“No foolin’.” Earl grinned, then slapped him hard on the back. “You keep workin’ on it. I got stuff to take care of before the show starts.” He sauntered off toward the bar, leaving Ben at the piano.
Ben ran through the number (“Since I Don’t Have You”) a few more times, but no matter how hard he tried to remember what he had been told, no matter how hard he tried to caress it slow and easy like a woo-man, he knew he wasn’t getting it. Oh, he’d get through it, if he had to, just as he got through their regular set every night. But in his heart, he knew he wasn’t feeling it, not deep down in the core of his soul. He was just playing what he had learned, imitating, doing what he’d been told. He might be competent, but he would never be great.
“Ten more minutes, then I need you off the stage.”
Ben looked up. It was Diane Weiskopf, their stage manager. She was dressed in black slacks and a black tank top. A black leather jacket hung off one shoulder. Her hair was blonde, with dark streaks, but it had all been gelled into pointed spikes that encircled her head like a halo.
“I need to get the stage ready as soon as possible. Earl wants everything just right tonight. Okay, Benji?”
Ben bit down on his lower lip. “My name is Ben. Benji is a trained dog who—”
“Yeah, I know. But you’re both cute.” She laughed, stroking her spikes. “So get off the stage, okay?”
Ben wouldn’t have dreamed of arguing. She was the toughest person at the club, probably the toughest person he knew. When he’d first met her, he figured her for the bouncer. “Lemme see if I can get this one song down, then I’ll be out of here.”
“Well …”
“Just one more song.”
“This isn’t one of those endless Harry Chapin numbers, is it?”
Ben grimaced. Great to see that his abortive audition effort was already becoming legend. “No, it isn’t.”
“Well, all right then. But ten minutes, tops.”
Ben gave it a few more run-throughs, then decided to call it quits. Even if he made a mistake, he knew Scat or Gordo would just hike up the volume and cover it. It wouldn’t really matter. They were used to covering for him.
He jumped off the stage and walked toward the front door. He wanted to get some fresh air before the crowd started rolling in. It would do him some good, he figured. Or at least he hoped.
Just before he got to the front of the club, he saw a stranger coming in. It was hard to see clearly; the lights inside were dim and the sunlight outside cast the man in silhouette. Ben couldn’t make out his face, but he could see that he had bushy Afro-style hair and an equally bushy beard. He was wearing dark glasses.
“Where you want the rug?” the man barked, still several paces away from Ben.
There was something odd about the man’s voice, but Ben couldn’t quite place it. “The rug?”
“Got orders to deliver a rug. Wants it backstage, I hear.”
“Backstage?” Ben had heard nothing about a new rug, but that didn’t mean much. He knew Earl had been fretting himself sick about this anniversary show. Maybe he decided they needed a rug. Probably thought it might muffle some of the backstage noise.
“Go to it, then,” Ben said. He dipped his head, and the workman sailed right past him.
Ben passed through the double doors and stepped out into the bright sunlight. He didn’t see any of the other band members hanging around; they must have gone somewhere—maybe down to Nelson’s for a quick chicken-fried steak.
Ben kicked at the gravel in the driveway. He wished he’d been invited along, wherever they went. But this was not the first time they had neglected to include him in their group. Oh, they were always cordial. Even friendly. But he never had the feeling he was one of the gang. Try as hard as he might, he knew that in their minds they were true jazz musicians, and he was some white kid who played the piano pretty well.
After a few minutes in the sun, Ben saw Earl up the street coming around the corner. He was moving at a slow trot, although after he spotted Ben he eased into a walk. Ben suspected he was trying to get some exercise and work off some anxiety at the same time. He talked a lot about trying to lose all his extra weight, although Ben had seen few signs of progress.
“Out for a jog?” Ben asked as Earl approached.
“Don’t be stupid,” Earl said, suddenly embarrassed. “I was just … lookin’ around. I thought she mighta gotten lost or somethin’.” He changed the subject quickly. “What you doin’ out here? Shouldn’t you be huddled over the piano, trying to set some new land speed record?”
“I decided to take a break. And to make room for the rug man.”
“The rug man. What you talkin’ about?”
A line formed across Ben’s forehead. “The workman in the ’fro. Came to deliver a rug backstage.”
“I never asked for no rug backstage.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.” Earl glanced at his watch. “Damn. And the show starts in barely half an hour. I don’t have time for this.” He rushed past Ben and headed into the club.
Ben followed close behind. There was hardly any reason to panic. What was the worst that could happen—they could get stuck with a rug they didn’t want? Still, something about the whole situation gave him a creepy feeling. Maybe it was just nerves, or stage fright, but he’d had this feeling before and it never boded well.
Tyrone Jackson strolled into Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium feeling rich as Midas. He had changed out of those tacky overalls and put on a multicolored African jacket with a snazzy collarless shirt. He was ready to kick back and have a good time. What with all the loot he’d made at the bus station today, he could treat himself to a drink, maybe even find some young lovely and treat her as well.
Now that was something he could get into. A couple of tall cool ones, some hot jazz licks, and a beautiful babe-a-rino. That would be excellent indeed.
He saw the door guard, just now coming on duty. He was new, someone Tyrone had never seen before.
“Ten bucks a head,” the man said.
“Sure thing,” Tyrone replied, reaching for his wad. He started to withdraw the bill, then stopped. “Unless …” He glanced up at the man. “Naw. You’re probably not the type.”
The man frowned. “The type for what?”
“Oh, never mind.” Tyrone held out the ten-spot. “You’d never go for it.”
The man leaned forward, an angry expression on his face. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
Tyrone held up his hands. “All right, chill. It just so happens I have some inside information on the fifth race at Remington tomorrow.”
“Get out of here.”
“Like I said, you’re not the type.” Again, Tyrone held out the bill.
“Not the type for what?
“Not the type to take a chance to get ahead. No, you’re the play-it-safe type. Don’t take risks. That’s why you’re working a crummy job at a nightclub and probably always will be.”
“Now listen here—”
“But what would you say if I offered you a chance to increase your investment by ten times—overnight?”
“I’d say you’re full of it.”
“Of course you would. Because you haven’t got the imagination. That’s the problem with the world today. The ones with the guts—like me—ain’t got the money. The ones with the money—like you—ain’t got no guts.”
“What’s your point?”
“It’s this simple.” He began talking at a rapid pace. “Momo gots a grudge against Jojo and they’ve both got horses in the fifth but Momo has some money riding background with the boys so he has to win but Jojo’s gonna take it as a point of personal honor if he does and figures if he beats Momo he looks better with his boys and strengthens his territory maybe even expands it but Momo is determined not to let that happen so he’s hired a fixer. Follow me so far?”