Chapter Four

 

          “Good evening, everybody, I’m Tony Squire. We’ve got a lot of great jazz for you tonight, some of it old, some of it new, some of it borrowed-” he chuckled a little and turned around to wink at the band, who all chuckled back. “-and some of it blue. I see a couple of sleepy faces out there, so let’s get things rolling with one of our own originals, a little wake up call, Lovely Reveille.”

          Tony put the trumpet up to his lips and gave a slow, sensuous, solo rendition of the first four bars of Reveille, slightly out of tempo. Then the rest of the band joined in, double timing the old military trumpet call, making it swing. He always started out the first set this way, just like he always ended the evening with another original, adapted from Taps, called Tapestry. It was a Tuesday night, not normally a big night in the nightclub business, but he’d been bringing the band to Fresno for four months now, second week of every month, and it was starting to catch on, create a little cult following out here in the boonies. There was already a good crowd, people even dressing up a bit, older traditional jazz aficionados, but a lot of younger faces as well, trying to catch a little San Francisco sophistication.

          Julius was at the musicians’ table again, nursing a scotch and soda. He wasn’t drinking much, mostly using a plastic swizzle stick to stir the ice and sometimes tap out a little rhythm on the glass. He’d never met Tony before, but Sal knew him, knew all the top players in the Bay Area. They’d made a plan for Julius to sit in for a couple of numbers, in the second set, and he wanted to be sharp. Nearly all the best musicians in the Fresno area were there tonight, either sitting with Julius, where they’d pulled up another table to make extra room, or over drinking at the bar.

          Julius scanned the audience, watching Doris and the other waitresses scurrying around, a little flustered, not used to quite so much action. Good crowd. Tony could really pull them in. People were already starting to buy his new CD on display at the table set up on the other side of the stage, the first number not even over yet. There was a good looking girl doing the sales, one Julius had never seen around before. Tony stepped back after the first chorus, to let the trio rhythm section play alone for a while, and Julius got a better look at her. What a fox, he thought to himself. One of those chop suey racial mixtures, long, almost oriental face, light skinned, but she definitely had some black blood in her, from somewhere. Their drummer was black, in his forties, looked like. Maybe she was his daughter.

          He turned to Suky, who was sitting next to him. Suky was another California miracle, one quarter Irish, one quarter Mexican, and half Japanese.

          “Suky, what do you think of the drummer?” He had to lean over, to speak directly into Suky’s ear, not wanting to disturb the band. He turned his head so they could exchange positions.

          “This motherfucker has chops, baby. I might ask him for a couple ‘lessons while he’s in town.”

          Julius nodded appreciatively, noticed the fox looking over at him. He smiled. She smiled back. Then Tony stepped back in between them, taking out the song. The crowd gave a good round of applause, and Tony started an old Miles Davis number, Seven Steps to Heaven. That was his specialty, in fact, Miles. It was one reason Julius wanted to sit in. He’d spent his teenage years copying Coltrane solos off their records together. He was following along in his head, thinking about how he would play if they did this one in the second set, when he saw Carter come in. He almost didn’t recognize him. He was wearing a suit.

          No shit, thought Julius, who hadn’t known Carter even owned a suit. He signaled to him with his hand, but instead of coming over, like he usually did, Carter went over to the bar and squeezed in next to a couple of girls. When Julius looked back, just minutes later, he was lighting their cigarettes with his Zippo. This was unusual. Unprecedented, in fact. Actually, Carter was a pretty good looking guy, and he liked girls, there was no doubt about that. But when confronted with them he invariably stumbled, mumbled, shuffled his feet, and generally acted like a twelve year old in a cheerleaders’ locker room.

          Tony was making another announcement.

          “Well folks, I know what you’re thinking.” He suddenly lowered his voice, continuing in a Clint Eastwood drawl. “Was it six shots or only five?” Scattered laughter came from the crowd. “No, seriously, I know the sign says ‘Tony Squire Quintet’ and you only see four of us up on stage, like it’s always been when we play here in Fresno. You probably thought it was some kind of mistake. But it’s no mistake, guys and gals. In fact, we’ve got a big surprise for you tonight, a special guest, the newest member of our band, someone who’s going to knock your ears – and eyes – right out of your heads. Please put your hands together and help me welcome to the stage a gal who sings as good as she looks – if that’s possible – our very own Foxy Lady, Miss Serena Hendricks!” He stepped back from the microphone, leading the applause and motioning for the band to start.

          Julius started clapping, looking around. Then he saw Serena get up from the CD table, blushing just a little bit, and step onto the stage, as the band did a slow intro for Georgia on My Mind. She took the microphone from the stand, cradling it with both hands. Bending her head over, like a choirgirl in prayer, she turned and gave Julius the sweetest, most innocent smile he had ever seen.

          He sat there, grinning like a total fool, while she did the song, as right, he was thinking, as it could possibly be done. Soft in the beginning, yes, baby, that’s it, just like that, almost a whisper, then slowly building, the drummer doing his part, switching from brushes to sticks at just the right moment, and finally with power, coming on like Ella Fitzgerald, belting it, like you just can’t control yourself, you’re so fuckin’ emotional, Tony joining in for the last bars, playing away from the mike, perfect unison, perfectly rehearsed, but feeling like they were making it up as they went along, pure inspiration, pure communication, pure love.

          The crowd was silent at the end. For a moment Julius thought they weren’t going to applaud at all. Then they went nuts, stomping, yelling, even somebody yelling bravo, something that, in Fresno, just does not happen. Shit, thought Julius, even in this hick town, they know fuckin’ class when they see it. By the time they finished the next number, Softly as in a Morning Sunrise, a piece he played on his stereo, like a ritual, every morning of the world, he was in love.

          It was only the first set, but they made her sing two encores – two. People just wouldn’t stop clapping, even doing it a little in unison, like in Europe. Finally Tony grabbed the mike.

          “Folks, she’ll be back, I promise. We’ll all be back. Just give us a couple of minutes to retie our ties and dry our eyes, you dig? Serena Hendricks, folks, Miss Serena Hendricks. Thank you.”

          The band left the stage, with the chatter from the crowd getting louder, gradually filling up the silence. That was one of Tony’s requirements wherever he played – no juke box between sets. He used to get a lot of shit from club owners about it, but now he was getting more well known, and they knew that was the way it had to be. Horace had no complaints, that was for sure. He looked happy as a clam behind the bar, serving drinks as fast as he could pour them.

          The band filtered over to the musicians’ table, except for the piano player, taking his turn now with the CD sales, and a few of the locals jumped up to make room, everybody competing to offer Serena their seat. She finally ended up right across from Julius, who couldn’t take his eyes off her. Tony made some introductions, getting Sal to help out – everybody knew Sal - then leaned back and put an arm around Serena, who was next to him.

          “Baby, what planet do you come from? You knocked these people out. Your Dad would be so fuckin’ proud of you. Wow.”

          Serena blushed again. She was really good, Julius was thinking, at the blushing thing.

          “So,” said Tony, looking across the table, “Julius. Sal says you know Miles really well. You want to do the second set with us?”

          “Sure,” said Julius, nodding. “I’d love to.”

          “We’ll do all vocal numbers. I think the people here would lynch me if I let Serena off the stage. You playing alto or tenor?”

          “I got my tenor here tonight. And I brought the soprano, too.”

          “Soprano. Out of sight. We’ll do My Favorite Things. Cool with you?”

          “Great. I love that song.”

          “Well, you’ve got a hard act to follow. Her dad used to do that one with us.” He motioned to Serena. “It was one of his favorites.” He looked at Julius, then back at Serena again. “Hey, he kind of looks like your dad, doesn’t he?”

          “A little bit like him, yes.” Julius could see she was not entirely comfortable, talking about her dad. Then he made the connection.

          “Cyrus Hendricks? Was that your father?”

          She nodded, working at a smile.

          “You ever hear him play?” said Tony. He pulled back as Doris came up and started putting drinks on the table.

          “No. But I heard a lot about him. He was really admired. Supposed to be a great improviser.”

          “Original,” said Tony. “One of a kind.” He looked at Serena, smiled. “He used to talk about this kid all the time, said she was born to sing.” He picked up his glass and raised it to Serena. “Looks like he was right.”

          “How come she wasn’t singing with you before?”

          “She just turned twenty-one, man. Last month. Came in and auditioned for us the same week. Cold. Wouldn’t tell us her name until she got the job. We weren’t even looking for a singer.”

          Julius looked at Serena. It was sure easy to do.

          “You’re a Virgo, then?”

          “That’s right. What about you?”

          “Taurus.”

          “You play anything besides the sax?”

          “A little piano. You?”

          “A little piano.”

          “More than a little,” said Tony. “Chick knows a lot of theory. She’s a music major at State.” He looked at his watch. “Drink up, kids. I don’t want the crowd to get cold. Julius, you have any requests? Anything you’d like to do?”

          “How about My Funny Valentine?”

          Serena got an odd look on her face. Tony glanced over at her. “Well, I’m afraid that’s out, man. Serena doesn’t do that song.”

          “Oh yeah?” said Julius. Then, to Serena, “Why not? It’s a great tune.”

          She pushed back her chair and stood up, obviously forcing a smile. “I just don’t do that one, that’s all. Sorry. Hey, I’m going to use the bathroom, OK? I’ll see you on stage.” She hurried off. Tony waved down the table at the rest of the band, pointed at the bandstand. He turned to Julius.

          “We’ll do the first number without you, alright? Then I’ll bring you on. Bring the tenor up first. Summertime OK to start?”

          “Sure.”

          “Alright, then. Knock us out, Julius.”

          Julius finished his drink as the band took the stage. He was, he realized, pretty shook up. First time a chick had done that to him in a while. He saw that Carter was still over at the bar, still, unbelievably, holding down the same two girls, one on each side, now. He really looked different in a suit. He was gesturing with his hands, apparently telling some kind of story, one of the girls rubbing up against him and laughing. He turned around, leaned back, saw Julius looking at him. He said something to the girls and they looked over in Julius’ direction, waving. Then they turned back to Carter. Julius got a reed out of his tenor case and put it in his mouth, softening it up. Amazing, he was thinking. He was in love, and Carter had suddenly turned into a Fresno stud.

          Maybe the moon was full.

 

 

 

          Before Yaro returned the car to Sonny, he stopped in Berkley and did a little shopping, in the cluster of Arabic stores down towards the end of Telegraph. First, in the Middle Eastern Market, he bought tahini, olives, cous-cous, halva, and a whole bunch of other shit, cruising the aisles with his shopping cart, throwing stuff in at random. The checkout girl gave him a funny look as she rang it all up. Then a place for furniture and interiors, where he found a couple of cheap prayer rugs, a tea set, some brass candle holders and trays, and a hookah. Finally, in the clothing bazaar, he bought a jalaba and, for good measure, a checkered head scarf, making the clerk show him how to put it on. Further down the street, almost to the UC campus, he went into a big book and record store, coming out after fifteen minutes with a sack of Middle Eastern CDs and a copy of the Koran, in Arabic.

          By the time he dropped everything off at his apartment, returned the car, and took the bus back home, it was getting late. He was getting ready for bed, thinking about how much stuff he had to do tomorrow, when the phone rang. He watched it ringing for over a minute without answering. Sonny, whom he had just left less than two hours ago, was the only person who had the number. In the six weeks they had known each other, he had never used it. It kept ringing. Finally he picked it up.

          “Priviet, Yaro. This is Oleg.”

          He didn’t say anything. There was one other person.

          “Yaro, I know you can hear me. You might as well say something.”

          “Why did Sharka give you this number?”

          “Because she loves you. This makes her a member of a very small club.”

          “Are you calling from Prague?”

          “Moscow.”

          “Oleg, I don’t know what this is about, but please don’t give this number to Milan. With it he can find me.”

          “He has already found you, Yaro.”

          Yaro was frozen in one position at the phone, like a deer in the headlights.
          “I don’t believe you.”

          “Why don’t you believe me, Yaro?”

          “Because if he’d found me, I’d already be dead.”

          “You should have been, for some time now. But you are very, very lucky.”

          “What are you talking about?”

          “A few weeks ago you met three fellow Czechs in a nightclub in San Francisco and asked them to help you dispose of six kilos of heroin. On the following day, they told you that they were dealers from LA and offered to pay you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You said you would make delivery in the first week of November. Since then, you have taken four trips. One to Petaluma, one to San Rafael, one to San Jose, and one to Fresno, from which you just returned.”

          Christ! “How do you know all this?”

          “They were not from LA, Yaro. And they are not heroin dealers. They were sent by Milan from Prague to kill you.”

          “But they didn’t kill me.”

          “You owe Milan five million Crowns, Yaro. They will take delivery of the heroin. Then they will kill you.”

          Yaro was silent for a minute.

          “Why are you telling me this?”

          “Because I am married to your sister, and she will know that I could have warned you.”

          “So will Milan.”

          “I am not punished by Milan, Yaro. Only by Moscow. They are not concerned with his private affairs, only his dealings with us.”

          “Why not just tell him to leave me alone?”

          “It is not my job to tell Milan what to do. Only to report what he does. If you are killed, Sharka will be better off, I will be better off, and the world will be better off. Probably you will be better off. I have told you what I know. How you use this information is of no concern to me. If Milan suspects you have been warned, it will not be because I told him. If he does suspect it, if you try to disappear, or avoid the deal, you will be killed immediately.”

          “Why did he send three guys?”

          “Consider it a gesture of respect.”

          Yaro was silent again, longer this time.

          “Is there anything else?”

          “Nothing else. Vecio, Paka.”

          The line went dead.