Have Coolth

Have Coolth

ONCE UPON A WHEN, DERRY MAYLOR had been cool. But that was past, and now there were long, thin dark spaces when he walked. Even the night was quiet for him; no sounds of the boo-dowin his head. He had taken to squareness, and wore his collar turned up.

How does a man blow his coolth?

It takes a combo of many littles. Like the chick with the eyes so green and so razor-slim the little kids ask her like, “Are you Chinese?” It takes the loss of all your bread and the loss of all your steam and most of all, the loss of your virility.

Get creamed once by a badass chick, and you’ve had it. Derry Maylor had had the course. Now came the times when the drums were quiet, and the horns didn’t blow, and the faint cha-tah of the sticks could not be heard. Rose had been her name, and Rose was her name, but Rose wasn’t right.

Try Bitch.

Which is the worst of all, man, when you blow piano that’s more than piano, and the chick takes your blood and your liver and wraps them up for 59¢ a pound — (any buyers?) — then you got to stay away from the lofts where the men are blowing and the smoke is warm and thick; then you got to stay away from the Sweet Lucy and the good Guatemalan shit and the honk and spike and the speed and the Good Book because when you come down off them, you got the blues so bad more worse you want to puke. Then you got to stay away from it all, like the piano, because the piano has been Mama and Poppa and home and life and all of it so nice. But what you got now?

You gottsuris.

Derry Maylor was about medium height … this is the make on him, so dig. He had eyes set up under his brows, so unless the light was with them, you knew he had no eyes. But when the light was right, then dig, they were as blue as something Tatum tinkled. His nose wasn’t merely a blow-station, it was a monument. Cyrano and Derry Maylor were blood brothers in the Society of Snot-Sockers. But it didn’t look bad, that was what made it swing so; it was a nose like larger than life. It was straight and squared at the tip, and it came down at you like a hungry buzzard, but it swung, and that counted. His mouth was very strong, but very thin; and all that, with the high Cherokee cheekbones, made him look rough and cold and with it.

But was he?

Not now, he wasn’t. Once, but Rose, and whamm!

No, he was a loser now.

That’s why he was mugging lushes in the Village.

For piss money. For pennies.

That was how I met the Tiger. I always called him the Tiger because he had a scrapbook he showed me once, with some pix from when he was at Middlebury, with all that sophomoric jazz in the room he shared with a guy he called the Bear. All fancy liquor bottles and like that. But that had been in the days when he had been another Derry Maylor, and the world was smelling like Air Wick.

I met him in the Village, most strange.

I mean, he tried to mug me.

He came out of this dark little side street off Bleecker, and came sneakity up behind me, like I played it cool. This cat didn’t. He just didn’t. I mean, he came on like gangbusters. Down came the duck and burped and said the secret word, “I’m gonna lick you one up longside the head and take your bread man,” so I just naturally turned on him when he got close enough and had this leather glove full of nickels raised to whomp me, and I said, “Shit, man!” And tagged him one right on that monumental bazooz of his.

He did a back flip and swam the length of the pavement, just for chuckles.

I mean, like I got a nasty temper, so I picked him off the sidewalk and shook him a little till his eyeballs registered UNCLE, then I set up that kook against the building wall and belted him again.

I got to learn to control my temper, for true.

After a while, after about half my Viceroy was gone he picked himself off the deck, shook his head like a St. Bernard what wonders who swiped his cask, and tried to take me out with a strong left. I ducked and caught him around the shoulders in a loving clinch.

“Baby, you want a mouthful of bloody Chiclets, you keep peppering my good nature. I’ll kill you, baby.”

So the Tiger just naturally settled back, because when you’re being hugged close by a two-hundred-pounder you make all your decisions for Christ.

When I saw the light of sense flick in his eyes, I turned him loose. I dug this guy, and the first make I got was one of chagrin. Like this cat was really ashamed; I asked him, “You got bills to pay or is this a hobby?”

He shook that boney head of his, and in the faraway streetlight I caught a glimpse, for the first, of those blue eyes. They were but tired.

“You got a name?”

He wouldn’t say. I felt more sorry than anything else for the guy, but what could I do? Not only was I not my brother’s keeper, I was almost not my own keeper sometimes, what with public relations being as slow a game as it is.

“Well, watch yourself, Cootie,” I laid it down, and made to split. “The next mark might tear your head off. Try getting a job, hey?”

I started to walk away, and I heard this odd voice behind me, and the guy said:

“I haven’t eaten in three days, mister.”

It was sogoddam pathetic, I stopped. I would have backed up without turning around, I didn’t want to catch the expressionI knew he had on his face, and put a buck in his hand, but there was something strange in his voice. Something sullen, and yet very hip. It was like away of talking, that gave me the tip this guy had it.

“You want some coffee?” I asked him. He gave me a weary peck with that beak of his. So …

I took him to Jim Atkins and we fell down on a pair of straight-blacks, till I saw the way he was hollow-cheeked and miserable.

“Come on, man,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. We went over to Eighth Street, to a little delicatessen I know, and walked through to the back where Cummerbund holds dominion over a twelve-table kingdom. Hardly anybody but the hip go to the delicatessen to eat, and Cummerbund is part of the reason those who do go come back often.

Cummerbund isn’t his name, but his real name is so easy to forget, and that silk cummerbund is so incongruous, it fits — so why fight it? It’s a good place to talk.

I ordered a hot plate of matzoh ball soup for him, and when Cummerbund had brought it — nodding to me in recognition, which warmed me — I put in a request for two hot corned beef sandwiches — lean — two orders of blintzes, two slaws, and a couple more coffees. While he shoveled it all in, I sized him up and decided this was a good kid.

He looked as though he was with it.

Over a cigarette and a second coffee, I tried to feel him out: “You got a name?”

He didn’t look up from the java, but he said, “Maylor. Derry Maylor.”

We sat and gabbed, and after a while he started to open up, and gave me a little of himself, and it came up seven that I’d dug this kid before.

“You ever play any piano?” I asked.

“Some,” he said, and it clicked.

“You used to be the fourth in Con Whitney’s Quartet, right? Played the Vanguard and that one side for Bethlehem, right?” He gave me the nod again. It was like a salute by a buzzard.

Then I knew the kid was okay, because he had talent, not the kind of gaff the Village phonies put out, but the real thing. So I became my brother’s keeper. So sue me.

Derry Maylor, the Tiger, came back fast. All it took was a strong hand because when it came down to it, he was pretty weak in the clinches.

Working as a freelance public relations man for a grab bag of second-rate attractions — like Lulu Seeker, The Girl with the Educated Crotch, so help me that’s how they bill her in Jersey City — I didn’t make much bread, but man, did I have coolth.

Part of the coolth came from taking my fee out in trade at low joints like The Hedonist Union, a down-the-stairs bôite featuring prices too sour and jazz too sweet. But I got it mentioned in the columns from time to time, and once in a while CUE did a restaurant piece mentioning it; I was being paid what I was worth.

Usually, I took my pay out in meals. I bought my own bicarb. Giulio, the chef, was a worse cook than my mother, and she had been only the last in cooking. Burned water.

Giulio was worse. But it was free.

So I took the Tiger down to see Frankie Sullivan, who owned the joint, and in a burst of fantastic dynamiting, sold him on the kid. Sullivan started the Tiger at fifty a week, backing him with three pick-ups from around town who were pretty well known. It wasn’t a smash at first, but that was how Miles and Bird and Cannonball had started, so I waited. I figured he had it, and when he had enough under his belt, he’d start to shine.

I was right. The kid began to make real sounds. By no sheer coincidence Derry Maylor was living with me, and I saw him every morning when I got up to start pounding my rounds, so I’d ask him, “How they swinging down there?” And at first he’d just nod sleepily from the Castro and turn over. But in a few weeks, he started to tell me things:

“We hit a couple good ones last night. Richie was really fine on Monk’s ‘Midnight,’ and I think Tad’ll be a great stick man one of these days …” then he’d realize he’d been exposing himself, and flip over in the sack. But he was coming back up the road, and that swung.

A couple evenings, when The Hedonist Union was closed, we’d make the scene at The Five Spot or Birdland or The Jazz Gallery and the kid would dig. If I knew someone there, I’d have them invite him up for a sit-in, and the kid just glowed. It was like great. Once he even sat in with Mingus at The Showplace. Far-out, but rewarding.

Let me tell you about the Tiger’s music.

It was more than him. It was like his nose; bigger than life. When Derry Maylor slid onto the bench, and hunched down, there was a bomb about to go. He’d crack his knuckles, and let his hands rest on the white keys for an instant, waiting for the nod from whoever was heading up the set. Then he’d dip his head to pick his way through the intro, and start letting it out from under his fingernails.

The sounds were full sounds. No histrionics, no Liberace or Ahmad Jamal stuff, none of that. It was more like a progressive Waller, if you can put a make on that. There was gut in it. He flatted himself constantly, and the riffs were all minors. It was big tone, what he played, and there was the whole fist in it, not just a pinky at a time. It made you hear that piano over everything else, but at the same time the combo was top ride, the Tiger didn’t try to upstage them. Yet he was the horse and they were the riders. Without him, they’d of been walking, it was that simple.

When they turned him loose for a solo, he cut in on the upbeat and struck away like trampling down the vineyards where the grapes of wrath and like that. He was so good it caught you in the stomach and you got all hot and prickly in the palms of your hands because they were beating on the tablecloth.

That was Derry Maylor’s music.

It was all him, and more than him. It took from everyone in the joint at the same time, and sucked it out like some ego-eater, and fed it back richly and many-colored clean. It was a talent you could identify, and there wasn’t any questions is that Monk or is that Evans or do you dig Powell in the left hand. It was all Tiger, none but Tiger, this Tiger and period.

He was coming back. But strong.

One night, I’d cut my rounds early that day and had caught some sack time, I fell in on The Hedonist Union to pick up on some Maylor. He was good that night, really mellow like Jell-O, and when the second set was done, I sent word round to him by a juice-head named Juicehead, and the kid made it to my table.

“Nutty, man,” I greeted him, holding it out. He took my hand, and gave me that self-effacing little beak-nod. “Really great, specially on ‘Hotshoe.’ Whose number is that?”

“A thing Shorty Rogers recorded from a Brando movie a couple years back. Like the changes we got on it?”

I gave him a thumb-and-forefinger okay and he smiled. We sat and had a few on the rocks until he had to make the next set. I dug all evening, and when he was finished, when the night was like a big coal chute, we staggered home to my pad, going oo-shoobie-doo all the way like a pair of wet brains.

But when we fell upstairs, the Tiger couldn’t sleep. For the first time since I’d met him, he seemed willing to talk about himself. So I grabbed off a couple vitamin B–complex caps that helped dispel the foggy-foggy-doo settling in on me, and I picked up what the kid was laying down:

I never had much (he said) but the piano. You know how it is, you come from a family with dough, and they’re good to you and everything, send you to a good school, but you just don’t swing. You know, it’s like you’re a round peg not nearly square enough. And they don’t dig, they keep saying make something of yourself, and stop screwing up. So you try, but it’s no go. Then one day you get enough guts to cut out and you hit the big town with five bucks and a couple of hands of piano. That was the way it was with me.

(He got up, then, and went over to my hi-fi and shook out an Australian Jazz Quintet side and laid it on the turntable. Then he took it off before it could play, and got out an Eric Dolphy thing, “Outward Bound,” and laid it on. We sat there for about two minutes, digging the slow, new stuff of Dolphy’s horn and he started in again.)

It was a rough row at first (he wet his thin lips) but after I hit with Con at the Vanguard it all looked cool. I cut one for Bethlehem and Hentoff said it was swinging. They had Feather do the liner notes, and it looked like I was on my way. Then Con found Rose somewhere and she started to sing with the combo.

(I could tell it hurt him to talk about her.)

Man, I want to clue you, this Rose item wasit. She had green eyes, and they looked Oriental, you dig? Her skin was like some kind of china or something, so clear and smooth. And her hair was auburn almost bloody when the spots dug her. I wanted her so bad, you’ll never.

For a while I thought she dug me, too. We made it together pretty often, you know. Like she wasn’t a tease, and she had this great body, man. Then one day, she came up to my pad while I was practicing, and she put the eye on me, and finally got to the pitch which was Derry would you mind letting this friend of mine who’s a pianist try a few sets tonight with Con, so I gave her the nod, and she brought in this kid from Hollywood who had a name out there, and next thing I knew he was sitting on the bench, and I was hoisting ’em from the floor.

Derry Maylor finished his story, and I stared at him, because I knew who he meant. The kid was now voted high in the Down Beat and Playboy polls for ivories, and the chick — Rose, I couldn’t even remember her name, she hadn’t been much good vocally, really — had cut her own throat; she’d built this new kid and he’d tossed her like she’d tossed Derry.

I felt sorry for the Tiger, but it was a dying hurt now. It was going away like the sounds of the blues when it’s fade-out time. I gave him some bonded sauce, and when he conked, padded him for the dark.

I knew he’d be okay. He’d spilled his gut and now it was clear. I liked the kid … don’t asky why, except maybe it was my kid brother Pete who’d gotten it from a semi when he was thirteen. Maybe, but I don’t know.

Trouble wore a sheath, and had a pair of cans like the headlights on a fire engine. She was waiting for me at Brioni’s, a little espresso house I beat the drum for occasionally. She was sitting with Eddie Brioni at one of the chess tables, a cappucino in front of her, and I glommed her immediatest because she had green eyes.

Like slitty green eyes.

Like this had to be a Rose.

Oh no,I dug inside,oh no!

“Hey, flack-artist!” Eddie Brioni stood up as I approached. “Got a little lady here says she wants to meet you.” I walked up to the table, her eyes locked with mine, and stared down at her. God, was she gorgeous. It made my belly muscles tight just to see her. The Tiger had put the make to her proper, she had this great body, and her face was all shadows and green, slim eyes.

Brioni was still bubbling. “And this is Miss Pardo. Miss Rose Pardo.” He introduced us again, like it hadn’t taken the first time, and said he’d move out because we probably had but lots to talk about. Brioni’s a nice guy, even when he isn’t overcharging, but sometimes I’d like to flatten him.

I sat down, making sure the creases were right in my Continentals. She was sizing me. I was big and I knew it; now there were two of us who knew it

“What can I do for you, Miss Pardo,” I asked.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said slowly. Her voice was butter on a stack of hot-cakes. It rated five stars in Down Beat . It was the seventh wonder of the Western world. I dug. It was easy to see a guy like the Tiger blasting his beret over a twist like this. What but sweet type of music we could have made together, but I dug a memory of what she’d done to the Tiger, and I knew this kid was a green bottle with a death’s-head on it.

“Oh?” I played it cool.

“Yes.” I had never heard it like that before. Made my feet feel funny … and other parts of me, too. “I hear you handle Derry Maylor.”

She didn’t waste any time.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“The Stem,” she answered, waving a slim hand out toward the darkening street. “Some of your clients told me I might find you here. I’ve been waiting.”

I knew what Lindbergh felt like with all of Paris waiting. It must have been the same. She breathed, and the bodice of her sheath did tricks. I yelled to Eddie for a cup of espresso. I had to do something.

“So. You’ve been waiting. Something I can do for you?”

She nodded, and the dim lights played over her auburn hair. Bloody wasn’t the proper word. Try ruby. Not that either. Something, but not that.

“I want to see Derry again.”

I gave her a look that would have made a cigar-store Indian join a union for protection, and fed her a flinty, “No!”

She leaned across the little chess table, and what her breasts did as they scrunched against the black and red squares made me feel checkmated. “I’ve got to see him, don’t you understand?”

“No!”

“I love him.”

“No!”

“I want to set things right with him.”

“No!” Eddie brought my coffee.

So I took her to see the Tiger, naturally.

So I’m a weak character. It was those goddam green eyes.

I hadn’t realized it, but The Hedonist Union had become a very hip spot. It was mostly Derry Maylor, of course, and not my public relations work, but Frank Sullivan wasn’t sure which it was, so he had kept us both on, and Derry was pulling down three Cs a week now. The Union was drawing big crowds every night, and Sullivan was thinking of adding another dining room, if he could purchase the wrought iron goods shop on the other side.

I hadn’t realized how big it had gotten, but apparently Rose Pardohad . She moved in against Derry like a blotter to a puddle of ink. And she soaked him up in the same way; I got to call it a spade, the chick had coolth. Almost more coolth than anyone I’d ever seen. She wound that guy around her painted fingers like he was saltwater taffy. But he liked it, and that was what counted.

I didn’t say anything, even when he set her up in a pad in my building. She spent most of her time around our joint, cooking for us, and not doing much of anything; when they wanted to ball I either checked out or they went up to her apartment. It seemed like a sweet little set-up, and as long as she didn’t try to hurt the kid, it was okay with me.

So I sounded like a big brother, so what? So sue me.

The night it all came down, Chicken Little, was like any night. Derry was at the Union, and I was alone trying to figure a new angle for The Girl with the Educated Crotch now that she was out of the cooler on that holding rap. I’d told Lulu a hundred times to stay off the junk or I wouldn’t handle her any more, but she was hooked, and once a hophead always a hophead, no matter how good they peel.

The doorbell rang and I got up to answer it.

Rose stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of jeans and one of Derry’s white button-down shirts, tied in a bow at her bare midriff. I stepped back and she came through. It made me feel like I had a case of dandruff all over. She was something, even in jeans; especially in jeans. I could see every muscle on her.

“I want to talk to you,” she said. She had stopped right in the middle of the room, with the lights behind her, giving her a halo of sorts.

“So talk.”

“I want a job singing at the Union.”

She didn’t beat around it any. I had an idea in the back of my weak brain that it had been something like that all along, but this was the first she’d said about it.

“So go apply. Frank Sullivan does the hiring.”

“He’s married,” the way she said it made it sound dirty.

“Last I heard, that ain’t no crime.”

“I can’t get to him. And I’m not that good to make it on talent alone.”

I was rocked; I’d heard about chicks who laid it on the line, but this broad was just too much. She didn’t even seem to mind facing the truth that she didn’t have the wherewith to make it on her own.

“So you came to me. I’m supposed to get you in.”

“Sullivan’ll listen to you. He always does. He’s a grateful slob.”

This kid was sweet but deadly. Like a box of poisoned chocolates. My eyes must have been wide.

“So why should I do it for you? Far as I’m concerned you can rot.”

“Because if you don’t, flak-man, I break your Tiger. I break him inside like a cheap dish, like I did the last time. Only the last time I suckered myself; I know better now. I’ll do it right this time.”

“You know something, girl,” I asked her.

“What?”

“You stink!”

She chuckled then, deep in her throat, like a cat that knows it’s got a special deal and has ten lives, not just nine. “I can be nice, too, flack-man.” She started to undo the knot at her belly.

“Hold it, sister,” I said. “Nothing you’ve got can make me change my mind.”

She got it undone, saying, “I always like to pay a man for his labors.”

“I’m not going to do it.”

“You want to see Derry a stumblebum again, mugging lushes in the Village for doughnut dough?”

“You bitch you. Lousy stinking …”

“Listen, mister,” and her tone dripped blood, “I know what crap is. I was born lying in it and it’s been in my smelling ever since. I’ve got very little to trade on besides my shape and my voice. My voice isn’t so hot, but my backside is! You have to lie down with a lot of old dogs in this life to get what you want. I’ve been lying down for a long time now, mister, and I’m weary. I’m just weary enough to ruin your little piano player for good. I tagged onto him once as a meal ticket and got straight-armed by a bastard when I thought I was on the way up.”

“But it isn’t gonna happen this time.”

Now what happened next is my fault, I know it.

There was such red-hot hatred in her voice, she became the most appealing witch I’d ever dug. And she’d been unbuttoning that white shirt all along, it was open and you know she wasn’t wearing a bra.

I don’t even remember grabbing her, but the next thing I had her mouth and she was plastered against me and we went over onto the sofa. The slammer went bam against the wall and there was the Tiger standing in the doorway.

“Rose, why’d you call me to come — ”

He stopped, and the growl that came out of him was half-human. I tried to get free of Rose, but she had her damned legs twined around me, and I was stuck! The Tiger came at us, and grabbed my collar and ripped me off the sofa. I was twice as big as him, but I’d never met anyone who wanted to kill more than him.

He caught me one straight in the right cheek and I sailed back against the wall. I slid down the wall and just sat there for a minute, too stupid to do anything.

He went after her, then, and picked her right up by the neck. I saw what she’d wanted to do; to break us up. If she could split us, she could move in on me and get an in at the Union. But it hadn’t worked that way. The Tiger had picked up his guts somewhere, and now he was kill-mad.

He had her by the throat, and he was banging her auburn head against the wall, while her tongue came out of the side of her mouth … she was dying.

“Tiger!” I yelled, and got up from my Little Jack Horner corner.

I grabbed him and pried his thumbs off her jugular. Then I spun him around and took him out with one solid bolo to the mouth. He collapsed against me and I let him slide down my body.

Rose was able to move around by now, and she was dragging herself to the kitchenette. I was too stunned by the arm Derry had laid on me, too knocked out by the events of the past few minutes to know what she was doing.

But when she stood over him with that butcher knife in her goddam hand, I knew what she was thinking, what she wanted to do. The girl was off her nut; she wanted to make it so bad, she didn’t care who got drug in the process.

“Kill him!” she said, and pushed the knife into my hand. I stood looking at him for a moment, at the kid who reminded me of my dead brother Pete, and the talent he had all boiling in those hands, and the way this woman would stop nowhere to get what she wanted, and she said, “Go ahead, you big bastard! Go ahead, for us!” and she jammed her hot body against me, so I used the knife.

It’s all in having coolth, the way I see it. There are some people who got to get somewhere, even if they don’t know where that somewhere is. And there’s others who aren’t meant to get at all. Those are the kind that brodie when the gaff gets too thick. You dig?

I mean, some people are just meant to take a blade in their gut, and others are meant to take the blame. So that something worthwhile can go on.

The Tiger’s playing at Basin Street this week, you said? See what I mean … he’s got it. He’s got the talent, and that’s more important than one flak-man named Brenan.

That’s Brenan with one “n” in the middle.

The warden gave me a record player and a couple of the Tiger’s sides with Trane as a last request, you know. I thought that was kind of sweet of the old guy. He and I had quite a few gab sessions about Bix and the old days.

He’s a good joe.

I don’t think I dig this haircut, though. I never liked a baldie — even if it’s just in one circle on the back of my head. And look what that razor did to my Continentals. These slits’ll never catch on, man.

That’s Brenan with one “n” in the middle.

I guess I’m just a flak-man at heart. Any publicity is good publicity, like they say.

So stay cool, man, I gotta split.

I got a date. A hot date.