‘And he didn’t object?’
‘On the contrary, the girls use the Caribou a lot, he knows most of them, strictly legitimate of course, no hanky-panky . . . no fraternising. But they like him because he treats them just the same as any other customer, which is with due deference and kindness. He’s a good man.’
I’d once read somewhere that there’s no such thing as a good man, not through and through. The misanthropic author believed men are imperfect creatures, their minds a roiling mass of primitive, violent urges, and that controlling those violent forces gives men a sense of goodness. If my own father was a typical example, he was a bastard, drunk or sober, but drunk, all that bastardry towards women emerged from the dark recesses of his mind.
If most women’s minds are motivated by the same instincts then I haven’t personally observed this to be the case. I’ve witnessed frustration, bitterness, anger, despair, jealousy, bitchiness and sometimes racial bigotry in women, but most of it seems to me to have been directly or indirectly caused by men. Dolly McClymont may have been an exception, given the way she treated poor little Mac.
I thought of all the women who had been important in my life. Miss Mony was married but I had no idea how she was faring; Mrs Hodgson was divorced; Miss Frostbite and Miss Bates were determinedly single; the twins were showing no signs of marrying; and my mother was rid of my bastard father at last. Most of these women made a deliberate decision to remain on their own. My mother was plainly a victim. I couldn’t imagine any of the others tolerating a permanently flattened nose and broken teeth while still remaining loyal, nor being afraid to walk out on the bastard who beat her to alleviate his guilt, anger and pathetic weakness. The tragedy was that Gertrude Spayd was not the exception but rather the Cabbagetown stereotype, while my dad wasn’t a rarity either.
I have often wondered if men who were born into a higher social class were any better. Certainly they seemed to be outwardly, but what about deep down inside? I’d read enough to know that women in good homes were also beaten up by their husbands, men who took out their frustrations on their women, whatever those frustrations might be.
‘When is the gig?’ I asked Reggie.
For some curious reason he removed his fob watch, his fingers flicking along the gold chain to the pocket that housed it in his vest, then he clicked open the gold cover and looked into the watch face as if the date might be registered upon it. ‘Let’s see, today’s Saturday,’ he glanced up. ‘Next Monday week, Jack.’ Then clicking back the cover he replaced the watch.
‘And how should I dress?’
‘Mustn’t insult the girls, must we, old boy? Your grey suit, of course. Trust it’s virgin wool, eh?’ He placed both his hands on his paunch and began to heave with laughter, very pleased with his own wit.
I didn’t think at the time it was very funny but there was no doubt Reggie thought it extremely clever, one of his better bons mots. His affected English manner could at times be extremely tedious, as if Canadian English was somehow lesser or indicated an inferior people. All the other musicians used music slang as a matter of course, words such as hep (with it), cats (other musicians), wicked (very good), cool (good), chick (girl) and gig (job or performance), but Reggie Blunt never did, specialising in pomposity. His mind seemed stuck somewhere in the English prose spoken by British officers who’d attended Sandhurst prior to the First World War. For instance, he would order a ‘double whisky and splash’, as if he were a Canadian version of Bertie Wooster, P.G. Wodehouse’s famous character.
Still, he was very kind and helpful and lord knows I needed all the advice I could get. He’d been honest about his own experience and in doing so helped to encourage me to agree to my initiation via the ministrations of a professional.
I told myself that it was all in line with Joe’s advice to get myself some experience of real life. Once, when feeling particularly poetical, as he termed it, he’d sat down at the piano and begun to play and sing. ‘Jazzboy scuffin’ and roughin’, huffin’ and puffin’ when you ain’t got no women and yo drownin’ from swimmin’ ’gainst the waves and you ain’t gettin’ no raves and yo just about beat and there’s holes in yo feet from the soles that wore out and you’re askin’ and prayin’ and nobody’s sayin’ it’s time to get playin’ and your belly it groanin’ and yo angry and moanin’, and yo cain’t take a trick and nobody give a fig you ain’t got a gig, that life, man, that learnin’ to be grow’d up widout no mama to call yo her baby and cook yo no grits that flavoured wid gravy.’
Of course, the party and raffle would never have happened in Toronto – I’d have been too afraid of the formidable women who had hitherto controlled my life. I’d often fantasised that one or both of the twins would offer to initiate me into manhood (wearing diaphanous nightgowns and leading me into a carpeted bedroom with a gigantic bed). But I’m not sure whether, had they made such an offer, I would have had the courage to accept.
Monday week came much too soon. I arrived at six o’clock sharp at the Caribou Café, shaved, showered and dressed in my Mrs Sopworth suit, white shirt and starched collar, navy blue necktie with a small anchor motif on the front, shoes polished so you could see your face in the toecaps, ostensibly ready to play in the John Robert Johnson Caribou Café Band to entertain a multitude of River Street ‘balcony babes’. There must have been fifty or more girls in the room – I had no idea there were so many. They gave a squeal as I entered and quickly surrounded me, some clutching at my arms. Jesus, what now? I thought to myself. Sometimes some of the chicks at my Sunday jazz concert would gather around and shout a bit, but nothing like this. These were girls who were accustomed to men and had few inhibitions. I, on the other hand, was filled with them, a stuttering, mumbling, stammering, blushing fool with a confused and no doubt inane smile on my silly mug.
Fortuitously Reggie Blunt arrived only a minute or so later. ‘Now, now, girls, hands off the prize!’ he shouted, then mounting the bandstand he flicked his fingers across a drum and rat-ta-tat-tatted to bring the room to silence. ‘You’ve now all bought your tickets in the raffle and until the winner is announced at the end of the evening,’ he turned to me, ‘Honky-Tonk Jack is just another member of the band.’
‘I’ve bought five!’ a pretty blonde shouted.
‘Ten!’ It was Miss Flash. God, wouldn’t that be something. Plainly she liked me as much as I liked her.
‘We’ve formed a syndicate, me and the eight girls in the house!’ a redheaded lady a lot older than the others shouted. ‘Forty tickets in all we’ve bought . . . it’s a certainty, Mr Blunt.’
This brought gales of laughter and even I had to join in.
‘I hope then that the winning ticket doesn’t include you, Madam Rose,’ Reggie grinned to further laughter. ‘Shhh, now! No more, please, ladies. The remainder of the band is due at any moment and they know nothing about the raffle. When it’s announced it will simply be referred to as a night on the town with the partner of your own choosing. Now enjoy the party, there can only be one winner, and in the meantime it’s eyes only, no touching. We don’t want Honky-Tonk Jack too exhausted by the time the raffle is drawn. Have a good time, all of you.’
‘Speech, Honky-Tonk, speech!’ someone called out and the room broke into spontaneous applause. I was certain that the worst moment in my whole life had arrived. I thought briefly of Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘If’, where he talks about what it is to be a man. He hadn’t mentioned women, but according to him you needed to be able to cope in just about any situation to be a real man. The room had grown deathly quiet with a sea of carefully made-up eyes fixed on me.
I cleared my throat, locked my knees to keep them from shaking and began. ‘I can honestly say that I’ve never been in a room that contained only pretty women. Whoever among you has the misfortune to win the raffle, I can only say I shall be extremely honoured and will try to do my . . . ah, um . . . very best.’ I could feel myself blushing furiously. ‘Thank you.’ The room broke into thunderous applause, fortuna
tely, because I couldn’t have added another sensible word if my life had depended on it.
Chuck Bullmore and Charlie Condotti arrived at that moment. Reggie banged the drums to bring the room to silence and rather cleverly said, ‘Ladies, another big clap for Chuck Bullmore and Charlie Condotti!’ The ladies immediately cottoned on and gave them a big welcoming yell and loud applause and did the same when a couple of minutes later Mort Smith and Robert Yuen entered the Caribou Café. Peter Cornhill was absent, having to work at the Brunswick.
It was all rather well done and a minute or so later I led off on the piano with the song ‘Tenderly’. The River Street girls didn’t seem to miss the presence of men, and certainly knew how to throw a party and have an outrageously good time. I found myself trying to think up a good collective noun for a gathering of working girls such as this. It was hardly a fellowship and certainly not a congregation, both terms having been stolen by one church or another. Perhaps, a prancing of pros? They were having an absolute ball and while several had consumed a glass or two too many, others took good care of them. Hopefully one of the girls in her cups didn’t turn out to be the eventual winner.
John Robert Johnson later said his greatest fear was that there might be a cat fight, because according to him, prostitutes were notoriously competitive and combative. Reggie Blunt, I was to learn, had paid the necessary zigzag, in this case to a police captain named Charles Coville, responsible for what was laughingly known as law and order in River Street. Coville claimed he’d have extra men on standby to deal with any fights that broke out, the implication being that a generous bribe would prevent him from doing his duty and banning the event before the streets ran with blood. He also pointed out that the Apostolic Church of the Pentecost would be having a stern word to him the following morning.
Had Coville been so inclined, he might have labelled the anticipated catfight a war of whores or a protest of prostitutes. However, no such ruckus occurred. The girls were out to enjoy themselves, and while some got pretty drunk, they didn’t turn ugly or even vulgar. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t glimpse a single garter belt or peek-a-boo nipple all evening, both mainstays employed by the girls on the balconies to attract passing men. In this respect their behaviour was as chaste as girls at a high school prom. But the dancing was wild and the laughter infectious, the girls partnered each other and there were no wallflowers; even the madams flounced their skirts and giggled like schoolgirls. As Joe might say, ‘Ever-body included in, ain’t nobody included out.’
The music seemed to please everyone and as the evening drew on there were calls from several of the girls, perhaps those who regularly attended the Sunday concerts, for me to play a couple of jazz solos. I didn’t want to be too much of a purist, so I played a short blues number then one of the free-form pieces by Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five I mentioned previously. I then led the band back into easygoing swing so as to avoid appearing to be the focus of the night in case the other band members suspected anything. Even so, both pieces got rather more applause than they deserved, and Chuck Bullmore laughingly remarked, ‘Oh to be seventeen again and tender meat. The chicks are eating you up, Jack.’
When ten o’clock arrived it was time for the band to pack up and leave and for all but one of the girls to go home or back to the balconies after a certain ‘dreaded event’.
The four other guys in the band finally left, armed with a great story to tell their wives that night in bed. After all, you don’t play too many all-girl gigs where the partygoers are all hookers or madams and you, the band and the owner of the venue are the only males present.
Reggie Blunt and I stayed back under some pretext or other he invented on the spot. Then, with my heart pounding like a Charlie Condotti drum solo, I realised that the moment for the raffle to be drawn had finally arrived.
Reggie Blunt stood on the bandstand and brought the room to silence with his now familiar drum technique. ‘Ladies, I pray your indulgence for just a moment longer before we reach the grand finale of the evening. I trust you all enjoyed yourselves?’ (Much clapping, some whistles and lots of cheering made it clear they all had.) Then he sat down at the old Grinnell and began to play the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers number ‘Top Hat’, ending with an unnecessary glissando to show off. John Robert Johnson walked up and handed him a silk top hat. ‘Ah the repository of joy to come!’ he announced to a sudden outburst of excited clapping from the girls, some of whom were jumping up and down or crossing their fingers and yelling, ‘Me, me, me!’
‘I now call on Honky-Tonk Jack to come up to the bandstand and draw out the winning number . . . or should that be the winning slumber?’ (Much laugher for a witticism he’d most certainly rehearsed.)
Reggie stretched his short arms straight up, holding the top hat high and still not reaching that far above my head, as I stepped up, nervous as hell. He gazed around at the girls, crying, ‘Who’s going to be the lucky damsel to win the Jackpot!’ They laughed generously, but I was shitting my britches and his uncalled-for levity didn’t help. My hand trembled as I dipped into the hat and withdrew a single ticket and handed it to John Robert Johnson without looking at it.
‘Number 61! Jucilla Fruitino!’ he shouted.
There was a moment’s pause then a squeal from a clutch of girls in the centre of the room as one of them pranced up, waving her ticket to a mixture of groans, cheers and clapping as some of the girls good-naturedly hugged and kissed the winner.
I was forced to grin despite my nervousness. The winner broke away and the first thing I noticed about her was her wide, generous smile. Reggie Blunt’s wish for me had come true: she looked to be in her mid-twenties, fair skinned with dark brown hair done in a style that had just come into fashion, referred to as the victory roll. The hair was swept up off the face into big rolls, like tubes of hair, and the rest curled softly around the neck and shoulders. She was good-looking – not pretty or beautiful but by no means plain – the girl-next-door type with nice brown eyes. She was also a willowy five foot seven, and the nice curves of her body showed through a silky dark green dress. Her nails were painted bright red to match her lipstick.
She handed John Robert Johnson her half of the ticket so he could confirm that they matched and then she turned to me with a smile. ‘Hello, Jack, how lucky am I,’ she said, and stretched out her hand.
‘I . . . um . . . ah . . . hope so,’ I managed to mumble.
‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’ the girls began to chant from the floor, and I think that was the moment my knees started to shake and my mind went into a blind panic. Except at the movies, with, say, Rita Hayworth and Cary Grant in Only Angels Have Wings, I had never witnessed a passionate kiss and I’d certainly never experienced one, not even at the Jazz Warehouse where couples sometimes left a bit the worse for wear.
Jucilla Fruitino immediately understood, smiled then said softly, ‘Jack, take a step forward and open your arms wide.’
‘I . . .I . . .can’t . . .m-my knees are sh-shaking . . .too much,’ I stammered, my teeth rattling. The moment was much too big for me.
‘Then drop to your knees, honey.’ I did as she instructed, my legs almost giving way in the process. I looked up into her eyes as she bent down and whispered, ‘Put your arms around me and just relax. I’m in charge.’ I felt her soft lips press against mine and at that precise moment I suddenly went deaf. It was only later that I learned that our kiss was met with thunderous applause. When I came to, I wondered how the hell I was going to stand up again, my legs having gone to water.
As for the sensation of the kiss, I’d love to say everything changed and all of a sudden I was transformed, different forever, the chrysalis broken, the butterfly emerged. Alas, it was not the case. I was as nervous as ever, and confused, shaken and embarrassed as well, as if I’d suddenly awoken in a room full of strangers.
I had recently read a great new book by an American writer named Ernest Hemingway called For Whom the Bell Tolls in which there is a love scene between a Spa
nish girl named Maria and an American named Robert Jordan. After they’ve made love Jordan asks her, ‘Did thee feel the earth move?’ It was to me at the time simply dynamite and wondrously beautiful. But now the closest I came to the earth moving was that I regained my hearing and a floorboard squeaked as I drew back from the kiss.
I was so completely stunned at what had just happened that I felt not even the faintest stirring of desire. Thankfully Reggie Blunt sat down at the Grinnell and started to thump out ‘For they are jolly good fellows . . .’, his fat little arms and legs bouncing up and down in an exaggerated manner as he sang. Thank god I managed to rise to my feet unassisted as all the girls sang along with Reggie, their arms around each other’s shoulders, their heads rocking from side to side.
Jucilla Fruitino, who now stood with her arm around my waist, was obviously a popular winner. When the serenade ended to much clapping and cheering, John Robert Johnson touched me on the arm and said, ‘Come on, Jack. Bring your girl, the car will be waiting.’
Car? Nobody had mentioned a car. When I’d asked Reggie where we’d be spending the night he’d replied, ‘Secret, old chap. Nice surprise, though.’
‘Not a . . . ?’
‘No, no, not a bordello. Trust me, nothing as disconcerting as that, old chap.’
Now a car was somehow involved? The girls had all rushed to the café door, lining up as if we were the bride and groom leaving our wedding reception. Jucilla Fruitino clasped my arm tightly above my elbow lest I make a dash for freedom and led me through our guard of dishonour as Reggie might say, smiling like the cat that got the cream. I could feel my face burning up.
Jack of Diamonds Page 29
