cool. This your lady?’
Brew stepped around Honey, wondering if it were true that dogs can smell fear. ‘Yeah. Mary Ann, this is Razor.’
Razor bowed deeply and kissed Mary Ann’s hand, then stepped back to introduce the blondes. ‘Say hello to Sandra and Shana.’
‘Hi,’ the blondes chorused in unison.
‘What are you doing here?’ Brew asked Razor.
‘What am I doin’ here? Man, this is my club. Didn’t you know that?’ He flashed Brew another smile. ‘You play good now.’
In a daze, Brew found Mary Ann a seat near the bandstand. As the piano-tuner finished, a tall man in glasses and the three-piece suit walked to the microphone and introduced himself as the Vice-President of Newport Records. He called for quiet, perhaps the first time it had ever been necessary at the Final Bar.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know, we are recording live here tonight, so we’d appreciate your co-operation. Right now, though, let’s give a great big welcome to truly, one of the giants of jazz, Mr Bobo Jones and his quartet.’
The applause was warm and real as they took the stand. Bobo, Deacon and Juice were immaculate in matching tuxes. Brew was dressed likewise but at the last minute had elected to opt for a white turtleneck sweater. Bobo bowed shyly as the crowd settled down in anticipation.
Brew busied himself with changing the reed on his horn and tried to blot out the image of Bobo leaping from the piano but there was nowhere to go. He rubbed his throat, tried to smile at Mary Ann as the sound check was completed. It was time.
They opened with one of Bobo’s originals, simply titled ‘Changes’. Bobo led off with a breathtaking solo introduction that dispelled any doubts about his return being genuine. Then, Deacon walked in, bass pulsing quietly, while Juice put the cymbals on simmer.
Brew decided that if he survived tonight, he’d just disappear. But now, locked into the music, his fingers flew over the horn in a blur while Deacon’s throbbing bass and Juice’s drums pushed and drove him through several choruses. Bobo, eyes closed, head back, nodded and passed the chords to Brew with love, till at last, Brew backed away and surrendered to Bobo.
Bobo spun out the old magic with a touch so deft he left the audience gasping for breath. This was the second coming of Bobo Jones. Rejuvenated and fresh lines flowed off his fingers effortlessly, transforming the mass of wood and metal and ivory into a total musical entity. Brew listened awestruck and nearly missed his entrance for the final cadenza.
He restated the plaintive theme, then made it his own, twisting, turning the melody before finally returning it safely to Bobo in its original form as the quartet came together for the final chord.
The applause that rang out and filled the room was deafening. But just as suddenly as it had erupted, it trailed off and lapsed into a tension-filled silence. Brew felt it then, his heart pounding, some murmuring as he caught a movement near the piano. He turned to see Bobo advancing toward him.
Brew stood frozen, staring hypnotically as Bobo stopped in front of him. As their eyes met in the hushed room, Bobo wiped away a tear, then suddenly grabbed Brew and hugged him close.
The audience began to clap again, only one or two people at first, gradually building in a crescendo, as Bobo whispered something in Brew’s ear. No one heard what he’d said and it was later edited off the tape.
Brew wasn’t sure he’d heard right at first. Bobo, face cracking into a huge grin, said it again. Brew smiled faintly, then threw his head back, laughing until tears came to his own eyes. Juice was laughing too and even Deacon smiled. Bobo went back to the piano and the rest of the evening went like a dream.
It was Mary Ann who finally remembered. Everyone was gone except for Manny who sat in a booth with them, calculating album sales and filling them in on the upcoming tour.
Brew sat slumped down while Mary Ann massaged his shoulders. The Newport people had been all smiles and had carted Bobo off to a celebration party. Brew had promised to join them later but for now he was content to bask in the luxurious feeling of freedom that washed over him in waves.
‘What was it Bobo said to you? After the first number,’ Mary Ann asked.
Brew grinned. ‘Something I completely overlooked. “I knew all the time you wasn’t Lee Evans, man,”’ Brew said, imitating Bobo’s hoarse whisper. ‘“Lee was a brother, and you sure don’t look like a brother.”’
Manny looked up puzzled, as Brew and Mary Ann both laughed. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘Priorities, Manny. It’s all a question of your priorities.’
PLASTIC PADDY
George P. Pelecanos
‘I hate Arabs,’ said Paddy.
A guy sat facing a good-looking blonde in a booth against the far wall. The guy was minding his own business. He and the girl were splitting a pitcher of draught and smiling at each other across the table. He would say something, or she would, and the other one would laugh. It looked like they were having a nice time. Paddy was staring at the guy like he wanted to kick his ass.
‘How you know he’s an Arab?’ I said.
‘Look at him,’ said Paddy. ‘Looks like Achmed Z-med, that guy on T.J. Hooker.’
‘Adrian Zmed,’ said Scott, the smart guy of our bunch.
‘Another Arab,’ said Paddy. This was five or six years after the Ayatollah, Nuke Iran and all that crap. Paddy was the only guy I knew who hadn’t given that up.
Me and Paddy and Scott were in Kildare’s, a pub up in Wheaton we used to drink at pretty regular. Wheaton was our neighborhood, not too far over the DC line, but a thousand miles away from the city, if you know what I mean. It was a night like most nights back then: a little drinking, some blow, then more drinking to take the thirst off the blow. Only this night ended up different than the rest.
I’d put the year at 1985, ’cause I can remember the bands and singers that were coming from the juke: Mr Mister, Paul Young, Foreigner, Wham . . . Hell, you could flush the whole Top Forty from that decade down the toilet and no one would miss it. Also, Len Bias was lighting it up for Maryland on the TV screen over the bar, so I know it couldn’t have been later than ’Eighty-five. Maybe it was early ’eighty-six. It was around then, anyway.
Paddy was up that night, and not only from the coke. He always seemed angry at something back in those days, but we had chalked up his behavior to his hyped-up personality. Just ‘Tool being Tool.’
O’Toole, I should say. Up until he was twenty-three, Paddy’s name was John Tool. Most everyone who knew him, even his old man before he kicked, called him Tool. It was a nickname you gave to a fraternity brother or something, like Animal Man or Headcase, which was all right around the fellas, but didn’t go over too good with the girls. Paddy liked it all right when he was growing up, but when he got to be a man he suddenly felt it didn’t suit him. Still, he wanted a handle, something that could make him stand out in a crowd. He wasn’t a guy you noticed, either for his character or his appearance. I think that’s why he changed his name. That and his woman problem. He’d never had much success with the ladies and he was looking to change his luck.
What he told us was, he’d paid to have one of those family tree things done and found that he was all Irish on his mother’s side. Turned out that his great-grandfather’s name was O’Toole. A lightning-strike coincidence, he said, that Tool and O’Toole were so similar. So he made the legal switch, adding Paddy as his first name. He said he liked the way Paddy O’Toole ‘scanned’.
It was around this time that he went Irish all the way. Started listening to The Chieftains and their kind. Became a Notre Dame fan, got the silver four-leaf clover charm on a silver-plated necklace, and had that T-Bird he drove, the garbage wagon with the Landau roof, painted Kelly green at the body shop wh
ere he worked. Then he fixed a ‘Kiss Me, I’m Irish’ sticker on the rear bumper, which totally fucked up what was already a halfway fucked-looking car.
Paddy began to drink more, too. I guess he thought that being a lush would admit him to the club. When he got really torched, he talked about his mother’s cooking like it was special or something, and referred to his late father as ‘Da’. His eyes would well with tears then, even though the old man had beat him pretty good when he was a kid. We thought it was all bullshit, and a little off, but we didn’t say nothin’ to him. He wasn’t hurting anyone, after all.
We didn’t say anything to his face, that is. Scott, the only one of us who had graduated from college, analysed the situation, as usual. Scott said that Americans who had that Irish identity thing going on were Irish the way Tony Danza was Italian. That most Americans’ idea of Ireland was John Ford’s Ireland, Technicolor green and Maureen O’Hara red and Barry Fitzgerald, Popeye-with-a-brogue blarney. And by the way, said Scott, John Ford was born in Maine. I didn’t know John Ford from Gerald Ford, but it sounded smart. Also, it sounded like a lecture, the way Scott always sounded since he’d come back home with that degree. Scott could be a little, what do you call that, pompous sometimes, but he was all right.
So back to Kildare’s. For years we had gone to this other joint around the corner, Garner’s, made your clothes smell like Marlboro Lights and steak-and-cheese. But Paddy, who before he went Irish had never moved up off of Miller Lite, said the Guinness there was ‘too cold’, so we changed locals. ‘Kildare is a county in Ireland,’ said Paddy, the first time we went in there, like he was telling us something we didn’t know, and Scott said, ‘So is Sligo,’ meaning the junior high school where all of us had gone. Paddy’s mouth kind of slacked open then, like it did when he thought Scott was putting him on. I said, ‘Dr Kildare,’ just to hear my own voice.