No matter what its current moniker, the club was a place for acoustic jazz lovers. No electronic pianos, no synth drums, no computer-driven instruments. Everyone who was anyone in jazz loved playing here. Might be a visiting musician from Japan, a prof from Juilliard or a member of the touring Ellington tribute band... the jazz was always bona fide authentic.
With competition so fierce, you had to be crazy or smart to own a jazz club in New York. Crazy, or smart. Benjamin’s great-grandfather was both. He was crazy about music and smart enough to have bought the building that housed Café du Music during the Depression, when property was cheap. He made sure the building and the clubs were separate legal entities so that when, not if, the clubs went broke, the building was protected from the receivers. This way, Abraham’s desire to keep jazz alive in New York remained fulfilled long after he was gone.
Great-grandson Benjamin was no real jazz lover but the rents in the rest of the building were so profitable, he kept the cycle of money-losing jazz clubs going.
That said, Benjamin was always trying to minimize his losses; hence his deal with Queenie.
Abby and Olivia shrank when they walked into the lobby—there were at least thirty other women milling around. Some hadn’t hit puberty; some were seniors. Some appeared as if they had stepped out of Vogue Magazine, others like they’d stepped out of the food kitchen. They all had eagerness written on their faces. This might be their ticket to stardom.
“Hello, I’m trying to find Queenie,” said Olivia to Benjamin, who was in charge of screening the candidates.
He handed Olivia a little cardboard card with the number 36 written on it.
“You’re the last ones and she’s running behind schedule. Maybe in ninety minutes. Just find a place where you can park yourselves. Sorry, the club was blocked out for the auditions and space was a little tight in the lobby.”
Leaving Olivia and Abby alone, he then turned to the next new arrivals but not before sending a text to Queenie.
They’re here.
Abby and Olivia used the wait time to explore the club. It had autographed pictures of all the greats since the 1930s on the walls—Ella, Billie, George, Duke, Count. What the girls enjoyed were not just the requisite promo pictures of the artists but of their groups performing onstage and enjoying themselves in the club.
As they listened through the thin walls, it was obvious that some of their competition was damned good, so it was confounding to see the stream of dejected women exit the room.
“Maybe we should leave,” gulped Abby. “I don’t think we’re good enough.”
“Stop that artistic insecurities crap. We’re here and we’re going to do it,” said Olivia, trying to convince herself as well as Abby.
But the more they listened, the more their confidence sank. Most of the girls were good, but there were very few smiling faces leaving the audition space. So when Benjamin called out, “Number 36,” they forced themselves to smile as they entered the storied lounge where jazz giants of the ages enthralled, enchanted and entertained.
“Over here,” yelled a female voice at the front.
Abby and Olivia walked in the direction of the woman’s voice and were shocked to see a young Eurasian woman wearing a multi-colored boa and a vest made of feathers, sporting a patch of red on the top of her head.
Both had the same thought. Yes, we have definitely arrived in New York.
“Are you Queenie?” asked Abby.
“That I am. And you are the yin and yang Benjamin was talking about? East and West?”
Abby nodded. “I’m Abby Sung. I sing and this is my pianist, Olivia Southam.”
“Nice. So what you got for me?” winked Queenie.
Queenie’s friendliness relaxed Abby and Olivia’s frayed nerves as they took to the stage.
“An old standard,” declared Abby as she picked up a vintage German microphone. It was so inspiring to think that Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday might have sung into this very same mic.
Olivia sat down at the pre-WWI New York Steinway Grand piano that everyone from Oscar Peterson to Herbie Hancock had played on.
All nervousness disappeared as they felt the spirit of giants smiling on them.
Abby started snapping her fingers and Olivia started playing single notes with her left hand.
“Dooby do wa, de doo wah,” scatted Abby in counterpoint to Olivia’s walking bass line.
Olivia added her right hand with punctuating rhythmic chords.
Abby launched into a Gershwin favorite, “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” Ever since Fred Astaire introduced the song in 1937 in the movie, Shall We Dance, this song of separated lovers had been covered by singers from Ella Fitzgerald to Diana Krall.
Abby’s performance stood up to the best of them. Moving, then leaning over the lid of the grand piano, she gazed into Olivia’s eyes, then whipped around to see Queenie, just sitting there. No reaction at all.
As the end of the tune approached, Abby turned to Olivia and batted an eye. Olivia stopped playing allowing Abby to do an incredible fifteen-second scat before Olivia re-joined her for the rousing finale.
The two looked expectantly at the would-be impresario.
Without betraying her thoughts, Queenie asked, “Got anything else?”
Queenie’s stoic indifference had Olivia and Abby walking on eggshells. What the hell does she want?
But there was no chance for discussion. Olivia inhaled, then caressed the keyboard, first with single notes, then gradually adding full-handed chords to the intro of Billie Holiday’s sultry ballad God Bless the Child. When Abby started singing, it seemed her transcendent performance traveled through Billie’s pain, feeling her hurt at being a successful black woman in a white world that rejected her as a performer.
As Abby mined the depths of Billie Holiday’s soul, she and Olivia could see Queenie tapping her fingers—not in time to the beat, but a rushed “hurry up and let’s get this over with” sporadic drumming.
Queenie leapt up and shrieked, “Stop it! You’re killing me! You’re making me see Billie, making me feel her vibe and that’s exactly the problem. You got to make it your own, just the way Aretha Franklin did or David Clayton Thomas with Blood, Sweat and Tears. I want to hear Abby Sung, not Billie Holiday. And the piano playing was great, but just like the singing, I’ve heard playing like that before. Check out how Keith Jarrett plays it. Whether you like it or not, it’s him. I don’t want clones; I want new juice. You are just rehashing old news. If I’m going to stick my neck and dough out for you, I have to make sure I got a great chance to make a return on my investment.”
Devastating silence was made all the worse because every criticism was true. Olivia and Abby had always tried to emulate their heroes, preferring to be safe than venture into new waters.
“We got some of our own tunes,” muttered Olivia timidly.
“More than fifty,” added Abby.
Olivia nodded. “We... we just didn’t think anyone would want to hear them.”
Queenie groaned in frustration. “Just the kind of artist insecurity that drives me nuts. Listen. Am I wasting my time or what? Okay. Okay. One shot. Give me your best tune now.”
Both women were frazzled. Knots gnarled their stomachs and perspiration beaded on their brows.
Olivia sat back at the piano and glided her fingers over the ivories with a sensual, evocative introduction to their song, Forever I Will Love You. Abby started singing softly, but in total control.
After thirty seconds, Queenie screamed again, “Stop!”
Queenie’s utterance jolted the performers to silence. Confidence shattered, Abby and Olivia quaked as they awaited Queenie’s next critique.
“It’s the same old shit. Like it’s Whitney and Dolly’s song, I Will Always Love You re-hashed. It needs kick. Right now, we’re at a funeral, playing footsy.” Queenie began singing a wordless Latin syncopated bass line.
A light went on. Abby and Olivia began nodding to the beat of Queenie
’s vocals. Olivia’s left hand took over with a bass line of her own. Queenie stopped singing and stepped over to the conga drums. Olivia’s right hand started comping with full rhythmic chords. Abby joined in with a scat intro, then belted out a hot salsa version of Forever. Standing by the piano, she added extra chords for a fuller-sounding chorus. Olivia sang harmonies and traded vocal licks until the electric final notes
“That’s what I’m talking about!” enthused Queenie. “It’s the same but different!”
Queenie saw the girls’ questioning frowns. “Everybody thinks originality is the key to success but that’s bs. You ever wonder why everything sounds almost the same? It’s because people say they want something new, but they don’t. They want SOS—same old shit but with just a little twist.”
“Does that mean we’re in the showcase tomorrow night then?” asked Abby timidly.
“Yes, yes, yes. Let’s have a drink so I can find out more about you.”
Chapter 9
Olivia and Abby were used to meeting powerful, rich people in business, politics and law but a real live music biz pro? Never. Like most people, they were awed by the entertainment industry and, even though Queenie was not a stratospheric manager, she had shown them she knew what she was talking about.
“If we’re going to work together, I need complete honesty. I’m not one of those ‘hey, everything’s cool and I’m going to make you a star’ types. There are enough time wasters like that around. My job is help you develop, find angles to put you on everyone’s blog, all the important playlists. Yeah, you have the talent but are you willing to do what it takes to get you where you want to go? Take direction, make changes, compromise?”
Olivia and Abby glanced uneasily at each other. Both had numerous offers from men and women who promised them the moon if they provided sexual favors.
Reading their faces, Queenie snorted, “You don’t have to jump into bed with anybody. It might make it easier to get an audience with some hot shot, but he can’t make J.Q. Public listen to your music or download your songs. Remember this. As hard as you may think I am, listeners are even crueler. Not only will they not pay; they’ll tell the world you’re crappy.”
Queenie’s straight-from-the-hip honesty was somehow reassuring to Abby and Olivia. They opened up about their upbringing in Hong Kong, their time on the East Coast going to school, about returning to Asia and about joining the Chad Huang Foundation.
“So what brings you back here to New York?” asked Queenie. “Sounds like you have great lives and futures in Asia.”
“Only New York is New York,” answered Abby.
Olivia nodded, adding the cliché, “It’s go big or go home.”
As Queenie took a slow sip of her drink, her brow furrowed. Putting her glass on the table, she said, “So the poor little rich kids want to prove they’re more than busty babes with bucks?”
Olivia blurted, “It’s not like that at all. We’re here to make it and we’ll do anything.”
Queenie snorted. Time to put the spin to work. “Yeah, right. I’ve worked hard to get everything I’ve got. No silver spoon in my mouth. Done a lot of things you Ivy League types would never do.” Putting on a mocking voice, Queenie wrung her hands. “I don’t want to work here anymore. I am so unfulfilled. I’m going back to New York so I don’t have to play with the uncouth cowboys from China.”
Olivia and Abby were stunned. Queenie had just stripped them to their cores.
Queenie continued. “I play for keeps and I got no safety net. Whoever I choose, I got to know their commitment matches mine. Love your talent, but I can’t be a babysitter for two rich bitches with nothing else to worry about except dreams.”
She got up and made ready to leave.
“Wait,” pleaded Olivia. “We left out part of the story. We want a fresh start. Our fathers were both killed by one of Asia’s biggest gangsters, Chin Chee Fok. Abby’s father had a crossbow arrow shot into his heart. Chin kidnapped me and my dad was burned to death with Chin after he rescued me.”
“Whoa.” Queenie sat back down. “Why didn’t you tell me that to start with?”
“It’s not exactly the kind of thing you put on your resume. Just before we left, we were working with a foundation for at-risk youth but music was pulling too hard.”
Queenie’s expression was thoughtful and her fingers lightly drummed the table for several seconds. “In a way, I know what you’re talking about because music and kids are my great passions.” Queenie leaned over the table. “I’m not just doing this for me. I want to do it for the kids, give them a chance so they don’t have to do what I did. There are great training programs like New York’s Professional Performing Arts School but those places reject more than they take. There’s a lot of kids that won’t make it but give them motivation, great musicians to learn from and a world class recording studio?” Queenie took a sip of her drink. “I want to build and guide careers. And, of course, take a piece of the action. Anyway, that’s my vision for the New Amsterdam Arts Center.”
Olivia said thoughtfully, “The New Amsterdam Arts Center… There’s somebody I think you should meet.”
“Who’s that?”
“My old boyfriend and former boss.”
Queenie rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t want anybody to meet mine.”
“Noah’s different. He’s got access to money and he’s got a heart.”
“So do Bill Gates and Warren Buffet, and the introduction isn’t coming from a girl who dumped him.”
“Trust me, Noah’s not like that,” said Olivia confidently. “If you make your pitch and Noah likes it, we move mountains to make it happen fast. Not even a lot of checking up. We know a lot of great ideas come from people who can’t afford a legion of people to fill in paperwork and wait months or even years for a decision.”
“You think he’d come to your showcase?” asked Queenie.
Without waiting for Olivia, Abby jumped in. “He’d do anything for Olivia. Call him, girlfriend.” She pulled Olivia’s cell phone from her purse. “Now.”
Chapter 10
Back inside the room with Sam and JJ, Noah listened closely to Dr. Pang’s diagnosis.
“Sam seems to be doing fine. EKG shows no problems with heart rate, heart rhythm or the heart’s blood and oxygen supply. MRI of his brain shows no issues with blood flow or the vessels, brain or nerve tissues. All his wounds are surface wounds that are healing well.”
Sam croaked, “That means, Doc, I’m good to go. I can get out of here?”
“Not quite yet, Sam,” replied Dr. Pang. “I just want to observe a little longer.”
“I’m going crazy here,” complained Sam. “You guys hate me. I want to leave now.”
“At least we know he’s better now,” chuckled JJ. “His mouth’s moving and he’s complaining.”
“Hey, Dr. Pang. How long is ‘a little longer’?”
“A few days minimum. A week at most.”
Before Sam could reply, Noah’s cell phone rang. He was going to send it to voicemail, then glanced at the caller ID. He picked up. “Hey, Olivia. Nice to hear from you. How’s New York treating you?”
“Things are fabulous. Got an apartment with a view and we just got our first gig. We’re playing at Café du Music in Greenwich Village tomorrow night!”
Noah replied enthusiastically. “Very, very cool. I wish I could be there to see you. New York debut and all that.”
“Actually... I was hoping you might come.”
“Yeah? You actually want me to come?” asked Noah, hope spreading over his face.
“Of course! You are a very dear friend.”
Olivia spoke loud enough that Sam, Dr. Pang and JJ could overhear. Sam vigorously shook his head, “Go!”
Noah waved him off. “I’ll see what the flights are like. And I also have to check my schedule. You know what that’s like.”
“I’d appreciate that... But another thing, Noah. Things haven’t changed between us... you know. It was just...
I want you to be here.”
“Of course. Good friends and all that.” Talk about crash and burn. Noah couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.
“I also want you to meet someone. We might be doing some business together. I want an outside opinion and I trust your judgment.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” Unconvincing couldn’t begin to describe Noah’s tone.
“Noah, don’t be like that. This is the biggest performance I’ve ever done. Please try to make it.”
“Like I said, we’ll see. Gotta get back to my meeting. Good talking to you.” Noah ended the call abruptly. He rolled his eyes. “I need another sixteen-hour plane ride to New York like I need a root canal… I’m not going to go. I’m not going to jump just because Olivia said to jump.”
Sam drawled, “Duh, so why did you lie and say you’d think about it?”
Noah’s eyes thrust daggers at the teen. “It was the only way to shut her up. She would never have stopped unless I said that.”
JJ, although silent, had carefully evaluated and digested the whole conversation. To him, Noah was a terrible actor and an open book. Despite his bravado, JJ knew that Noah was still in pain over the break-up with Olivia. He decided to tell a little lie—another example of how the former Shaolin monk had left his righteous world behind.
“I’d like to go to New York. It’s the center of the universe. I’d be happy to go with you.”
“Not any more, JJ. Stuff’s happening everywhere now,” argued Noah.
“Noah, you keep telling me to expand my horizons. Until I met you, I had never been anywhere except Shanghai and my mountain monastery. Now, in three weeks, I’ve been to Beijing, Macau and Hong Kong. I want to go to the United States, especially New York.”
Noah crossed his arms. “You’d hate it. Too dirty. Not safe. Subways are overcrowded. Cabs are impossible…”
The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (plus special bonuses) Page 43
