I parked in a nearby lot that had a discount arrangement with the club for the musicians, which is another indication they’re a class act.
Weekends usually feature an out-of-town big name, with the rest of the week dedicated to locals. It’s as much a supper club as it is anything else-appetizers are served at the front tables closest to the bandstand and full dinners farther back in a raised portion to the rear. The food’s excellent, and a lot of tourists frequent the place for the food as much as for the music. The live jazz being played up front serves mostly as high-class Muzak to accompany the meal.
I didn’t mind. The club paid well and a working musician can’t afford to be a snob. Besides, there were always a few people down front who came for the music.
I got there about seven and set up. I’d been gigging fairly regularly with Dave, the bass player from Oakland, and Roger Chu, the wunderkind drummer I’d gigged with at Julio’s at few months ago. After a couple of gigs he’d got over his pathological shyness, and he turned out to be a great kid with a wicked sense of humor. Except, he called me “Gramps” all the time, which I didn’t find all that amusing. He was an amazing drummer, though, energetic and subtle at the same time.
There was a good supper crowd, and we started right at seven. Just as we launched into the first tune, Morgan walked in wearing a black long-sleeved top and loose-fitting jeans. I hadn’t really expected her to show up, so it was a pleasant surprise. She had her parents in tow, which meant either she was a dutiful daughter, or she had no interest in me, or she felt she needed protection from possible lecherous intentions. Or all three. They took one of the free tables down front and ordered drinks. I caught her eye and she gave a little wave hello.
We played a relaxed set. People at dinner don’t want discordant and “interesting”; they want melodic and relaxing. We played mostly standards but did slip in one of my own tunes right before the break, a ballad based on a re-harmonization of “What Is This Thing Called Love?” and I did manage to throw in some outside playing.
After the set, I joined them at the table and asked the waiter for a Calistoga water.
“A wonderful set,” said the father. “Outstanding. That last tune-one of yours? Based on ‘What Is This Thing Called Love?’ wasn’t it?”
“But reharmonized,” Morgan added.
Okay. Actual jazz buffs. What were the odds?
“Do you play?” I asked, looking at them both. The father shook his head.
“No, not me.” He waved a hand at Morgan. “Now, my dad, her grandfather, he played in swing bands all through the thirties and forties. I grew up on that music and never stopped listening. Morgan’s taste is a bit more modern, but she still caught the jazz bug.”
The mother held out her hand to me. “I’m Lily,” she said. “I just want introduce myself properly and thank you again for this afternoon.”
“And I’m Frank,” the father said. “That goes double for me.”
They both sat there beaming at me. Nice, friendly, very normal people, totally unaware of the world I lived in, the world of deadly creatures and dangerous practitioners. I had a moment of envy, nostalgia for a life I’d never had and never would.
Of course, it wasn’t a life I wanted. It wasn’t a life that would have made me happy. But sometimes I thought about how much simpler things would have been if I hadn’t been born with talent. Then again, if I hadn’t been blessed with talent, I’d never have known Lou.
“Right place, right time,” I said, acknowledging their thanks. “Just luck.” I changed the subject quickly. “Are you in San Francisco for a visit?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lily. “Morgan here’s been a little down lately, so we thought we’d visit and cheer her up.” She looked over brightly at her daughter. “She just broke up with her boyfriend.”
Morgan was in the act of lifting a glass of wine to her mouth. She froze, glass suspended inches from her lips. Her head slowly turned until she was looking directly at her mother. There was going to be a reckoning after they left, without doubt. Lily blithely continued on as if unaware, though I doubt she was.
“She was too good for him anyway.”
I hastily excused myself and went off to the bar to get another Calistoga. It was getting uncomfortable at the table, and I thought I’d give them a few minutes to sort it out. Dave was standing at the bar with a beer in his hand. I try not to drink at gigs, but Dave has no such rule. Wunderkind Roger had no such option, being all of seventeen.
“Who’s the lady?” Dave asked.
“Just someone I met recently.”
“Lucky you.”
“Well, unlike you, I’m not married.”
“As I said, lucky you.”
Dave liked to play the long-suffering married man tethered to a ball and chain, but it was all an act. He’s happily married with two kids, and the last time a woman had hit on him, he’d run into the men’s room and hid.
I snagged my water and returned to the table. Morgan’s face was set, and her mother seemed a bit subdued. This posed something of a dilemma. I didn’t know if they’d be staying for another set, so I wanted to take my chance and ask her out. But asking out a young woman while she’s sitting at a table with her parents is not the easiest task, even for someone adept at such things, which I’m not. And the residual tension at the table made it even more difficult.
So I indulged in the usual small talk with her parents-how they liked San Francisco, what they did back home, how tough it was being a musician these days-until it was time for the second set.
“Time to play,” I said. “Can you stand to hear another set?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Morgan, smiling. So she was interested. Or maybe she just liked my playing. Hopefully, both.
I concentrated more on my playing for the second set. Now that I knew she was a knowledgeable listener, I wanted to impress her with my ability. Pitiful, really, like a high school jock hoping to score a touchdown so he’d have a better chance of scoring with the cheerleader after the game. But there you have it.
When I rejoined their table after the set, Morgan smiled approvingly. “Very nice,” she said. “Very nice indeed. And I love that drummer.”
Of course. Everybody loved that drummer. Partly because he was so young, but mostly because he was the best drummer around. Pretty soon other musicians in town were going to catch on to that, and he’d be snapped up by a big name. New York or L.A. would be beckoning.
“He is good,” I said.
“He looks so young-he really surprised me.”
“And Morgan’s difficult to surprise,” her mother said. She beamed proudly. “Morgan’s a psychic, you know.”
Again, the glass of wine was suspended halfway to Morgan’s lips, and her head turned slowly with a glare terrible to behold. I was never going to get a date out of this.
“How interesting,” I said quickly, hoping to deflect her. It worked. The glare became fastened on me. “How does it work? Can you tell something about me?” I was babbling inanely, digging myself an even deeper hole.
“Go on, show him, hon,” her mother said, ignoring Morgan’s glare.
It was hard not to laugh, and Morgan could see it. This was going from bad to worse. She would be thinking I was laughing at her, when I was laughing at the whole dynamic between her and her well-meaning, clueless parents.
I threw up my hands in wordless supplication, hoping she’d understand. If she was psychic, maybe she’d pick up on that. She looked at me with that same flat affect I’d noticed at the taqueria, then looked at her mother, then back at me. The corner of her mouth twitched, and a small snort of laughter escaped. Which of course set me off, and then we were both laughing uncontrollably. Her parents looked at us in bewilderment.