by John Levitt
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked. “Show it around like in a Raymond Chandler novel?”
“Something like that,” I said. “You said she’s a jazz player—what instrument?”
“Piano. Is that important?”
“Possibly. It gives me a few ideas about leads.”
“Such as?”
I put on a faux tough face. “I’ll ask the questions here, ma’am.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you will. From what I’ve heard you ask a lot of questions. I also heard something about some odd creatures roaming the city a while back, and you going around asking questions. Did you get any answers?”
“I did. Not always the ones I wanted.”
She waited expectantly for further explanation, but I just smiled blandly at her. Mason, man of mystery, that’s me. But it was interesting that she’d brought that up. We’d had to deal with some strange things indeed, some vicious, some not, that had been spawned by an energy pool. A gateway of sorts that I’d unwittingly helped to establish a while back.
We’d never been able to close it, though Victor and Eli had finally come up with a way to keep anything else from coming through, at least for now. But it was still a worry. I wondered if Jessie was aware of it, and if so, why she was asking questions about its consequences.
“Well, I’m late for a meeting,” she said, when it became clear I wasn’t going to say anything else. She knew enough about people not to push things, either. She scraped her chair back and got to her feet. “Mason. Lou.” She nodded to each of us and set off down the street without looking back.
I looked at the photo again, this time more carefully. It’s impossible to tell character from a photo, but that doesn’t stop anyone from trying. I was hoping to see something in it, a sly look or a narrowing of the eyes. But all I saw was a good-natured humor in the face, and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows who she is. She didn’t look like a thief. Then again, the good ones never do. Or maybe she just took a good photo.
I sat idly, sipping my latte and considering. I did have a good idea about how to go about finding her. If it didn’t pan out, I’d be at sea, though; I didn’t have any backup plan. But I’d deal with that when I had to.
According to Jessie, Jackie was a musician. Now, when you’re in hiding, it’s a good idea to change your routine and avoid those things that define you. If you’re an avid skier, stay off the slopes. If you’re a surfer, stay away from the beach. And if you’re a musician, don’t start up a band or hang around at jam sessions.
But that’s easier said than done. At first, you’re looking over your shoulder and jumping at every noise. But after a while, when nothing happens, you start to relax. You can’t live in fear forever, watching every step—it’s like being on a diet; for a while it’s not that difficult, but sooner or later old habits creep back and before you know it you’re scarfing down cheesecake.
And Jackie had last been with Jessie in Seattle. She might not even be aware that Jessie was now in San Francisco as well, much less that she’d been fingered as living in the city herself. So, the urge to play some music would seem harmless enough.
But where? You can’t just waltz in and start playing with people at random. Sure, there are jam sessions for jazz players, quite a few of them, actually. But most of them are geared toward the intermediate player, with a house band sometimes providing the rhythm section. There aren’t that many that cater to accomplished musicians, which, according to Jessie, Jackie was.
The prime jam session for jazz players is at the Dogpatch Saloon, four to eight every Sunday. Everybody’s welcome, and the players are surprisingly kind, but some heavy cats drop in on a regular basis. It’s intimidating unless you know your way around your ax, and mediocre players don’t usually brave the bandstand more than once.
Dogpatch, over on Third Street, is named for the area of the city it’s located in, namely Dogpatch. Whether that has anything to do with the old Li’l Abner cartoons, I don’t know. I do know Dogpatch used to be an industrial area with a few clubs and lots of machine shops and vinyl repair stores. As a result, nighttime parking was once plentiful, perfect for a club location. But now, like everywhere else in San Francisco, the area developed a rep as a hip place to live and parking has become difficult.
The Dogpatch Saloon is another bar where Lou is welcome. I used to spend a lot of time hanging out there, back when gigs were scarcer and the magical world was quieter. Eventually, Lou wormed his way in. He was on his best behavior at first, as he always is until people get used to his being around. Then he starts in with shameless begging, but by that time no one would even think of banning him.
Another thing I like about Dogpatch is that it never seems to change. No matter how long you’re away, you still see the same long straight bar with captain’s chairs, the same scuffed pool table, and, mostly, the same familiar faces. The bar was packed whenever I walked in carrying my ax, and since I knew at least half of the regulars I always got a bunch of friendly waves.
When I headed over there the next day Shirley was tending bar, which she always did for the Sunday jam sessions. She’s heavyset, short-haired, and knows more about fixing motorcycles than the average mechanic. The perfect stereotype of a particular type of gay woman, except that she’s entirely straight with a doting husband.
A young kid was up on the stage, nervously fingering his alto while the house band thumbed through their real books looking for the tune he called. I guessed it was his first time up there. It might be his last. I walked up to the bar and ordered a Sierra Pale Ale. Shirley whacked it down on the bar.
“Mason,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in here for a while. I hear you’re playing a lot around town, though. Too good for this place these days?”
“I’ve always been too good for this place. It’s just taken a while for others to realize that.” She snorted, looking down at my guitar case. In it, a blond fifties Gibson Birdland, my pride and joy.
“You going to honor us with a few tunes tonight?”
“I thought I might give it a whirl. Maybe I can even fool a few people.”
Lou made it up onto one of the bar chairs and stepped daintily on top of the bar itself, tail wagging hopefully, in search of a treat. Shirley reached behind her for some beef jerky.
“You need to teach that dog some manners,” she said, but she didn’t mean it.
“Yeah, sure. Good luck with that.”
I kicked back, drank some beer, and listened to the band, with the new kid sitting in on sax. They kicked off with “Pent-Up House,” an old Sonny Rollins tune. It was a good choice on the kid’s part, because although the timing on the head is a bit tricky, the changes are straightforward and easy to solo over, with lots of room and a steady swing rhythm. At first the kid was tentative, trying hard not to make the slightest mistake, and so his playing, naturally enough, was rather stilted. But he definitely had potential, and I added some loud clapping to the crowd response when he finished his solo. It was more enthusiastic than he strictly deserved, but the regulars at Dogpatch are nice people and all musicians remember what it’s like to be new and start playing out with the big boys—although not all of them care. But it worked; on the next tune he relaxed and just started to blow without thinking about it, and really caught fire. He was grinning when he stepped off the stage, just another jazzman.
Joe Antonelli, the guy on the piano, caught sight of me and motioned for me to come on up.
“Long time, no see,” he said. “What do you want to play?”
“Something easy. You call it.”
I could see him considering, trying to come up with the hardest tune he could think of, but finally he relented and decided to take it easy on me.
“ ‘Stella’?”
“Sounds good.”
“Stella by Starlight” is a standard I could play in my sleep. But it’s a nice tune, with great changes, and the challenge is to find something new about it each time. I plugged into
the little house amp and gave it a credible ride, though it didn’t have my full attention. I was thinking about how to approach getting a line on the missing Jackie.
Since these were friends and acquaintances, it was a lot easier than it could have been. If you walk into a bar as a stranger and start flashing a photo around and asking questions, all you’ll get is blank looks. And unless it’s someone everybody hates, you can be sure that person will hear about it before the night is over.
But even though these were friends, I still had to tread lightly. She might well have friends here, too, and being an attractive young woman, maybe even more than that. The last thing I wanted was to let her know that someone was sniffing around after her.
We wound up “Stella” and then played “Song For My Father” as a Latin groove. After that, I unplugged and put my guitar away. There were more than a few players waiting their turn to sit in, and it’s not polite to hog at a jam session.
“Say, Joe,” I said, “you know any good keyboard players?”
“Not a one,” he said, doing a quick arpeggio over the piano keys.
“Yeah, me either. But seriously, a friend of mine just moved to the city, and she’s thinking of putting together an all-woman jazz quartet and needs a piano player.”
“How about Wanda?”
“I thought of her, but my friend wants to put together something with all new faces, as a promotional thing, and Wanda’s been around for years. You run into any new players lately, preferably talented?” Joe thought for maybe half a second before snapping his fingers.
“Shit, yeah. A new woman started coming around a couple of months ago. She’s good, too, and I don’t think she’s playing with anyone yet. Her name’s Melissa. I’m surprised she’s not here today.”
Jackie probably wouldn’t be using her own name, so it could be her.
“Melissa?” I said. “I think I might know her. Redhead, kind of goofy-looking?”
Joe laughed. “No, not at all. A black chick, and goofy-looking’s the last thing you would call her.”
Bingo.
“Huh. You wouldn’t have her number, by any chance?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t, but I’ll give her yours if I see her.”
I thought a moment, dug out a scrap of paper, and wrote down Sherwood’s cell.
“Give her this,” I said. “It’s the woman who’s putting together the group—her name’s Sherwood. Maybe it’ll work out.”
“Maybe,” he said. “She’s a good player, but there is one thing your friend should be aware of.” My ears perked up.
“Really? What?”
“She’s kind of an eco freak—except for music, every conversation I’ve had with her comes back to how we’re all destroying the planet.”
“Well, we are.”
“Don’t I know it. But you can’t go around yelling about it all the time. It gets old. Still, she can play; I’ll give her that.” Joe reached in his pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Hold on a sec.” He fished around until he came up with a worn business card and handed it to me. “Melissa gave me this, said to come by if I was interested. Maybe you can find her there.”
The card had a stylized graphic of a raccoon holding a small globe of the earth. On the top were the words Earth Abides and an address and phone number.
“I’m surprised you kept this,” I said.
“What can I say? She is hot, you know.”
I tucked the card away and returned to my seat at the bar where Lou was working the crowd. I stared him off the bar until he jumped back down onto the floor. I examined the card, but there was nothing else on it. Maybe I wouldn’t need my scheme after all; maybe this address would lead me right to her.
It would be good to keep a backup plan, though, and I thought this was a pretty good one. Jackie would surely be skittish if she thought someone was looking for her, and any new acquaintance might be viewed at first with some suspicion. But if a jazz musician she knew told her that a friend of his, another jazz musician, was looking not exactly for her, but for a keyboard player, she’d have to be extraordinarily paranoid for it to set off any warning bells.
Still, given that a black practitioner was looking for her, she might well be that paranoid. As soon as I got home, I called Sherwood.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“I’m shocked.”
“It’s work-related.” I told her about my conversation at Dogpatch. “I gave Joe your cell number to give to Jackie if he runs into her. She’s calling herself Melissa. If she does call, you’re a bass player looking to put together an all-female band, like I said.”
Sherwood wasn’t a player, but she knew a lot about jazz and jazz musicians. She’d be able to fake it convincingly.
“What’s my name?”
“Sherwood. I thought you knew that.”
“Very amusing. And what if she’s done some poking around the practitioner community since she got here and my name has come up in conversation?”
“I would guess she’s been staying as far away from practitioners as possible. And if she’s come across your name, she’s surely heard the name Mason as well, in which case I don’t imagine we’ll be hearing from her anytime soon.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. Eli told me about your new job, helping a black practitioner hunt someone down. It’s creepy.”
“I get that. But it’s not like I’m going to be turning her over to anyone. I’m just trying to find out what the larger picture might be, and get in good with Jessie. You can suggest she come over to my place for an audition.”
That setup would have two advantages. First, we’d be two against one if things got out of hand. Second, we’d be at my place, and a practitioner is always strongest on home turf. That’s why you never go to another practitioner’s house if the situation is problematic—public places like coffee shops are the preferred neutral territory. I didn’t expect any trouble, though. She’d be expecting to meet some musicians and play some music, and practitioners would be the furthest thing from her mind.
“Sounds perfect. And I’m sure it will all work out. Your plans always do, after all.”
I didn’t mind the gibe. Sherwood’s occasional sarcasm is always friendly, more jokes than digs. Whenever I try that kind of thing, it just sounds petty and mean-spirited.
“Well, this plan will work,” I said. “Why shouldn’t it?”
“No reason. Except . . .”
“Except what?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Probably. Remind me.”
“Well, she’s a practitioner, right? And she doesn’t know we’re practitioners, right? She thinks we’re musicians.”
“ So?”
“So we’re inviting her over to your house.”
“And?”
“Your house, Mason.”
I still didn’t see what she was driving at. I live in an in-law flat in the Mission, a converted garage in the bottom of a house. It’s got greenery all around, a driveway that used to run up to the garage that I can park my van in, and is surprisingly cheap—for San Francisco. The landlord lives upstairs and travels a lot, which is a blessing for both of us. Sooner or later he’ll be home when something odd happens, though, and that will certainly create a problem. I might even have to find another place. But it’s pleasant and cozy, and not the sort of place you’d associate with a practitioner.
“What’s wrong with my place?” I said. “It’s perfect for—Oh.”
Now I got it. Practitioners’ homes are just like anyone else’s—with one big difference. We ward our houses to protect them from magical attack, or even magical intrusion, for the less paranoid. It’s as common and normal as having a lock on your front door, and few if any practitioners live unguarded.
Victor’s house is as secure as Fort Knox—the wards are direct and powerful, set up by an entire team, and nothing gets through uninvited. He needs that level of protection; acting as the chief enforcer
of magical mores has earned him some powerful enemies over the years.
Most practitioners don’t have that level of protection, nor do they need it. My own wards, though effective, are comparatively modest. But although wards are not perceptible to ordinary civilians, they are instantly apparent to any practitioner. In fact, you can tell quite a bit about a practitioner by the type of warding they employ.
The moment Jackie showed up at my front door, she’d sense the wards and make me as a practitioner. And that would be the last we’d see of her.
“Hmm,” I said. “I see your point. A café, then—that’s neutral ground for practitioners, and it will make her feel more comfortable, even though she won’t be expecting anyone but a musician. And it’s natural to want to check out someone thinking about joining a group, to see if you’re compatible.”
“Any preferences?”
“Not really. Maybe you could have her suggest a place—she’s likely to choose somewhere near to where she lives, so if things go south, we’ll at least have an approximate location for her.”
“Good enough,” she said. “Tomorrow, then.”
After I hung up, I thought for a while. The plan was good, but complicated. Maybe I should go a more direct route and save all that trouble. If that didn’t work, the plan with Sherwood was still a good fallback option. So I made another call, to the number on the card Joe had given me. A woman’s bright and sunny voice answered, friendly, but noncommittal.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Sam. A friend of mine gave me this number. I’m new in town, and looking for some environmentally conscious groups. I used to be an animal rights activist, but there doesn’t seem to be much need for that here.”
“Oh no,” she said. “There’s plenty of need everywhere, believe me. But we’re always happy to have new people. Where are you from?”
“Chicago,” I said.
