“And pull!”
Ben pulled, but nothing happened. “Nothings happening.”
“You’re not pulling hard enough.”
Ben pulled harder.
“Aaarghh!” The Sensai leaped away. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“You told me to pull harder!”
“You’re supposed to use the opponent’s velocity for impetus.”
“You were standing still.”
“I know that!” He waved his hands in the air. “It’s useless. I cannot teach this man!”
Mike stepped forward. “But it’s very important, Jim. He could be killed—”
“Let him be killed then! Survival of the fittest!”
“Now, Jim, calm down.”
“I will not calm down. And I will not continue this waste of my life.”
“I was hoping you could give Ben some serious training.”
“You can’t train cannon fodder!” Papadopoulos marched to the back of the studio and disappeared into a private office, slamming the door behind him.
Ben stood in the center of the studio. “So,” he said, “how do you think I did?”
Neither Mike nor Christina felt moved to respond.
Chapter 39
AS SOON AS BEN escaped from the Chinese Boxing Institute, he headed south toward the Memorial Heights Condos. His eyes widened as he drove his van through the restricted entry gate. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised—what was he expecting, after all? He wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t this.
He pulled into the parking lot and slowed, checking the doors until he saw number 22. It was a two-story condo with a wood and white plaster, faux-Tudor exterior. Ivy crept up the walls surrounded by assorted greenery Ben couldn’t begin to identify. They were very attractive condos—well-kept, exclusive and expensive.
Which was what was bothering him, Ben realized, as he climbed out of the van and ambled toward the weathered steps that led to the front door. He hadn’t expected Scat to be living anyplace half so nice. He had expected something, well, grungier. Scat was, after all, a jazz musician—one who had been making the rounds for a long time. Where was the two-bit rooming house with the grumpy alcoholic matron, the buzzing blinking red light, the rummies draped across the stairs? This place looked like it catered more to suit-and-tie types than musicians.
Well, he was probably being ridiculous. The influence of too much bad TV. If Scat had been a professional musician for thirty or forty years, there was no reason he couldn’t have saved enough money to afford a decent place to live.
He rang the doorbell. The response was a nine-note chime.
Ben smiled. He recognized the familiar opening riff from Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. This must be the right place.
He heard some shuffling on the other side of the door. He knew someone was there, but it was taking him an eternity to answer.
A few moments later, Scat opened the door. “Ah, Ben, my man. You’re early.”
Ben nodded. “I found your place sooner than I expected. Following directions normally isn’t my strong suit. Is this all right?”
“Sure, sure.” He was trying to seem relaxed and at ease—trying a bit too hard, Ben thought. “Come on in.”
Ben entered the condo. The interior did not disappoint; it was every bit as impressive as the exterior had suggested. The furniture was all top quality, if ordinary. Two plush sofas flanked the living room. There was no coffee table, though Ben saw small round indentations in the carpet that suggested there had been one in the past. The kitchen was modern, lots of open spaces and white, and equipped with many snazzy appliances, including a cappuccino maker.
And there was a porch with a panoramic view of the city. “Do you mind?” Ben asked.
Scat shook his head. “Please do.”
Ben opened the sliding door and stepped out. He hadn’t noticed coming in, but the condos were constructed on the edge of Shadow Mountain. From this perspective, the whole city seemed to be at his fingertips.
“That’s spectacular,” Ben said.
“You should see it at sunset,” Scat replied. “It’ll stop your heart.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Some of the best music I’ve ever played came out right here on this porch, drinking in the sweet sights and sounds and smells of the city.” He turned toward Ben. “Would you like to stay out here?”
“Sure.”
Scat pulled over two deck chairs and gestured for Ben to sit.
“Now,” Scat said, “what’s so important it couldn’t wait till we all get back together in the club tonight?”
“It’s about the murder,” Ben said. “Murders, actually.”
“Murders? There’s been another one?”
“A long time ago. Twenty-two years to be exact.”
“Oh.” Scat’s face became grave. “You’re talking about Professor Hoodoo.”
“I’m told you knew Earl and the Professor—George Armstrong.”
“ ’Course I did. I played with both those boys. We were considered the best blowers in the business. Some said the best on all of God’s green earth. They even compared us to Charlie Parker.”
“And you were still around when the Professor was killed.”
Scat lowered his head. “That’s true. I was there.”
“And you knew Lily Campbell?”
“Oh, yes.” A soft smile played on his lips. “Everyone knew the Cajun Lily. And everyone loved her. She could do things to a song no one else ever even thought about doin’. Ever dreamed about doin’.” He looked up. “We were all four in Oklahoma City, as I recall, playing the Double-Deuce Festival, when the trouble came down.”
“I’ve been told Lily and the Professor were … dating?”
“I probably wouldn’ta used that word, son, but you’ve got the right idea. They were definitely together.”
“But Earl also had a thing for Lily.”
“Like I said, everyone loved Lily.”
“I heard there was some … unpleasantness between them.”
“There was always unpleasantness between Earl and the Professor. That was just the way it was. They were both so good, so strong. Music lived and breathed in their souls. There were bound to be complications. Hell, they never hammered out a number together but what they didn’t end up screamin’ and shoutin’ at each other. And if it wasn’t the music, it was women. And if it wasn’t women, it was booze.” He paused, drew in his breath. “And if it wasn’t booze, it was junk.”
Ben listened intently. This was quite a different account of the two men’s relationship than the one he’d gotten from Earl. “Junk?”
“Drugs, son. Sweet white snow.”
“Apparently the Professor had a drug problem.”
“I suppose that’s what you’d call it today. Nobody saw it like that back then, though. We just thought it was a way for the Professor to escape. Maybe the only one he had.”
“Escape what?”
Scat drew in his breath. “You gotta understand what it was like, hearing the Professor play. It’s like you’ve lived your whole life thinkin’ you’re just an ordinary mortal, and suddenly, you hear the Professor work his axe and you think—my God! There must be something more! I must be some kinda angel or somethin’, ’cause this is absolutely for goddamn certain the music of the gods I’m hearin’! That’s what the Professor could do for you.”
“I wish I could’ve heard him,” Ben replied. “Earl said he never made any recordings.”
“That’s right. Never even had his picture taken, that anyone knows of. Once he was gone, he was all the way gone.”
“That’s a tragedy.”
“More than that, son.” Scat sank lower into his chair. “It was the end of an era. Thanks to the Professor, we all had a chance to glimpse somethin’ better than ourselves.” He paused thoughtfully. “But after he was gone, well, so were all those dreams, those possibilities. Without him, we were mere mortals again. Absolutely ordinary, workaday mortals.”