Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, I’ll do my best.’ I felt like a schoolboy in front of the headmistress, though no headmistress had ever had the style and charisma of Mrs Bridgett Fuller.

  Seated again, Lenny raised his glass. ‘To your successful audition, Jack. I know you gonna be fine, buddy. It’s only natural she’s a little anxious. My word is all she got. Cain’t entirely blame her, eh?’

  ‘Lenny, you mentioned the piano?’

  His face lit up. ‘Steinway, baby grand – only the best for you, buddy.’

  ‘Thank you. Hope I get to play it more than once.’

  Lenny ignored my remark. ‘Sorry, Jack, couldn’t do it in blue. Bridgett decided she cain’t do nothin’ wid a pale blue Steinway. The one we got is black as a nigger’s ass.’

  First the Jews, now that word nigger again. Was this simply white gentile America or was it something worse? I decided to ignore it, for now. ‘Piano sounds great, Lenny, but with all the shortages, how the hell did you get hold of a Steinway baby grand?’

  Lenny looked slightly apologetic. ‘Jack, buddy, it ain’t new, but almost. We couldn’t get no new one, but we’ve ordered a bran’ new one for the Firebird. The fucking krauts in New York are having trouble getting their act together – same thing as us, post-war shortages.’

  ‘Have you had it tuned?’

  ‘Of course, poifect, best tuner on the West Coast, come originally from San Diego. Mexican. Blind guy – Manuel Picconas – he’s got ears can hear a pin drop a thousand yards away! He’s done piano tuning for Erroll Garner, Duke Ellington. Also Count Basie, W. C. Handy, you name it.’ If Lenny was being truthful, this was impressive. ‘You ain’t never gonna believe this, Jack. You know that movie – Humphrey Bogart and what’s her name, that actress, Swiss, Swedish, somethin’ like that, speaks foreign.’

  ‘Ingrid Bergman, Casablanca?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe I’m the only guy in America ain’t seen the movie.’

  I laughed too. ‘I’ve seen it four times.’

  ‘Yeah? Well then, you’ll remember the bar.’

  ‘Rick’s Café.’

  ‘Yeah, right . . . Well, we got the Steinway baby grand they used in the film. It’s bin in storage at the props department; never been used since the movie.’ He grinned. ‘Nice, eh?’

  I agreed it was. ‘I’ll be honoured to play it,’ I replied. The only problem was that the piano Dooley Wilson played in Rick’s Café was a small decorated upright. The Hollywood props department was probably correct. I knew Lenny liked a bit of a story. Why present a naked fact if you can dress it up and give it a bit of style, a pair of tap shoes and a red bow tie?

  On the dot of half an hour later, Mrs Fuller appeared at the door of the Longhorn. I watched as she came towards us. She was sheer class, every inch. I was back in the library, a small boy fronting Mrs Hodgson.

  Lenny rose in anticipation. ‘Jack, I’d love to listen to you play, but I gotta meeting wid Sammy. He reckons one of the kitchen hands is pilfering from the meat freezer. Perhaps we can have a drink later, after you finish. How long you reckon you gonna be?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I said. ‘I plan to play a composite of jazz, blues, classical and popular . . . maybe three-quarters of an hour?’ Mrs Fuller had almost reached us. ‘It depends on . . .’ I completed the sentence by raising my eyebrows.

  ‘Right on time, as always, Bridgett,’ Lenny said.

  She gave Lenny a brief smile, then turned to me. ‘Mr Spayd, if you’d like to follow me, we’re ready for you,’ she said crisply. Or perhaps that’s just how I imagined it.

  ‘Is there to be an audience? Lenny told me about the GAWP Bar, ma’am,’ I explained.

  ‘No, not this time.’ Mrs Fuller smiled, a bit like the Cheshire cat, I thought. ‘I shall have the pleasure of having you all to myself.’

  She turned on her heel and marched off without a backward glance, leaving me to scramble after her. Jesus, what am I letting myself in for? It was pretty obvious I’d got off to a poor start. Then Joe’s words surfaced once more. ‘Jazzboy, when you get to mess up big time, it a great chance to know yo’self. Pro-ceed upwards and onwards wid that knowing.’ I played piano and thought of myself as a professional; it was time to grow up.

  I caught up with her as we crossed the foyer and headed down a thickly carpeted passageway towards a large, dimly lit room with The Princess in gold metal script against rose-pink velvet directly above the words Members Only.

  The décor consisted of old-rose velvet drapes, cream walls, subdued lighting and leather booths in the same old rose as the drapes. The bar occupied half of the wall at the far end and was upholstered in the same leather as the booths, studded in gold and topped with marble. Gold pseudo-antique tables and chairs clustered around it. Beside the bar, an archway draped in old-rose velvet with gold tassels led into another room. At a pinch, the room could hold fifty people.

  Miss Frostbite, had she observed The Princess, might have declared, ‘Too much, much too much, my dear,’ but I know my mom would have clapped her hands in glee, then almost immediately felt the room was too grand for her.

  However, the décor was less important than the acoustics, and the tone and tuning of the beautiful black Steinway baby grand standing on a small stage. My fingers suddenly itched to try it, even if I was destined to play it only once. What the heck, this was one sweet shining black baby.

  Attempting to conceal my excitement over the piano, I clapped my hands several times, turning in a different direction with each clap.

  Mrs Fuller raised an eyebrow. ‘Mr Spayd, I think you’ll find the acoustics are adequate.’

  It was another putdown but I no longer cared; I was too anxious to lay my hands on that beautiful keyboard. ‘Do you have any requests?’ I said, stepping up onto the small stage and adjusting the lid so that every note would carry. Any performer would have to be careful not to push the stool too far backwards after a set or they’d tumble off the stage. There was barely sufficient room for the piano and stool. It was an obvious design fault, but one that, happily, focused my attention and calmed my nerves.

  ‘Just play one or two examples from your usual repertoire, please, Mr Spayd. Mr Giancana informs me you have considerable musical range.’ The tone of this last remark was, I thought, just a touch acerbic – Mrs Fuller was preparing herself for the worst. Clearly, she’d made up her mind about me: I was merely one of Lenny’s wartime buddies and she wasn’t about to trust his judgment on anything.

  I sat down and adjusted the stool. What the heck, here goes nothing . . . I can always go scuffing, I thought. Settling myself, I began to play, softly at first, just warming up my fingers and testing the piano’s touch and tone, easing myself into the music. It had been nearly a week since I’d played and being back at the keyboard felt like coming home. Jack Spayd became whole again. Nothing mattered, the world around me simply disappeared, I was in my own shining universe.

  I began with an almost languid version of ‘Sentimental Journey’, the Les Brown hit from 1944. As my fingers warmed up, I segued into the more upbeat ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, just giving the keys a bit of a workout. I ran through several popular songs, then added a little ragtime followed by some blues – ‘St James Infirmary’ to begin with – then I launched into the aria of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, moving on through the first variation until I was completely immersed in the intricate short pieces that had always been among my favourite pieces. After indulging myself with several of them, I moved onto the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique.

  When I came to the end of the movement, I paused for a moment and suddenly realised my audience was no longer only Mrs Fuller. To my immense surprise, the room was filled with people standing in utter silence. Suddenly, they were clapping, yelling and whistling. The piano bar was filled to capacity – standing room only – and I could see the restaurant and kitchen staff in their uniforms, crowding three deep through the archway at the side of
the bar. One of the chefs, in a tall white toque, was beating on a saucepan with a wooden spoon, adding to the din. I was completely taken aback. ‘More! More!’ they began to shout.

  There seemed no graceful way to refuse, so I launched into a selection from George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, an all-American finale.

  More clapping and yelling followed, and one of the kitchen staff called out, ‘Brother, we got ourself a jazz man, the best there could be! I gone heard myself in heaven!’

  To their delight, I turned towards the kitchen and dining-room staff and performed a stiff little bow. ‘Oh, man, brother, you da best!’ The chef’s opinion was generally supported, and there was much nodding of heads and more clapping. It felt good to be back at a keyboard and, while I appreciated the obvious delight of the ladies, whom I presumed were the girlfriends and wives of the high rollers, the response of the black folk working in the dining room and kitchen seemed to me to be the best affirmation of all.

  I stepped carefully to the edge of the tiny stage in an attempt to see Mrs Fuller in the happy murmuring crowd. A manicured female hand appeared, and reached up and pulled me into the mayhem. Overcome with emotion, she embraced me and kissed me hard on the cheek, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘Jack, that was . . . well, what can I possibly say? That was wonderful!’ She kissed me again, this time a little more decorously. ‘You had the crowd in the palm of your hand; they loved you, I loved you! Jack, your repertoire is so divinely eclectic and all of it’s excellent. The music was beautiful, simply marvellous,’ she went on, then added, ‘for once, Lenny got it right. Please, please stay!’

  ‘What about your GAWP members, shouldn’t I play for them?’

  ‘You just did. Word got around ten minutes after you began and they all came in from the pool.’ She grinned. ‘I think they’d lynch me if you didn’t agree to stay.’

  Of course I loved her reaction, and if at heart I was a jazz musician, I’d at least established my credentials here as a solo entertainer. Nobody had been forced to listen and obviously they thought I was providing them with more than reasonably competent background music for a busy cocktail bar. ‘Thank you, Mrs Fuller,’ I said, in an attempt to recover from her surprising reaction to my playing.

  ‘It’s Bridgett from now on, Jack; plain Bridgett,’ she said. Lady, there is nothing plain about you, I thought as she dropped a small curtsy and added, ‘At your service, maestro.’

  Wow! What a turnaround! I thought it was as good a time as there was likely to be to apologise for my crude comments about her to Lenny, which I was certain she’d overheard.

  ‘Bridgett, I want to apologise for the remark I made to Lenny.’ The crowd was drifting away and we followed it through into the foyer.

  ‘What remark, Jack?’ She looked directly up at me, her big green eyes wide and innocent. It was a gracious gesture and I realised Bridgett Fuller was a very charming liar. Then she added, ‘I think I’m the one who needs to apologise, for doubting your ability and for not taking Lenny’s recommendation seriously.’

  She had cleverly turned the conversation away from any awkwardness. ‘No, of course not. I understand. I’m Canadian, a complete unknown – you had every right. I’m glad I exceeded your expectations.’

  ‘And then some, Jack. Your looks were . . . well, you seemed too good to be true. I guess I just didn’t expect to find everything in the one package.’

  I could feel my face burning. Juicy Fruit was the only other woman, apart from my mom, who had ever remarked on my appearance, and while I liked Juicy Fruit a lot, she belonged to a profession practised in the ways of making a guy feel good. And, of course, nobody can trust their mom’s views!

  I’d never given my looks much thought, always assuming that my luck with women was due to my skill at the keyboard. I guess the Iroquois blood from my mom’s side added an exotic touch – dark hair, dark eyes, skin ‘like an early summer tan’, as my mom would say when I was a child. I’d been a big kid, not much interested in games, and I’d grown into a big man. That was about it. The harmonica, then the piano, had always seemed to me the only thing that separated me from every other guy.

  Now I could feel my heartbeat increasing by the second. Christ, what is it with you and this lady, Jack Spayd? I realised that, after just two demure kisses and one hug, she’d burned herself into my nerve endings so that I was acutely aware of her standing by my side, as if there were an electric charge between us.

  ‘I’d like to stay,’ I heard myself murmur. ‘Thank you, Bridgett.’

  Just then I observed a bulky figure hurrying across the dining room. It was Lenny, and clearly something was wrong. A deep frown was fixed on his normally genial face and, as he reached us, he hissed, ‘Ferchrissake, Bridgett, call an ambulance. Fuckin’ Sammy’s damn near killed a kitchen hand wid a meat cleaver!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NEITHER LENNY NOR BRIDGETT discussed the details of the attack on the kitchen hand and I could hardly ask. I was too recent an employee to be able to discuss it with the kitchen or front-of-house staff, and when I asked Gina at reception what had happened, she’d said only, ‘It was horrible, Jack. We’re not allowed to discuss it.’

  I later learned that Lenny had covered the hospital bills and paid the rail fare for the unfortunate man and his family out of Nevada, as well as a modest amount to help them settle in another state. Two days later I saw Manny ‘Asshole’ de Costa in the foyer, coming directly towards me. I said ‘Hi’ but he seemed oblivious and brushed straight past me. I saw him fairly often over the next two weeks and had to conclude he was staying at the casino to help out in some way with the meat-cleaver incident, but plainly it was none of my business. As far as I could gather, Sammy Schischka had been sent back to Chicago by plane the morning following the incident and I presumed – incorrectly, as it turned out – that he might not be coming back to Las Vegas.

  The atmosphere among the staff was tense, with only perfunctory smiles for the guests, and I couldn’t help wondering if I was getting into something I’d later regret and that I ought to get the hell out of Las Vegas while I could. But there was the lovely Bridgett. Although she must have been preoccupied with the attack, she nevertheless made a special effort to see that I was happy in my new job, giving me the use of one of the suites while I looked for accommodation in town. When I told her I’d be happy with a room in the staff quarters, she said warmly, ‘You’re welcome to stay here at the El Marinero as long as it takes, Jack.’

  I decided to find an apartment of my own as soon as possible and create some space between the El Marinero and my private life, although I was in no hurry to create space between myself and Bridgett. However, Lenny had warned me against becoming involved with any of the staff, so I decided I’d find a poker game to distract myself. The gaming floor of the El Marinero was off limits to staff for recreational purposes and Lenny had also suggested I stay away from the other sawdust casinos. ‘Get a debt you cain’t settle pronto ain’t a good look, Jack. This town, everyone knows your business.’

  It seemed unlikely I’d have money worries. With tips, discreetly handed to me in hotel envelopes, I’d made a little over two hundred bucks in my first week, more than I’d ever earned playing piano. Two hundred dollars a week was three or four times the income of a normal family and I felt I was at last entitled to call myself a professional musician and entertainer.

  My evening gig in The Princess – or the GAWP Bar, as we all called it – started at six-thirty and around five-thirty Bridgett, Lenny and I usually met for a drink in the Longhorn Room to discuss the business of the day (kitchen-hand incident excepted). Bridgett could then brief me on any special requests her ladies might have – something for a birthday, wedding anniversary, a sentimental piece of music to please a friend, that sort of thing. On one particular evening a couple of weeks after I arrived, Bridgett couldn’t be there, so I took the opportunity to bring up the subject of Sammy’s personality change.

  ‘Lenny, the day I arrived you m
entioned Sammy, and what happened to him in the air force . . .’

  Lenny emptied his glass, raised two fingers and waited until a waitress nodded. I had no idea how long he’d been drinking before I arrived, but in the weeks I’d been at the El Marinero I’d realised he’d become a heavy drinker, always with bourbon and usually doubles; at least three in the time it took Bridgett and me to finish one drink. He’d usually have them lined up in front of him so we wouldn’t be interrupted. Bridgett drank a single Manhattan and I, of course, stuck to sarsaparilla or an occasional Coke. But, on this occasion, two of the bourbon glasses were already empty. There was no doubt he could hold his liquor, but I’d never seen him drink this much at a sitting. ‘Wait on, Jack, I’ll tell you after Sue brings my regular poison, buddy.’

  Sue was a real good-looking young lady: chestnut hair, brown eyes, light summer tan, lovely legs. In fact, it was obvious that all the waitresses had been selected for their looks, wearing their uniform of tight grey skirts, fresh white blouses and black high heels with style. It was the same with the waitresses in the GAWP Bar, only their skirts were more fashionably wide but not as sexy looking. Bridgett explained that the tight skirts were also worn on the gaming floor, so that if a high roller felt frisky he couldn’t get his hands too far past the hem.

  While we waited for Sue to return with Lenny’s bourbon and my Coke, we chatted about my house hunting. I’d found an apartment on the edge of town in a block originally built in the early thirties for the engineers building the huge dam in the Boulder Canyon. It was a way from the El Marinero but only a couple of miles from the Firebird, sufficient to give me a good walk into work when we finally moved up the highway. Lenny kindly volunteered the casino odd-job man for if I decided to work on the interior.