“I’m interested. I just don’t have any time. It must be nice living on unemployment insurance, all the time.”
“Not all the time.”
“You are right now.”
Don shrugged. “Anyhow, if you’re interested, you ought to go and have a listen. You might get them on your show. Give it a little life.”
“What’s your connection with them?”
“None.”
“Oh?”
“Well, my friend Buck McLean is first cornet. But it’s purely a friendly interest. I have no other connection. I go every night to listen and enjoy myself. Also, the girlfriend likes it.”
Verne glanced at Don, sallow-faced, drooping himself over the end of the table. “What’s she like? Do I know her?”
“No,” Don said. He went out the door, closing it noisily after him. Verne heard him clomping down the hall.
Eventually he found time to take in several new combos, including the Woolly Wildcats. The Walker Club had once been owned by a stripteaser of considerable fame, but recently it had dropped slowly down the social scale until now it was just another hangout for jazz cultists.
As soon as he entered the Club he saw Don, and a few more of his kind, besides. The Woolly Wildcats were playing fast and loud, “Emperor Norton’s Hunch.” He saw McLean puffing away behind his cornet, his cheeks bulging out. A little cluster of admirers hung around the stand.
Verne sat down at a table and played listlessly with some wax from the candle. When the waitress started toward him he waved her off. Presently he got up, and going over to the bar bought himself a scotch and water. He carried it back and sat down at the table again.
When the Wildcats finished Don Field came over to Verne’s table. And with him was his new girlfriend. She was tall and thin, with long black hair. Sandals and a red shirt. Some sort of jacket buttoned around her throat. She was taller than he, Verne realized, when he stood up to say hello. He invited them to sit down for a few minutes.
“What do you think of them?” Don rumbled.
Verne shrugged. “It’s a band.”
“What?” Don said hoarsely.
The waitress came over. “What did you wish?”
“Hello, Susan,” Don said. “I want a half order of red beans and rice, with a side of garlic bread.” He turned to the girl. “What do you want, Teddy?”
“Coffee.”
He looked at Verne. Verne tapped his drink.
“That’s all,” Don said to the waitress. “And a cup of coffee for me, too. My father here is paying for this.”
The waitress disappeared. Verne studied the girl critically. Her hair was dyed. He could see that; it was too dead, too lusterless. She was restless, bird-like. Her finger tips tapped continually against the table. Her thin hands were strong and determined. He glanced up at her face and found himself looking into two bright eyes. They sparkled and seemed to be enjoying some private amusement of their own. He looked away.
“Come on,” Don said. “Let’s admit they are about the best one-beat band around”
“Wood blocks. Banjo. Strictly rick-i-tic.”
Don’s great sullen face clouded. “All you crews want is this bop—” he began, but the girl put her hand on his arm suddenly, leaning toward him.
“Come on, darling. Let’s not get excited about it.”
Don subsided into silent gloom. The red beans and rice came. Don began to tear hunks of garlic bread loose and scoop up the beans with them. Like some peasant of the Middle Ages, Verne thought. He sipped his drink.
Presently Teddy leaned over toward him. “To get back to the problem of jazz. Do I receive the impression that you don’t personally enjoy the Dixieland-style jazz?”
Verne shrugged. “It had its place.”
He was watching her closely. If she was a bird, she was a dangerous kind of bird. A bird of prey. He found he disliked talking with her. She was pushing, searching. He did not like women who did that.
“Is this the first time you’ve been here?” he asked, changing the subject. “Miss—”
“Teddy.”
“Teddy?”
“No, I’ve been here many times before. I like it here. And I especially enjoy the music.”
He smiled. “Oh? That’s nice.”
She smiled back. Don ate, immersed in the problems of consumption. Once in a while he looked up, chewing, his great face blank and expressionless.
“I understand you have a jazz program,” Teddy said. “What’s the name of it?”
“Potluck Party. Thursday evening at nine.”
“What kind of music do you play?”
“Progressive jazz, mostly. Brubeck. Bostic.”
“I don’t know much about them.”
“You should. Some day people will sit around in dark places reviving them. Like you do Ory and Johnson.”
“Do you write your own programs out in advance, or do you do it ad lib?”
“It varies.” He uncovered his watch. “Well,” he said, getting up slowly, finishing the last of his drink, “I guess I’m going to have to be getting on. You staying? I can drive you someplace, if you want.”
Don looked up from his food. “See you later, dad.”
“I’m sorry you have to leave so soon,” Teddy said, the fixed smile still on her face. “I hope we’ll see you again some time.”
“Thanks. Goodbye.”
He left.
The following Thursday he did his program. After it was over he chatted a while with the board man and then went to get his coat. As he walked through the waiting room outside the control booth he saw— from the corner of his eye—that someone had got up suddenly from one of the deep chairs and was coming quickly up behind him.
He turned. It was the girl, Teddy. She smiled at him. She wore a short bright outfit, brilliant with color. Her hair was tied into two braids, a ribbon in each. “Hello,” she said merrily.
Watching her, Verne got out his pipe and began to put tobacco in it. He was trying to understand her, and he could not. Her eyes were bright, matching the hard little smile on her lips. He thought: home guidance counselors and lady receptionists smile like that.
“Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I enjoyed watching your program. I haven’t seen anyone do a program in years.”
She had watched through the heavy glass soundproof window between the waiting room and the control room.
“Thanks.” He put on his coat, sucking on the unlit pipe. She never took her eyes off him.
“Do you want a match?”
Verne got out his lighter. He wondered how old she was. Twenty-two? Eighteen? Thirty? It was impossible to tell. Her skin was white and thin, startling against her hair. What a hideous outfit she had on! It was like glaring plumage. It was not tasteless; it was simply outlandish. Like parts of different outfits stitched together.
“Do you want a ride?” Verne said. “Or are you staying here? Where’s Don?”
“I came down alone. Yes, I’d love a ride. It looks as if it was going to rain.”
“Oh?” He started down the hall, lighting his pipe, cupping it in his hands. Teddy followed. He passed through the heavy door, out of the building, stopping long enough to hold the door open for her. They walked down the short gravel path to his coupe.
“Well?” Verne said as they drove along. “Where do you want to go? Where do you live?”
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Ten-thirty.”
“That’s so early!”
“Is it?”
“Don’t you think so?”
He was silent for a moment. “It depends on what time you have to get up.”
“How about you?”
“How about me what?”
“What time do you have to get up?”
“Tomorrow’s my day off,” Verne said slowly. “I probably won’t be getting up before eleven.”
She was watching him, waiting for him to continue. He kept his eyes on the road, gripping the wheel. He was beginning to feel badgered. “Do you want to go by the Walker Club?” he said finally.
She laughed. “Not very much.”
“Where, then?”
“Wherever you want.”
They drove in silence. At last they came to a well-lit intersection. Verne turned. They drove along a short distance and then came to a stop at the curb. The car was in front of the Lazy Wren Club.
“Do we get out here?” Teddy asked.
Verne nodded. They got out and went inside, passing down a flight of dark stairs. The place was filled with people. They were almost all Negroes. Packed in tight against each other, they were watching a three-piece group playing on a small bandstand. The Club was shabby and old-fashioned. Drab and smoky, and very hot.
A thin bald Negro pushed his way up to them. He smiled widely. “Hello, Mister Tildon.” He nodded to Teddy. “I’m very glad to welcome you folks here tonight.”
“Frank, this is Teddy.”
“I’m quite happy to meet you, Miss Teddy. This is the first time you’ve been here?”
“Yes. Verne has said some awfully nice things about... about the band.”
Frank smiled more. “He likes our music, I think.”
“Do you want to sit at the bar or at a table?” Verne said to Teddy.
“A table.”
“I think I have one for you.” Frank pushed a way for them through the people, to a table almost at the edge of the bandstand. “How is this, Mister Tildon?”
“All right. Bring us a couple of scotch and waters.”
Frank left. Teddy began to struggle with her coat. Verne helped her fold it over the back of a chair. They sat down, facing each other across the table.
“It’s awfully warm in here,” Teddy said. She watched the three men playing. Their music was quiet, and very strange. It seemed to start off in one direction, only to wander away the next moment on a completely different path. The music seemed to be lost, bewildered, but calm, with a faith that everything would turn out all right in the end. And so it did— suddenly, with a few neatly turned chords. Everyone relaxed, and a mute, appreciative murmur rushed through the room.
Teddy turned to Verne, eyes shining. “I liked it.”
“It’s better than ‘Ace in the Hole,’ at least.”
They stayed, listening to the music and drinking for several hours. Teddy was quiet, paying close attention to the sounds from the bandstand. Finally, when the three men were taking a break, she turned suddenly to Verne.
“Verne, do you want to take me home? I’m getting so tired!”
They got up, and he helped her put on her coat. He paid the bill and they went upstairs and outside. The air was cold and brittle.
Teddy took a deep breath. “What a sensation.”
They got into the car and began to drive. Verne was silent. Presently he slowed down. “Maybe you better tell me which direction to go. I don’t know where you live.”
“Can’t we drive around? The air is so good.”
“If you like air, roll down the window.”
She rolled it down and leaned out, her mouth half open, the wind blowing her braids up.
At last she expressed a desire to go home. He took her there and let her off in front of the apartment building, driving away with a feeling of mixed annoyance and curiosity. He wanted to categorize women; this one was hard to figure out. She seemed after something. A sort of determination gripped her. But for what? She had gone around with Don Field. What could she have found in him?
He considered the matter for a while, and then gave it up. It was not worth the trouble. He snapped the car radio on and caught an all-night concert. They were playing the Beethoven A Major Quartet. Listening to the music, he drove slowly home.
The following evening as he was entering his apartment building the manager suddenly came out and stopped him.
“Can I speak to you, Mister Tildon?”
Verne eyed him. “Sure. What is it? The rent can’t be due again already.”
“A young woman came here today, looking for you. I told her you weren’t in, but she insisted on going upstairs to your apartment. She was very persuasive. She got me to let her in. I had never seen this girl before—”
“You let her in?”
“As you know, it’s against the policy of the owners to allow someone into a tenant’s apartment, but her condition was such that I—”
Verne went quickly upstairs. His door was unlocked, standing half open. He switched on the light. In the living room he found a woman’s purse on the floor. A coat and hat on the sofa.
He hurried into the bedroom. Lying on the bed was Teddy. She was snoring dully. Her clothes were rumpled and messy. He walked over and bent down.
“Drunk as an owl.” She did not stir.
If he thought this was something—