“What’s the matter with you? You sound depressed. What have they been pumping into you?”
“I’m fine. In fact, my head’s straighter than it’s been for a long while. That’s the trouble. I can see it now. Your scheme… I should never have listened to you.”
“What is this? What scheme? Look, Steve, this isn’t complicated. You’re a very talented artist. When you’re through with this, all you do is what you’ve always done. Just now you’re simply removing an obstacle, that’s all. There’s no scheme….”
“Look, Bradley, it’s bad here. It’s not just the physical discomfort. I realise now what I’m doing to myself. It’s been a mistake, I should have had more respect for myself.”
“Steve, what’s triggered this? Did something just happen over there?”
“Damn right something happened. That’s why I’m calling, I need you to get me out of this. I need you to get me to a different hotel.”
“Different hotel? Who are you? Crown Prince Abdullah? What the fuck’s wrong with the hotel?”
“What’s wrong is I’ve got Lindy Gardner right next door. And she just invited me over, and she’s going to keep on inviting me over. That’s what’s wrong!”
“Lindy Gardner’s next door?”
“Look, I can’t go through that again. I’ve just been in there, it was all I could do to stay as long as I did. And now she’s saying we have to play with her Meg Ryan chess set…”
“Steve, you’re telling me Lindy Gardner’s next door? You spent time with her?”
“She put on her husband’s record! Fuck it, I think she’s playing another one right now. This is what I’ve come to. This is my level now.”
“Steve, hold it, let’s go over this again. Steve, just shut the fuck up, then explain it to me. Explain to me how you get to be with Lindy Gardner.”
I did calm down then for a while, and I gave a brief account of how Lindy had asked me over, and the way things had gone.
“So you weren’t rude to her?” he asked as soon as I was through.
“No, I wasn’t rude to her. I kept it all held in. But I’m not going back in there. I need to change hotels.”
“Steve, you’re not going to change hotels. Lindy Gardner? She’s in bandages, you’re in bandages. She’s right next door. Steve, this is a golden opportunity.”
“It’s nothing of the sort, Bradley. It’s inner-circle hell. Her Meg Ryan chess set for God’s sake!”
“Meg Ryan chess set? How does that work? Every piece looks like Meg?”
“And she wants to hear my playing! She’s insisting next time I take in CDs!”
“She wants to… Jesus, Steve, you haven’t even got the bandages off and everything’s going your way. She wants to hear you play?”
“I’m asking you to deal with this, Bradley. Okay, I’m in deep, I’ve had the surgery, you talked me into it, because I was fool enough to believe what you said. But I don’t have to put up with this. I don’t have to spend the next two weeks with Lindy Gardner. I’m asking you to get me moved pronto!”
“I’m not getting you moved anywhere. Do you realise how important a person Lindy Gardner is? You know the kind of people she’s pals with? What she could do for you with one phone call? Okay, she’s divorced from Tony Gardner now. That doesn’t change a thing. Get her on your team, get your new face, doors will open. It’ll be big league, five seconds flat.”
“It won’t be big-league anything, Bradley, because I’m not going over there again, and I don’t want any doors opening for me other than ones that open because of my music. And I don’t believe what you said before, I don’t believe this crap about a scheme…”
“I don’t think you should be expressing yourself so emphatically. I’m very concerned about those stitches…”
“Bradley, very soon you won’t have to be concerned about my stitches at all, because you know what? I’m going to pull off this mummy mask and I’m going to put my fingers into the corners of my mouth and yank my face into every kind of stretchy combination possible! Do you hear me, Bradley?”
I heard him sigh. Then he said: “Okay, calm down. Just calm down. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. It’s understandable. If you don’t want to see Lindy right now, if you want to let gold go floating by, okay, I understand your position. But be polite, okay? Make a good excuse. Don’t burn any bridges.”
I FELT A LOT better after this talk with Bradley, and had a reasonably contented evening, watching half a movie, then listening to Bill Evans. The next morning after breakfast, Dr. Boris came in with two nurses, seemed satisfied and left. A little later, around eleven, I had a visitor-a drummer called Lee who I’d played with in a house band in San Diego a few years ago. Bradley, who’s also Lee’s manager, had suggested he come by.
Lee’s okay and I was pleased to see him. He stayed for an hour or so, and we swapped news of mutual friends, who was in which band, who’d packed their bags and gone to Canada or to Europe.
“It’s too bad how so many of the old team aren’t around any more,” he said. “You have great times together, next thing you don’t know where they are.”
He told me about his recent gigs, and we laughed over some memories from our San Diego days. Then towards the end of his visit, he said:
“And what about Jake Marvell? What do you make of it? Strange world, ain’t it?”
“It’s strange all right,” I said. “But then again, Jake was always a good musician. He deserves what he’s getting.”
“Yeah, but it’s strange. Remember how Jake was back then? In San Diego? Steve, you could have blown him off the stage every night of the week. And now look at him. Is that just luck or what?”
“Jake was always a nice guy,” I said. “And as far as I’m concerned, it’s good to see any sax player getting recognition.”
“Recognition’s right,” Lee said. “And right here in this hotel too. Let me see, I’ve got it here.” He rummaged in his bag and produced a tattered copy of LA Weekly. “Yeah, here it is. The Simon and Wesbury Music Awards. Jazz Musician of the Year. Jake Marvell. Let’s see, when is this fucker? Tomorrow down in the ballroom. You could take a stroll down those stairs and attend the ceremony.” He put down the paper and shook his head. “Jake Marvell. Jazz Musician of the Year. Who’d have thought it, eh, Steve?”
“I guess I won’t make it downstairs,” I said. “But I’ll remember to raise a glass to him.”
“Jake Marvell. Boy, is this a screwed-up world or what?”
ABOUT AN HOUR AFTER LUNCH, the phone rang and it was Lindy.
“The chess set’s all laid out, sweetie,” she said. “You ready to play? Don’t say no, I’m going crazy here with boredom. Oh, and don’t forget now, bring those CDs. I’m just dying to hear your playing.”
I put down the phone, then sat on the edge of the bed trying to figure out how it was I hadn’t stood my ground better. In fact, I hadn’t put up even a hint of a “no.” Maybe it was plain spinelessness. Or maybe I’d taken on board much more of Bradley’s argument on the phone than I’d admitted. But now there wasn’t time to think about it, because I had to decide which of my CDs were most likely to impress her. The more avant-garde stuff was definitely out, as was the stuff I’d recorded with the electro-funk guys in San Francisco last year. In the end, I chose just the one CD, changed into a fresh shirt, put my dressing gown back over the top and went next door.
SHE TOO HAD ON a dressing gown, but it was the kind she could have worn to a movie premiere without too much embarrassment. Sure enough, the chess set was there on the low glass table, and we sat down on opposite sides like before and began a game. Maybe because we had something to do with our hands, things felt much more relaxed than the last time. As we played, we found ourselves talking about this and that: TV shows, her favourite European cities, Chinese food. There was far less name-dropping this time round, and she seemed much calmer. At one point she said: