Men from Boys

The Resurrection of Bobo Jones Bill Moody

When Brew finally caught up with him, Manny Klein was inhaling spaghetti in a back booth at Chubby’s, adding to his already ample girth with pasta and plying a green-eyed blonde called Mary Ann Best with tales of his exploits as New York’s premier talent scout. As usual, Manny was exaggerating but probably not about Rocky King.

‘The point is,’ Manny said, mopping up sauce with a hunk of French bread, ‘this time you’ve gone too far.’ He popped the bread in his mouth, wiped his three chins with a white napkin tucked in his collar and gazed at Brew Daniels with the incredulous stare of a small child suddenly confronted with a modern sculpture. ‘You’re dead, sport. Rocky’s put the word out on you. He thinks you’re crazy and you know what? So do I.’

Mary Ann watched as Brew grinned sheepishly and shrugged. Nobody had ever called him crazy. A flake definitely, but with jazz musicians, that comes with the territory, where eccentric behavior is a byword, the foundation of legends.

Everyone knew about Thelonious Monk keeping his piano in the kitchen and Dizzy Gillespie running for president. And who hadn’t heard about Sonny Rollins, startling passers-by with the mournful wail of his saxophone when he found the Williamsburg Bridge an inspiring place to practise after he dropped out of the jazz wars for a couple of years.

Strange perhaps, but these, Brew reasoned, were essentially harmless examples that if anything enhanced reputations and merely added another layer to the jazz mystique. With Brew, however, it was another story.

Begun modestly, Brew’s escapades gradually gathered momentum and eventually exceeded even the hazy boundaries of acceptable behavior in the jazz world until they threatened to eclipse his considerable skill with a tenor saxophone. Brew had the talent. Nobody denied that. ‘One of jazz’s most promising newcomers,’ wrote one reviewer after witnessing Brew come out on top in a duel with one of the grizzled veterans of the music.

It was Brew’s off-stage antics — usually at the expense of his current employer — that got him into trouble, earned him less than the customary two weeks’ notice and branded him a bona fide flake. But however outlandish the prank, Brew always felt fully justified even if his victims just as violently disagreed. Brew was selective but no one, not even Brew himself, knew when or where he would be inspired to strike next. Vocalist Dana McKay, for example, never saw Brew coming until it was too late.

Dana McKay is one of those paradoxes all too common in the music business: a very big star with very little talent, although her legions of fans don’t seem to notice. Thanks to the marvels of modern recording technology, top-flight studio orchestras and syrupy vocal backgrounds, Miss McKay sounds passable on recordings. Live is another story. She knows it and the bands who back her know it, so when the musicians who hang out at Chubby’s heard Brew had consented to sub for an ailing friend at the Americana, the smart money said Brew wouldn’t last a week and Dana McKay might be his latest victim. They were right on both counts.

To Brew, the music was bad enough but what really got to him was the phoney sentimentality of her act: shaking hands with the ringsiders, telling the audience how much they meant to her — exactly the same way, every show, every night. Dana McKay could produce tears on cue. Naturally, Brew was inspired.

The third night, he arrived early, armed with a stack of McDonald’s hats and unveiled his brainstorm to the band. They didn’t need much persuading. Miss McKay had, as usual, done nothing to endear herself to the musicians. She called unnecessary rehearsals, complained to the conductor and treated everyone as her personal slave. Except for the lady harpist, even the string section went along.

Timing was essential, so on Brew’s cue, at precisely the moment Miss McKay was tugging heartstrings with a teary-eyed rendition of one of her hits, the entire band donned the McDonald’s hats, stood up with arms spread majestically and sang out, ‘You deserve a break today!’

When the thunderous chorus struck, Miss McKay never knew what hit her. One of the straps of her gown snapped and almost exposed more of her than planned. She nearly fell off the stage. The dinner-show audience howled with delight, thinking it was part of the show. It got a mention in one of the columns but Miss McKay was not amused.

It took several minutes for the laughter to die down and by that time she’d regained her composure. She smiled mechanically and turned to the band. ‘How about these guys, folks? Aren’t they something?’ Her eyes locked on Brew grinning innocently in the middle of the sax section. She fixed him with an icy glare and Brew was fired before the midnight show. He was never sure how she knew he was responsible but he guess the lady harpist had a hand in it.

Brew kept a low profile for a while after that, basking in the glory of his most ambitious project to date, and made ends meet with a string of club dates in the Village. It wasn’t until he went on the road with Rocky King that he struck again. Everyone agreed Brew was justified this time but for once, he picked on the wrong man.

Rocky King is arguably the most hated bandleader in America, despite his nationwide popularity. Musicians refer to him as a ‘legend in his own mind’. He pays only minimum scale, delights in belittling his musicians on the stand and has been known on occasion physically to assault anyone who doesn’t measure up to his often unrealistic expectations. A man to be reckoned with, so when the news got out, Rocky swore a vendetta against Brew that even Manny Klein couldn’t diffuse — and he’d got Brew the job.

‘C’mon, Manny,’ Brew said. ‘Rocky had it coming.’

Manny shook his head. ‘You hear that, Mary Ann? I get him the best job he’s ever had, lay my own reputation on the line and all he can say is Rocky had it coming. Less than a week with the band, he starts a mutiny and puts Rocky King off his own bus forty miles from Indianapolis. You know what your problem is, Brew? Priorities. Your priorities are all wrong.’

Brew stifled a yawn and smiled again at Mary Ann. ‘Priorities?’

‘Exactly. Now take Mary Ann here. Her priorities are in exactly the right place.’

Brew grinned. ‘They certainly are.’ Mary Ann blushed slightly but Brew caught a flicker of interest in her green eyes. So did Manny.

‘I’m warning you, Mary Ann,’ Manny said. ‘This is a dangerous man, bent on self destruction. Don’t be misled by that angelic face.’ Manny took out an evil-looking cigar, lit it and puffed on it furiously until the booth was enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

‘Did you really do that? Put Rocky off the bus?’ Mary Ann asked.

Brew shrugged and flicked a glance at Manny. ‘Not exactly the way Manny tells it. As usual, he’s left out a few minor details.’ Brew leaned in closer to her. ‘One of the trumpet players had quit, see. His wife was having a baby and he wanted to get home in time. But kind, generous Rocky King wouldn’t let him ride on the bus even though we had to pass right through his home town. So, when we stopped for gas, I managed to lock Rocky in the men’s room and told the driver he’d be joining us later. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.’

‘And what has it got you?’ Manny said, emerging from the smoke, annoyed to see Mary Ann was laughing. ‘Nothing but your first and last check, minus, of course, Rocky’s taxi fare to Indianapolis. You’re an untouchable now. You’ll be lucky to get a wedding at Roseland.’

Brew shuddered. Roseland was the massive ballroom under the Musicians’ Union and the site of a Wednesday-afternoon ritual known as cattle call. Hundreds of musicians jam the ballroom as casual contractors call for one instrument at a time. ‘I need a piano player for Saturday night.’ Fifty pianists or drummers or whatever is called rush the stage. First one there gets the gig.

‘Did the trumpet player get home in time?’ Mary Ann asked.

‘What? Oh yeah. It was a boy.’

‘Well, I think it was a nice thing to do.’ She looked challengingly at Manny.

‘Okay, okay,’ Manny said, accepting defeat. ‘So, you’re the good Samaritan but you’re still out of work and I...’ He paused for a moment, his face creasing into a baleful smile. ‘There is one thing... naw, you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘C’mon, Manny, I’m interested. Anything’s better than Roseland.’

Manny shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know if it’s still going, but I heard they were looking for a tenor player at the Final Bar.’

Brew groaned and slumped back against the seat. ‘The Final Bar is a toilet. A lot of people don’t even know it’s still there.’

‘Exactly,’ said Manny. ‘The ideal place for you at the moment.’ He blew out another cloud of smoke and studied the end of his cigar. ‘Bobo Jones is there, with a trio.’

‘Bobo Jones? The Bobo Jones?’

‘The same, but don’t get excited. We both know Bobo hasn’t played a note worth listening to in years. A guy named Rollo runs the place. I’ll give him a call if you think you can cut it. Sorry, sport, that’s the best I can do.’

‘Yeah, do that,’ Brew said dazedly, but something in Manny’s smile told Brew he’d be sorry. He was vaguely aware of Mary Ann asking for directions as he made his way out of Chubby’s. So it had come to this. The Final Bar.

He couldn’t imagine Bobo James there.

The winos had begun to sing.

Brew watched them from across the aisle. Two lost souls, arms draped over each other, wine dribbling down their chins as they happily crooned off-key between belts from a bottle in a paper bag. Except for an immense black woman, Brew and the winos were alone as the Seventh Avenue subway hurtled toward the Village.

‘This city ain’t fit to live in no more,’ the woman shouted over the roar of the train. She had a shopping bag wedged between her knees and scowled at the winos.

Brew nodded in agreement and glanced at the ceiling where someone had spray-painted ‘Puerto Rico — Independencia!’ in jagged red letters. Priorities Manny had said. For once maybe he was right. Introspection was not one of Brew’s qualities but maybe it was time. Even one-nighters with Rocky King was better than the Final Bar.

The winos finally passed out after 42nd Street but a wiry Latin kid in a leather jacket swaggered on to the car and instantly eyed Brew’s horn. Brew figured him for a terrorist or at least a mugger. It was going to be his horn or the black woman’s shopping bag.

Brew picked up his horn and hugged it protectively to his chest, then gave the kid his best glare. Even with his height, there was little about Brew to inspire fear. Shaggy blond curls over a choirboy face and deep-set blue eyes didn’t worry the Puerto Rican kid, who Brew figured probably had an eleven-inch blade under his jacket.

They had a staring contest until 14th Street when Brew’s plan became clear. He waited until the last possible second, then shot off the train like a firing squad was at his back. He paused just long enough on the platform to smile at the kid staring at him through the doors as the train pulled away.

‘Faggot!’ the kid yelled. Brew turned and sprinted up the steps, wondering why people thought it was so much fun to live in New York.

Outside, he turned up his collar against the frosty air and plunged into the mass of humanity that makes New York look like an evacuation. He elbowed his way across the street, splashing through gray piles of slush that clung to the curbs, soaked shoes and provided cabbies with opportunities to practice their favorite winter pastime of splattering pedestrians. He turned off 7th Avenue, long legs eating up the sidewalk, and tried again to envision Bobo James at the Final Bar, but it was impossible.

For as long as he could remember, Bobo Jones had been one of the legendary figures of jazz piano, one of the giants. Bud Powell, Monk, Oscar Peterson — hell, Bobo was a jazz piano. But Bobo’s career, if brilliant, had also been stormy, laced with bizarre incidents, culminating one night at the Village Vanguard during a live recording session. Before a horrified opening-night audience, Bobo had attacked and nearly killed his saxophone player.

Midway through the first tune, the crazed Bobo had leapt wild-eyed from the piano, screamed something unintelligible and pounced on the unsuspecting saxophonist, who thought he had at least two more choruses to play. Bobo wrestled him to the floor and all but strangled him with the microphone cord. The saxophonist was already gagging on his mouthpiece and in the end suffered enough throat damage to cause him to switch to guitar. He eventually quit music altogether and went into business with his brother-in-law selling insurance in New Jersey.

Juice Wilson, Bobo’s two-hundred-and-forty-pound drummer, had never moved so fast in his life unless it was the time he’d mistakenly wandered into a Ku Klux Klan meeting in his native Alabama. Juice dived over the drums, sending one of his cymbals flying into a ringside table full of Rotarians. He managed to pull Bobo off the gasping saxophonist with the help of two cops who hated jazz anyway. A waiter called the paramedics and the saxophonist was given emergency treatment under the piano while the audience looked on in stunned disbelief.

One member of the audience was a photographer for Time magazine, showing his out-of-town girlfriend the sights of New York. He knew a scoop when he saw it, whipped out his camera, and snapped off a dozen quick ones while Juice and the cops tried to subdue Bobo. The following week’s issue ran a photo of Bobo, glassy-eyed in a straitjacket with the caption: ‘Is This the End of Jazz?’ The two cops hoped so because they were in the photo too and their watch commander wanted to know what the hell they were doing in a jazz club if they hadn’t busted any dopers.

The critics in the audience shook their empty heads and claimed they’d seen it coming for a long time as Bobo was taken away to Bellevue. Fans and friends alike mourned the passing of a great talent but everyone was sure Bobo would recover. He never did.

Bobo spent three months in Bellevue, playing silent chords on the wall of his padded cell and confounding the doctors who could find nothing wrong with him, so naturally, they diagnosed him as manic-depressive and put him back on the street. With all the other loonies in New York, one more wouldn’t make any difference.

Bobo disappeared for nearly a year after that. No one knew or cared how he survived. Most people assumed he was living on the royalties from the dozen or so albums he’d left as a legacy to his many fans. But then, he mysteriously reappeared. There were rumors of a comeback. Devoted fans sought him out in obscure clubs, patiently waiting for the old magic to return. But it seemed gone for ever. Gradually, all but the most devout drifted away, until, if the cardboard sign in the window could be believed, Bobo Jones was apparently condemned at last to the Final Bar.

Brew knew that much of the story but if he’d known the why of Bobo’s downfall, he would have gone straight back to the subway, looked up the Puerto Rican kid and given him his horn. That would have been easier. Instead, he sidestepped a garbage can and pushed through the door of the Final Bar.

A gust of warm air, reeking of stale smoke and warm beer, washed over him. Dark, dirty and foul-smelling, the Final Bar is every Hollywood scriptwriter’s idea of a Greenwich Village jazz club. To musicians, it means a tiny, poorly lit bandstand, an ancient upright piano with broken keys and never more than seven customers if you count the bartender.

Musicians play at the Final Bar in desperation, on the way up. For Bobo Jones, and now perhaps Brew Daniels as well, the Final Bar is the last stop on the downward spiral to oblivion. But there he was, one of the legends of jazz. One glance told Brew all he needed to know. Bobo was down, way down.

He sat slumped at the piano, head bent, nearly touching the keyboard and played like a man trying to recall how he used to sound. Lost in the past, his head would occasionally jerk up in response to some dimly remembered phrase that just as quickly snuffed out. His fingers flew over the keys frantically in pursuit of lost magic. A forgotten cigarette burned on top of the piano next to an empty glass.

To Bobo’s right were bassist Deacon Hayes and drummer Juice Wilson, implacable sentinels guarding some now-forgotten treasure. They brought to mind a black Laurel and Hardy. Deacon, rail-thin and solemn-faced, occasionally arched an eyebrow. Juice, dwarfing his drums, stared ahead blankly and languidly stroked the cymbals. They had remained loyal to the end and this was apparently it.

Brew was mesmerised by the scene. He watched and listened and slowly shook his head in disbelief. A knife of fear crept into his gut. He recognised with sudden awareness the clear, unmistakable qualities that hovered around the bandstand like a thick fog: despair and failure.

Brew wanted to run. He’d seen enough. Manny’s message was clear but now, a wave of anger swept over him, forcing him to stay. He spun round toward the bar and saw what could only be Rollo draped over a bar stool. A skinny black man in a beret, chin in hand, staring vacantly at the hapless trio.

‘You Rollo? I’m Brew Daniels.’ Rollo’s only response was to cross his legs. ‘Manny call you?’

Rollo moved only his eyes, inspected Brew, found him wanting and shifted his gaze back to the bandstand. ‘You the tenor player?’ he asked contemptuously.

‘Who were you expecting, Stan Getz?’ Brew shot back. He wanted to leave, just forget the whole thing. He didn’t belong here but he had to prove it. To Manny and himself.

‘You ain’t funny, man,’ Rollo said. ‘Check with Juice.’

Brew nodded and turned back to the bandstand. The music had stopped but Brew had no idea what they had played. They probably didn’t either, he thought. What difference did it make? He tugged at Juice’s arm dangling near the floor.

‘Okay if I play a couple?’ Brew asked.

Juice squinted at Brew suspiciously, took in his horn case and gave a shrug that Brew took as reluctant permission. He unzipped the leather bag and took out a gleaming tenor saxophone.

He knew why Manny had sent him down here. There was no gig. This was just a lesson in humility. It would be like blowing in a graveyard.

He put the horn together, decided against even asking anyone to tune up and blew a couple of tentative phrases. ‘“Green Dolphin Street”, okay?’

Bobo looked up from the piano and stared at Brew like he was a bug on a windshield. ‘Whozat?’ he asked, pointing a long, slim finger. His voice was a gravelly whisper, like Louis Armstrong with a cold.

‘I think he’s a tenor player,’ Juice said defiantly. ‘He’s gonna play one.’ Bobo had already lost interest.

Brew glared at Juice. He was mad now and in a hurry. Deacon’s eyebrows arched as Brew snapped his fingers for the tempo. Then he was off, on the run from despair.

Knees bent, chest heaving, body rocking slightly, Brew tore into the melody and ripped it apart. The horn, jutting out of his mouth like another limb, spewed fire. Harsh abrasive tones of anger and frustration that washed over the unsuspecting patrons — there were five tonight — like napalm, grabbing them by the throat and saying, ‘Listen to this, dammit.’

At the bar, Rollo gulped and nearly fell off the stool. In spite of occasional lapses in judgement, Rollo liked to think of himself as a jazz critic. He’d never fully recovered from his Ornette Coleman blunder. For seventeen straight nights, he’d sat sphinx-like at the Five Spot watching the black man with the white plastic saxophone before finally declaring, ‘Nothin’ baby. Ornette ain’t playing nothing.’ But this time there was no mistake. In a bursting flash of recognition, Rollo knew.

Brew had taken everyone by surprise. Deacon’s eyebrows were shooting up and down like windshield wipers. Juice crouched behind his drums and slashed at the cymbals like a fencer. They heard it too. They knew.

Brew played like a back-up quarterback in the final two minutes of the last game of the year with his team behind seventeen to nothing. He ripped off jagged chunks of sound and slung them about the Final Bar, leaving Juice and Deacon to scurry after him in desperate pursuit. During his last scorching chorus, he pointed the bell of his horn at Bobo, prodding, challenging, until he at last backed away.

Bobo reacted like a man under siege. He’d begun as always, staring at the keyboard as if it were a giant puzzle he’d forgotten how to solve. But by Brew’s third chorus, he seized the lifeline offered and struggled to pull himself out of the past. Eyes closed, head thrown back, his fingers flew over the keys, producing a barrage of notes that nearly matched Brew’s.

Deacon and Juice exchanged glances. Where had they heard this before?

Rollo, off the stool, rocked and grinned in pure joy. ‘Shee — it!’ he yelled.

Bobo was back.

By the end of the first week, word had got around. Something was happening at the Final Bar and people were dropping in to see if the rumors were true. Bobo Jones had climbed out of his shell and was not only playing again but presenting a reasonable facsimile of his former talent, inspired apparently by a fiery young tenor saxophonist. It didn’t matter that Brew had been on the scene for some time. He was ironically being heralded as a new discovery. But even that didn’t bother Brew. He was relaxed.

The music and his life were, at least for the moment, under control. Mary Ann was a regular at the club — she hadn’t signed with Manny after all — and by the end of the month, they were sharing her tiny Westside apartment.

But gnawing around the edges were the strange looks Brew caught from Deacon and Juice. They’d look away quickly and mumble to themselves while Rollo showed Brew only the utmost respect. Bobo was the enigma, either remaining totally aloof or smothering Brew with attentive concern, following him around the club like a shadow. If Brew found it stifling or even creepy, he wisely wrote it off as the pianist’s awkward attempt at gratitude and reminded himself that Bobo had spent three months in a mental ward.

Of his playing, however, there was no doubt. For some unknown reason, Brew’s horn had unlocked Bobo’s past, unleashing the old magic that flew off Bobo’s fingers with nightly improvement. Brew himself was as big a benefactor to Bobo’s resurgence as his own playing reached new heights. His potential was at last being realised. He was loose, making it with a good gig, a good woman and life had never been sweeter. Naturally, that’s when the trouble began.

They were curled up watching the late movie when Brew heard the buzzer. Opening the door, Brew found Bobo standing in the hall, half hidden in a topcoat several sizes too large, a stack of records under his arm.

‘Got something for you to hear, man,’ Bobo rasped, walking past Brew to look for the stereo.

‘Hey, Bobo, you know what time it is?’

‘Yeah, it’s twenty after four.’ Bobo was crouched in front of the stereo, looking through the records.

Brew nodded and shut the door. ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’ He went into the bedroom. Mary Ann was sitting up in bed.

‘Who is it?’

‘Bobo,’ Brew said, grabbing a robe. ‘He’s got some records he wants me to hear. I gotta humor him I guess.’

‘Does he know what time it is?’

‘Yeah, twenty after four.’

Mary Ann looked at him quizzically. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said, slipping out of bed.

Brew sighed and went back to the living room. Bobo had one of the records on the turntable and was kneeling with his head up against the speaker. The record was one of his early ones with a tenor player called Lee Evans, a name only vaguely familiar to Brew.

Brew had studiously avoided the trap of listening to other tenor players except maybe for John Coltrane. No tenor player could avoid that, but his style was forged largely on his own. A mixture of hard brittle fluidness on up tempos, balanced by an effortless shifting of gears for lyrical ballads — a cross between Sonny Rollins and Stan Getz. But there was something familiar about this record, something he couldn’t quite place.

‘I want to do this tune tonight,’ Bobo said, turning his eyes to Brew. It was the first time Bobo had made any direct reference to the music.

Brew nodded absently, absorbed in the music. What was it? He focused on the tenor player and only vaguely remembered Mary Ann coming in with the coffee. Much later the record was still playing and Mary Ann was curled up in a ball on the couch. Early-morning sun streamed in the window. Bobo was gone.

‘You know, it’s funny,’ Brew told her later. ‘I kinda sound like that tenor player, Lee Evans.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know. He played with Bobo quite a while but I think he was killed in a car accident. I’ll ask Rollo. Maybe he knows.’

But if Rollo knew, he wasn’t saying. Neither were Juice or Deacon. He avoided asking Bobo, sensing it was somehow a taboo subject, but it was clear they all knew something he didn’t. It became an obsession for Brew.

He nearly wore out the records Bobo had left and, unconsciously, more and more of Lee Evans’s style crept into his own playing. It seemed to please Bobo and brought approving nods from Juice and Deacon. As far as Brew could remember, he’d never heard Lee Evans until the night Bobo had brought the records but damned if he didn’t sound very much the same. Finally, he could stand it no longer and pressed Rollo. He had to know.

‘Man, why you wanna mess things up for now?’ Rollo asked, avoiding Brew’s eyes. ‘Bobo’s playin’, the club’s busy and you gettin’ famous.’

‘C’mon, Rollo, I only asked about Lee Evans. What’s the big secret?’ Brew was puzzled by the normally docile Rollo’s outburst and intrigued even more. However tenuous Bobo’s return to reality, Brew couldn’t see the connection. Not yet.

‘Aw, shit,’ Rollo said, slamming down a bar rag. ‘You best see Razor.’

‘Who the hell’s Razor?’

‘Wunna the players, man. Got hisself some ladies and he’s... well, you talk to him, if you want.’

‘I want,’ Brew said, more puzzled than ever.

But Mary Ann was not so sure. ‘You may not like what you find,’ she warned. Her words were like a prophecy.

Brew found Razor off 10th Avenue.

A massive maroon Buick idled at the curb. Nearby, Razor, in an ankle-length fur coat and matching hat, peered at one of his ‘ladies’ from behind dark glasses. But what really got Brew’s attention was the dog. Sitting majestically at Razor’s heel, sinewy neck encased in a silver stud collar, was the biggest, most vicious-looking Doberman Brew had ever seen. About then, Brew wanted to forget the whole thing but he was frozen to the spot as Razor’s dog — he hoped it was Razor’s dog — bared his teeth, growled throatily and locked his dark eyes on Brew.

Razor’s lady, in white plastic boots, miniskirt and a ski jacket, cowered against a building. Tears streamed down her face, smearing garish makeup. Her eyes were locked on the black man as he fondled a pearl-handled straight razor. Brew had never seen anyone so frightened.

‘Lookee here, mama, you makin’ old Razor mad with all this talk about you leavin’, and you know what happen when Razor get mad right?’ The girl nodded slowly as he opened and closed the razor several times before finally dropping it in his pocket. ‘Aw right, then,’ Razor said. ‘Git on outta here.’ The girl glanced briefly at Brew, then scurried away.

‘Whatchu lookin’ at, honky?’ Razor asked, turning his attention to Brew. Several people passed by them, looking straight ahead as if they didn’t exist.

Brew’s throat was dry. He could hardly get the words out. ‘Uh, I’m Brew Daniels... I play with Bobo at the Final Bar. Rollo said—’

‘Bobo? Shee — it.’ Razor slapped his leg and laughed, throwing his head back. ‘Yeah, I hear that sucker’s playin’ again.’ He took off the glasses and studied Brew closely. ‘And you the cat that jarred them old bones. Man, you don’t even look like a musician.’

The Doberman cocked his head and looked at Razor as if that might be a signal to eat Brew. ‘Be cool, Honey,’ Razor said, stroking the dog’s sleek head. ‘Well, you must play, man. C’mon, it’s gettin’ cold talkin’ to these bitches out here. I know what you want.’ He opened the door of the Buick. ‘C’mon, Honey, we goin’ for a ride.’

Brew sat rigidly in front, trying to decide who scared him more, Razor or the dog. He could feel Honey’s warm breath on the back of his neck. ‘Nice dog you got, Mr Razor,’ he said. Honey only growled and Razor didn’t speak until they pulled up near Riverside Park.

He threw open the door and Honey scrambled out. ‘Go on, Honey. Git one of them suckers.’ Honey barked and bounded away in pursuit of a pair of unsuspecting Cocker Spaniels.

Razor took out cigarettes from a platinum case, lit two with a gold lighter and passed one to Brew. ‘It was about three years ago,’ Razor began. ‘Bobo was hot and he had this bad-assed tenor called Lee Evans. They was really tight. Lee was just a kid but Bobo took care of him like he was his daddy. Anyway, they was giggin’ in Detroit or someplace, just before they was sposed to open here. But Lee, man, he had him some action he wanted to check out on the way so he drove on alone. He got loaded at this chick’s pad, then tried to drive all night to make the gig.’ Razor took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘Went to sleep. His car went right off the pike into a gas station. Boom! That was it.’

Razor fell silent. Brew swallowed as the pieces began to fall into place.

‘Well, they didn’t tell Bobo what happened till an hour before the gig and them jive-ass, faggot record dudes said seein’ as how they’d already given Bobo front money, he had to do the session. They got another dude on tenor. He was bad but he wasn’t Lee Evans. At first, Bobo was cool, like he didn’t know what was happening. Then all of a sudden, he jumped on this cat — scared his ass good, screamin’ “You ain’t Lee, you ain’t Lee.”’ Razor shook his head and flipped his cigarette out the window.

Brew closed his eyes. It was so quiet in the car Brew was sure he could hear his own heart beating, as everything came together. All the pieces fell into place except one but he had to ask: ‘What’s this all got to do with me?’

Razor turned to him, puzzled. ‘Man, you is one dumb honky. Don’t you see, man? To Bobo, you is Lee Evans all over again. Must be how you blow.’

‘But I’m not,’ Brew protested, feeling panic rise in him. ‘Someone’s got to tell him I’m not.’

Razor’s eyes narrowed, his voice lowered menacingly. ‘Ain’t nobody got to tell nobody nothin’. Bobo was sick for a long time. If he’s playin’ again ’cause of you, that’s enuff. You,’ he pointed a finger at Brew, ‘jus’ be cool and blow your horn.’ There was no mistake. It was an order.

‘But...’

‘But nothin’. And if there’s anything else goin’ down, I’ll hear about it. Who do you think took care of Bobo? You know my name, man? Jones. Razor Jones.’ He smiled suddenly at Brew. ‘Bobo is my brother.’

Razor started the car and whistled for Honey. Brew got out slowly and stood at the curb like a survivor of the holocaust. The huge Doberman galloped back obediently, sniffed at Brew and jumped in the car next to Razor.

‘Bye,’ Razor called, flashing Brew a toothy smile. Brew could swear Honey sneered at him as the car drove away.

The Final Bar was now the in place in the Village. Manny had seen to that, forgiving Brew for all his past sins and recognising Bobo’s return, if artfully managed, would insure all their futures. Manny was pragmatic if nothing else. He was on the phone daily, negotiating with record companies and spreading the word that a great event in jazz was about to take place.

Driven by the memory of Razor’s menacing smile, Brew played like a man possessed, astonishing musicians who came in to hear for themselves. He was getting calls from people he’d never heard of, offering record dates, road tours, even to form his own group. But of course Brew wasn’t going anywhere. He was miserable.

‘You sound great, kid,’ Manny said, looking around the club. It was packed every night now and Rollo had hired extra help to handle the increase in business. ‘Listen, wait till you hear the deal I’ve made with Newport Records. A live session, right here. The return of Bobo Jones. Of course, I insisted on top billing for you too.’ Manny was beaming. ‘How about that, eh?’

‘I think I’ll go to Paris.’ Brew said, staring ahead vacantly.

‘Paris?’ Manny turned to Mary Ann. ‘What’s he talking about?’

Mary Ann shrugged. ‘He’s got this crazy idea about Bobo.’

‘What’s the idea? Brew, talk to me,’ Manny said.

‘I mean,’ Brew said evenly, ‘there isn’t going to be any record. Not with me anyway.’

Manny’s face fell. ‘No record? Whatta you mean? An album with Bobo will make you. At the risk of sounding like an agent, this is your big break.’

‘Manny, you don’t understand. Bobo thinks I’m Lee Evans. Don’t you see?’

‘No, I don’t see,’ Manny said, glaring at Brew. ‘I don’t care if he thinks you’re Jesus Christ with a saxophone. We’re talking major bucks here. Big. Blow this one and you might as well sell your horn.’ Manny turned back pleadingly to Mary Ann. ‘For God’s sake, Mary Ann, talk some sense to him, will you?’

Mary Ann shrugged. ‘He’s afraid Bobo will flip out again and he’s worried about Bobo’s brother.’

‘Yeah, Manny, you would be too if you saw him. He’s got the biggest razor I’ve ever seen. And if that isn’t enough, he’s got a killer dog that would just love to tear me to pieces.’

‘What did you do to him? You’re not up to your old tricks again?’

‘No, no, nothing. He just told me, ordered me, to keep playing with Bobo.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

Brew sighed. ‘Look, Manny, for one thing, I don’t like being a ghost. And what if Bobo attacks me like the last time? He almost killed that guy. Bobo needs to be told but no one will do it and I can’t do it. So it’s Bobo, Razor or Paris. I’ll take Paris. I’ve heard there’s a good jazz scene there.’

Manny looked dumbly at Mary Ann. ‘Is he serious? C’mon, Brew, that’s ridiculous. Look, Newport wants to set this up for next Monday night and I’m warning you. Screw this up and I will personally see that you never work again.’ He laughed then and slapped Brew on the back. ‘It’ll be all right, Brew. Trust me.’

But Brew didn’t trust anyone and no one could convince him. Even Mary Ann couldn’t get through to him. Finally, he decided to get some expert advice. He checked with Bellevue but was told the case couldn’t be discussed unless he was a relative. He even tracked down the saxophonist Bobo had attacked but as soon as he mentioned Bobo’s name, the guy slammed down the phone on him. In desperation, Brew remembered a guy he’d met at one of the clubs. A jazz buff, Ted Fisher was doing his internship in psychiatry at Colombia Medical School. Musicians called him Doctor Deep. Brew telephoned, explained what he wanted and they agreed to meet at Chubby’s.

‘What is this, a gay bar?’ Ted Fisher asked, looking around the crowded bar.

‘No, Ted, there just aren’t a lot of lady musicians. Now look, I—’

‘Hey, isn’t that Gerry Mulligan over there at the bar?’

‘Ted, c’mon. This is serious.’

‘Sorry, Brew. Well, from what you’ve told me already, as I understand it, your concern is that Bobo thinks you’re his former saxophone player, right?’

Brew looked desperate. ‘I don’t think it, I know it. Look, Bobo attacked the substitute horn player. What I want to know is what happens if the same conditions are repeated? Bobo’s convinced I’m Lee Evans now, but what if the live recording session brings it all back and he suddenly realises I’m not? Could he flip again and go for me?’ Brew sat back and rubbed his throat.

‘Hmmm...’ Ted murmured, staring at the ceiling. ‘No, I wouldn’t think so. Bobo’s fixation, brought about by the loss of a close friend, whom he’d actually, though inadvertently, assumed a father-figure role for is understandable and quite plausible. As for a repeated occurrence, even in simulated, identical conditions, well, delayed shock would account for the first instance, but no. I don’t think it’s within the realms of possibility.’ Ted smiled at Brew reassuringly and lit his pipe.

‘Could you put that in a little plainer terms?’

‘No, I don’t think it would happen again.’

‘You’re sure?’ Brew was already feeling better.

‘Yes, absolutely. Unless...’

Brew’s head snapped up. ‘Unless what?’

‘Well, unless this Bobo fellow suddenly decided he... he didn’t like the way you played. Brew? You okay? You look a little pale.’

Brew leaned forward on the table and covered his face with his hands. ‘Thanks, Ted,’ he whispered.

Ted smiled. ‘Any time, Brew. Don’t mention it. Hey, do you think Gerry Mulligan would mind if I asked him for his autograph?’

In the end, Brew finally agreed to do the session. It wasn’t Manny’s insistence or threats. They paled in comparison with Razor. It wasn’t even Mary Ann’s reasoning. She was convinced Bobo was totally sane. No, in the end, it was the dreams that did it. Always the dreams.

A giant Doberman, wearing sunglasses and carrying a straight razor in its mouth, was chasing him through Central Park. In the distance Razor stood holding his horn, laughing. Brew had little choice.

On one point, however, Brew stood firm. The Newport Record executives had taken one look at the Final Bar and almost cancelled the entire deal. They wanted to move the session to the Village Vanguard but Brew figured that was tempting fate too much. Through Mary Ann, Bobo had deferred the final decision to Brew and as far as he was concerned, it was the Final Bar or nothing. The Newport people finally conceded and set about refurbishing the broken-down club. Brew had to admit someone had really spent some money.

The club was completely transformed. It was repainted, new tables were added, blow-up photos of jazz greats were plastered on the walls and the sawdust floor was replaced with new carpeting.

When Brew and Mary Ann arrived, they were greeted at the door by Rollo, nattily attired in a tuxedo, collecting a hefty admission charge and looking as smart as any maître d’ in New York. ‘My man Brew.’ He smiled, slapping Brew’s palm. ‘Tonight’s the night!’

‘Yeah, tonight’s the night,’ Brew mumbled as they pushed through the crowd. The club was jammed with fans, reporters and photographers. Manny waved to them from the bar where he was huddled with the Newport people. A Steinway grand had replaced the ancient upright piano and a tuner was making final adjustments as engineers scurried about running cables and testing microphones.

Brew suddenly felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned to see Razor, resplendent in a yellow velvet suit, sitting with a matching pair of leggy blondes. Honey hovered nearby. Razor flashed a smile at Mary Ann and nodded to Brew. ‘I see you been keepin’ cool. This your lady?’

Brew stepped around Honey, wondering if it were true that dogs can smell fear. ‘Yeah. Mary Ann, this is Razor.’

Razor bowed deeply and kissed Mary Ann’s hand, then stepped back to introduce the blondes. ‘Say hello to Sandra and Shana.’

‘Hi,’ the blondes chorused in unison.

‘What are you doing here?’ Brew asked Razor.

‘What am I doin’ here? Man, this is my club. Didn’t you know that?’ He flashed Brew another smile. ‘You play good now.’

In a daze, Brew found Mary Ann a seat near the bandstand. As the piano-tuner finished, a tall man in glasses and the three-piece suit walked to the microphone and introduced himself as the Vice-President of Newport Records. He called for quiet, perhaps the first time it had ever been necessary at the Final Bar.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know, we are recording live here tonight, so we’d appreciate your co-operation. Right now, though, let’s give a great big welcome to truly, one of the giants of jazz, Mr Bobo Jones and his quartet.’

The applause was warm and real as they took the stand. Bobo, Deacon and Juice were immaculate in matching tuxes. Brew was dressed likewise but at the last minute had elected to opt for a white turtleneck sweater. Bobo bowed shyly as the crowd settled down in anticipation.

Brew busied himself with changing the reed on his horn and tried to blot out the image of Bobo leaping from the piano but there was nowhere to go. He rubbed his throat, tried to smile at Mary Ann as the sound check was completed. It was time.

They opened with one of Bobo’s originals, simply titled ‘Changes’. Bobo led off with a breathtaking solo introduction that dispelled any doubts about his return being genuine. Then, Deacon walked in, bass pulsing quietly, while Juice put the cymbals on simmer.

Brew decided that if he survived tonight, he’d just disappear. But now, locked into the music, his fingers flew over the horn in a blur while Deacon’s throbbing bass and Juice’s drums pushed and drove him through several choruses. Bobo, eyes closed, head back, nodded and passed the chords to Brew with love, till at last, Brew backed away and surrendered to Bobo.

Bobo spun out the old magic with a touch so deft he left the audience gasping for breath. This was the second coming of Bobo Jones. Rejuvenated and fresh lines flowed off his fingers effortlessly, transforming the mass of wood and metal and ivory into a total musical entity. Brew listened awestruck and nearly missed his entrance for the final cadenza.

He restated the plaintive theme, then made it his own, twisting, turning the melody before finally returning it safely to Bobo in its original form as the quartet came together for the final chord.

The applause that rang out and filled the room was deafening. But just as suddenly as it had erupted, it trailed off and lapsed into a tension-filled silence. Brew felt it then, his heart pounding, some murmuring as he caught a movement near the piano. He turned to see Bobo advancing toward him.

Brew stood frozen, staring hypnotically as Bobo stopped in front of him. As their eyes met in the hushed room, Bobo wiped away a tear, then suddenly grabbed Brew and hugged him close.

The audience began to clap again, only one or two people at first, gradually building in a crescendo, as Bobo whispered something in Brew’s ear. No one heard what he’d said and it was later edited off the tape.

Brew wasn’t sure he’d heard right at first. Bobo, face cracking into a huge grin, said it again. Brew smiled faintly, then threw his head back, laughing until tears came to his own eyes. Juice was laughing too and even Deacon smiled. Bobo went back to the piano and the rest of the evening went like a dream.

It was Mary Ann who finally remembered. Everyone was gone except for Manny who sat in a booth with them, calculating album sales and filling them in on the upcoming tour.

Brew sat slumped down while Mary Ann massaged his shoulders. The Newport people had been all smiles and had carted Bobo off to a celebration party. Brew had promised to join them later but for now he was content to bask in the luxurious feeling of freedom that washed over him in waves.

‘What was it Bobo said to you? After the first number,’ Mary Ann asked.

Brew grinned. ‘Something I completely overlooked. “I knew all the time you wasn’t Lee Evans, man,”’ Brew said, imitating Bobo’s hoarse whisper. ‘“Lee was a brother, and you sure don’t look like a brother.”’

Manny looked up puzzled, as Brew and Mary Ann both laughed. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘What’s so funny about that?’

‘Priorities, Manny. It’s all a question of your priorities.’