Extreme Justice

Chapter 1

BEN KINCAID WAS playing the piano and singing with such enthusiasm that he neither saw nor heard the man sitting at the foot of the stage desperately trying to get his attention.

“ ‘I know I’m going no-oh-where …’ ” Ben belted out his song in a high-pitched adenoidal voice that seemed part Bob Dylan, part Sonny Bono. “ ‘… and anywhere’s a better place to be.’ ”

Unfortunately, the man offstage couldn’t stand it any longer. He stood up and barked, “Stop!”

Ben did not hear him. “ ‘I come back with my pa-ay-per ba-a-ag … to find that she was gone …’ ”

The man slammed his fist down on the nearest table, rattling two beer mugs and a centerpiece candle. “Stop already!”

Ben froze. He stopped singing. He stopped playing. For a moment he even stopped breathing. “Earl? Were you talking to me?”

Earl Bonner let out a sigh of relief. “I was.”

Ben nervously fingered the sheet music propped up before him on the piano. “But… I’m not finished yet.”

Earl pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “Not finished? You’ve been compin’ chords for somethin’ like ten minutes already!”

Ben swallowed. “It’s a long song.”

“That ain’t no song, son. That’s more like an opera.”

Ben scooted to the end of the piano bench. “It’s a story song, Earl. It takes a while to lay out the plot, develop the characters—”

“What’re you talkin’ about? Plot? Characters?”

“See, it’s a Harry Chapin song—”

“Harry who?” Earl ambled to the foot of the stage. “Ben, did you happen to notice on your way in what the name of this here club is?”

Ben cleared his throat. “Uh … Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium?”

“Right. And what do you suppose the most important word in that name is?”

Ben looked down sheepishly. “Jazz?”

“You bet your sweet mama’s pajamas. Jazz.” He pronounced the word as if it had about sixteen syllables. “Now what in the name of Thelonius Monk does what you were cuttin’ have to do with jazz?”

“Variety is the spice of life.”

“Maybe in vaudeville, but not in Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium.” He reached out. “C’mere, Ben. Walk with me.”

Ben pushed himself to his feet. “Should I bring my music?”

“Definitely not.”

Ben jumped off the stage and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the huge black man’s right arm. Earl steered him toward the exit doors on the east side of the club. They stepped out into the sunlight of a bright April day.

The club was located on the North Side of Tulsa in the heart of Greenwood, the city’s jazz district. Several clubs, studios, shops, and bars flanked Uncle Earl’s on all sides. In one direction, just a few blocks away, Ben saw the time-honored Mt. Zion Church, a cherished historical icon for the black community in North Tulsa. In the opposite direction, he could see the skyline of the ultramodern, spanking fresh campus of Rogers University. Quite a contrast.

“Now you look here,” Earl said, spinning Ben. around like a top. “I know you can play jazz. You’ve been handlin’ yourself real nice these past few months, ’specially considerin’ you’ve got the only white face in the combo. You’ve got a smooth two-hand rhythm style; you know how to make that piano sing like a canary. So what was that all about?”

Ben shrugged awkwardly. “I just thought if I was going to audition for a solo spot, I might try something … different.”

Earl peered at him with eyes like daggers. “You mean somethin’ that means a little more to you than jazz?”

“No, no,” Ben answered, a bit too hastily. “I love jazz. I do. I mean—”

“Some of your best friends are jazz players?”

“Well—yes, they are.”

Earl laid his hand firmly on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to turn grapes into wine. “Look here, Ben. I like you, so I’m gonna take a minute to tell you what’s what. Savvy?”

Ben nodded.

“Jazz ain’t somethin’ you do jus’ ’cause you can, or ’cause you need work, or ’cause you like hangin’ out in clubs. If you want to be a jazzman, you got to feel it deep down, in the core of your soul. In the marrow of your bones.”

“I could feel that.”

Earl grinned. “I don’t think you’re listenin’ to me, son. It ain’t somethin you could do. It’s somethin’ you do ’cause you ain’t got no choice. It’s a part of you, like an arm or a leg. You got to listen to that jukebox thumpin’ away inside your chest. I mean, really listen!” He paused, licking his broad lips. “Look, son, I don’t know what you did before you came to my club, but I bet it wasn’t playin’ jazz licks.”

“True.”

“Personally, I never thought no white boy had any business playin’ jazz anyway. Some of you do a pretty nice imitation, but it ain’t the same, you know? It ain’t the truth. To be a real jazzman, you got to suffer. You got to hurt. You got to hurt so bad you got to work your axe just to send all the pain away for a little while.”

“Maybe I should’ve worn a cast to the audition.”

“I think I’m not makin’ my point.” Earl swayed when he talked, as if he was speaking to the beat of some unheard syncopated rhythm. “Let me ask you a question, Ben. Do you understand the meaning of jazz?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Do you get it?”

Ben squirmed awkwardly. “Mmm … well … maybe you could explain it to me.”

Earl held up a finger. “Now you see, that’s the problem. It’s like ol’ Satchmo said, ‘If you gots to ask, you’ll never know.’ ”

“Not even a hint?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin. Sure, it’s about sufferin’, but everyone suffers. It’s more than that. It’s about findin’ the answers, findin’ some peace within yourself. It’s about knowin’ who to trust, who’s lookin’ out for you. It’s about harmony, about findin’ out what really matters in the cosmic scheme of things. It’s about learnin’ to believe.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Look, it ain’t somethin’ I can explain. It’s somethin’ where you just wake one morning, and all of the sudden you know.”

“Look, Earl, I can learn any piece of music you give me—”

“I know you can, Ben. Like I said, you got a real nice way with that keyboard. You remind me of some of the all-time great piano professors—Tuts Washington, Huey Smith, Allen Toussaint, Art Tatum. But that ain’t the point. If your heart tells you you’d rather be playing this … this … Harry …” He wiped his brow again. “Oh, hell. What do you call that stuff anyway?”

“Folk music.”

“Folk music?” Earl began to laugh, a deep hearty bowl-full-of-jelly laugh. “Well, blow me over. That’s one I ain’t heard in a while.” He tried to suppress his grin and get serious, although Ben could see it was a struggle. “So anyway, if your heart says you should be playin’ this … folk music, that’s what you got to do.”

“This isn’t exactly a renaissance period for folk music.”

“It don’t matter, son. Listen to me. It don’t matter what the other folks are doin’. It don’t matter what they want you to be. You got to be who you are.” He jammed his handkerchief back in his pocket and steered Ben toward the club. “Your problem, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, is that you ain’t figured out yet who you are.”

Ben tried to smile. “Thank you, Uncle Sigmund.”