Men from Boys

by John Harvey

  ‘Covered the center of my palm.’

  ‘Big, huh?’

  ‘Big enough.’

  ‘Running out of patience, boy,’ your father says.

  You nod. ‘I’d guess you would be.’

  ‘Never my strong suit.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This has been nice,’ your father says and sniffs the air. ‘Like old times, reconnecting and shit.’

  ‘I told her that night to just go, just get, just put as much country as she could between you and her until I got out. I told her to trust no one. I told her you’d stay hot on her trail even when all logic said you’d quit. I told her even if I told you I had it, you’d have to cover your bets – you’d have to come looking for her.’

  Your father looks at his watch, looks off at the sky again.

  ‘I told her if you ever caught up to her to take you to the fairgrounds.’

  ‘Who’s this we’re talking about?’

  ‘Gwen.’ Saying her name to the air, to the flapping tarps, to the cold.

  ‘You don’t say.’ Your father’s gun comes out now. He taps it against his outer knee.

  ‘Told her to tell you that’s all she knew. I’d hid it here. Somewhere here.’

  ‘Lotta ground.’

  You nod.

  Your father turns so you are facing, his hands crossed over his groin, the gun there, waiting.

  ‘The kinda money that stone’ll bring,’ your father says, ‘a man could retire.’

  ‘To what?’ you say.

  ‘Mexico.’

  ‘To what, though?’ you say. ‘Mean old man like you? What else you got, you ain’t stealing something, killing somebody, making sure no one alive has a good fucking day?’

  The old man shrugs and you watch his brain go to work, something bugging him finally, something he hasn’t considered until now.

  ‘It just come to me,’ he says, his eyes narrowing as they focus on yours.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ve known for, what, three years now that Gwen is no more?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘If you like,’ your father says. ‘Dead.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Three years,’ your father says. ‘Lotta time to think.’

  You nod.

  ‘Plan.’

  You give him another nod.

  Your father looks down at the gun in his hand. ‘This going to fire?’

  You shake your head.

  Your father says, ‘It’s loaded. I can feel the mag weight.’

  ‘Jack the slide,’ you say.

  He gives it a few seconds, then tries. He yanks back hard, bending over a bit, but nothing. The slide is stone.

  ‘Krazy Glue,’ you say. ‘Filled the barrel, too.’

  You pull your hand from your pocket, open up the knife. You’re very talented with a knife. Your father knows this. He’s seen you win money this way, throwing knives at targets, dancing blades between your fingers in a blur.

  You say, ‘Wherever you buried her, you’re digging her out.’

  The old man nods. ‘I got a shovel in the trunk.’

  You shake your head. ‘With your hands.’

  Dawn is coming up, the sky bronzed with it along the lower reaches, when you let the old man use the shovel. His nails are gone, blood crusted black all over the older cuts, red seeping out of the newer ones. The old man broke down crying once. Another time he got mean, told you you aren’t his anyway, some whore’s kid he found in a barrel, decided might come in useful on a missing baby scam they were running back then.

  You say, ‘Was this in Las Vegas? Or Idaho?’

  When the shovel hits bone, you say, ‘Toss it back up here,’ and step back as the old man throws the shovel out of the grave.

  The sun is up now and you watch the old man claw away the dirt for a while and then there she is, all black and rotted, bones exposed in some places, her ribcage reminding you of the scales of a large fish you saw dead on a beach once in Oregon.

  The old man says, ‘Now, what?’ and tears flee his eyes and drip off his chin.

  ‘What’d you do with her clothes?’

  ‘Burned ’em.’

  ‘I mean, why’d you take ’em off in the first place?’

  The old man looks back at the bones, says nothing.

  ‘Look closer,’ you say. ‘Where her stomach used to be.’

  The old man squats, peering, and you pick up the shovel.

  Until Gwen, you had no idea who you were. None. During Gwen, you knew. After Gwen, you’re back to wondering.

  You wait. The old man keeps cocking and recocking his head to get a better angle, and finally, finally, he sees it.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’ll be damned.’

  You hit him in the head with the shovel and the old man says, ‘Now, hold on,’ and you hit him again, seeing her face, the mole on her left breast, her laughing once with her mouth full of popcorn, and then the third swing makes the old man’s head tilt funny on his neck, and you swing once more to be sure and then sit down, feet dangling into the grave.

  You look at the blackened shriveled thing lying below your father and you see her face with the wind coming through the car and her hair in her teeth and her eyes seeing you and taking you into her like food, like blood, like what she needed to breathe, and you say, ‘I wish . . .’ and sit there for a long time with the sun beginning to warm the ground and warm your back and the breeze returning to make those tarps flutter again, desperate and soft.

  ‘I wish I’d taken your picture,’ you say finally. ‘Just once.’

  And you sit there until it’s almost noon and weep for not protecting her and weep for not being able to know her ever again, and weep for not knowing what your real name is, because whatever it is or could have been is buried with her, beneath your father, beneath the dirt you begin throwing back in.

  THE RESURRECTION OF BOBO JONES

  Bill Moody

  When Brew finally caught up with him, Manny Klein was inhaling spaghetti in a back booth at Chubby’s, adding to his already ample girth with pasta and plying a green-eyed blonde called Mary Ann Best with tales of his exploits as New York’s premier talent scout. As usual, Manny was exaggerating but probably not about Rocky King.

  ‘The point is,’ Manny said, mopping up sauce with a hunk of French bread, ‘this time you’ve gone too far.’ He popped the bread in his mouth, wiped his three chins with a white napkin tucked in his collar and gazed at Brew Daniels with the incredulous stare of a small child suddenly confronted with a modern sculpture. ‘You’re dead, sport. Rocky’s put the word out on you. He thinks you’re crazy and you know what? So do I.’

  Mary Ann watched as Brew grinned sheepishly and shrugged. Nobody had ever called him crazy. A flake definitely, but with jazz musicians, that comes with the territory, where eccentric behavior is a byword, the foundation of legends.

  Everyone knew about Thelonious Monk keeping his piano in the kitchen and Dizzy Gillespie running for president. And who hadn’t heard about Sonny Rollins, startling passers-by with the mournful wail of his saxophone when he found the Williamsburg Bridge an inspiring place to practise after he dropped out of the jazz wars for a couple of years.

  Strange perhaps, but these, Brew reasoned, were essentially harmless examples that if anything enhanced reputations and merely added another layer to the jazz mystique. With Brew, however, it was another story.

  Begun modestly, Brew’s escapades gradually gathered momentum and eventually exceeded even the hazy boundaries of acceptable behavior in the jazz world until they threatened to eclipse his considerable skill with a tenor saxophone. Brew had the talent. Nobody denied that. ‘One of jazz’s most promising newcomers,’ wrote one reviewer after witnessing Brew come out on top in a duel with one of the grizzled veterans of the music.

  It was Brew’s off-stage antics – usually at the expense of his current employer – that got him into trouble, earned him less than the customary two weeks’ notice a
nd branded him a bona fide flake. But however outlandish the prank, Brew always felt fully justified even if his victims just as violently disagreed. Brew was selective but no one, not even Brew himself, knew when or where he would be inspired to strike next. Vocalist Dana McKay, for example, never saw Brew coming until it was too late.

  Dana McKay is one of those paradoxes all too common in the music business: a very big star with very little talent, although her legions of fans don’t seem to notice. Thanks to the marvels of modern recording technology, top-flight studio orchestras and syrupy vocal backgrounds, Miss McKay sounds passable on recordings. Live is another story. She knows it and the bands who back her know it, so when the musicians who hang out at Chubby’s heard Brew had consented to sub for an ailing friend at the Americana, the smart money said Brew wouldn’t last a week and Dana McKay might be his latest victim. They were right on both counts.

  To Brew, the music was bad enough but what really got to him was the phoney sentimentality of her act: shaking hands with the ringsiders, telling the audience how much they meant to her – exactly the same way, every show, every night. Dana McKay could produce tears on cue. Naturally, Brew was inspired.

  The third night, he arrived early, armed with a stack of McDonald’s hats and unveiled his brainstorm to the band. They didn’t need much persuading. Miss McKay had, as usual, done nothing to endear herself to the musicians. She called unnecessary rehearsals, complained to the conductor and treated everyone as her personal slave. Except for the lady harpist, even the string section went along.

  Timing was essential, so on Brew’s cue, at precisely the moment Miss McKay was tugging heartstrings with a teary-eyed rendition of one of her hits, the entire band donned the McDonald’s hats, stood up with arms spread majestically and sang out, ‘You deserve a break today!’

  When the thunderous chorus struck, Miss McKay never knew what hit her. One of the straps of her gown snapped and almost exposed more of her than planned. She nearly fell off the stage. The dinner-show audience howled with delight, thinking it was part of the show. It got a mention in one of the columns but Miss McKay was not amused.

  It took several minutes for the laughter to die down and by that time she’d regained her composure. She smiled mechanically and turned to the band. ‘How about these guys, folks? Aren’t they something?’ Her eyes locked on Brew grinning innocently in the middle of the sax section. She fixed him with an icy glare and Brew was fired before the midnight show. He was never sure how she knew he was responsible but he guess the lady harpist had a hand in it.

  Brew kept a low profile for a while after that, basking in the glory of his most ambitious project to date, and made ends meet with a string of club dates in the Village. It wasn’t until he went on the road with Rocky King that he struck again. Everyone agreed Brew was justified this time but for once, he picked on the wrong man.

  Rocky King is arguably the most hated bandleader in America, despite his nationwide popularity. Musicians refer to him as a ‘legend in his own mind’. He pays only minimum scale, delights in belittling his musicians on the stand and has been known on occasion physically to assault anyone who doesn’t measure up to his often unrealistic expectations. A man to be reckoned with, so when the news got out, Rocky swore a vendetta against Brew that even Manny Klein couldn’t diffuse – and he’d got Brew the job.

  ‘C’mon, Manny,’ Brew said. ‘Rocky had it coming.’

  Manny shook his head. ‘You hear that, Mary Ann? I get him the best job he’s ever had, lay my own reputation on the line and all he can say is Rocky had it coming. Less than a week with the band, he starts a mutiny and puts Rocky King off his own bus forty miles from Indianapolis. You know what your problem is, Brew? Priorities. Your priorities are all wrong.’

  Brew stifled a yawn and smiled again at Mary Ann. ‘Priorities?’

  ‘Exactly. Now take Mary Ann here. Her priorities are in exactly the right place.’

  Brew grinned. ‘They certainly are.’ Mary Ann blushed slightly but Brew caught a flicker of interest in her green eyes. So did Manny.

  ‘I’m warning you, Mary Ann,’ Manny said. ‘This is a dangerous man, bent on self destruction. Don’t be misled by that angelic face.’ Manny took out an evil-looking cigar, lit it and puffed on it furiously until the booth was enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Did you really do that? Put Rocky off the bus?’ Mary Ann asked.

  Brew shrugged and flicked a glance at Manny. ‘Not exactly the way Manny tells it. As usual, he’s left out a few minor details.’ Brew leaned in closer to her. ‘One of the trumpet players had quit, see. His wife was having a baby and he wanted to get home in time. But kind, generous Rocky King wouldn’t let him ride on the bus even though we had to pass right through his home town. So, when we stopped for gas, I managed to lock Rocky in the men’s room and told the driver he’d be joining us later. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.’

  ‘And what has it got you?’ Manny said, emerging from the smoke, annoyed to see Mary Ann was laughing. ‘Nothing but your first and last check, minus, of course, Rocky’s taxi fare to Indianapolis. You’re an untouchable now. You’ll be lucky to get a wedding at Roseland.’

  Brew shuddered. Roseland was the massive ballroom under the Musicians’ Union and the site of a Wednesday-afternoon ritual known as cattle call. Hundreds of musicians jam the ballroom as casual contractors call for one instrument at a time. ‘I need a piano player for Saturday night.’ Fifty pianists or drummers or whatever is called rush the stage. First one there gets the gig.

  ‘Did the trumpet player get home in time?’ Mary Ann asked.

  ‘What? Oh yeah. It was a boy.’

  ‘Well, I think it was a nice thing to do.’ She looked challengingly at Manny.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Manny said, accepting defeat. ‘So, you’re the good Samaritan but you’re still out of work and I . . .’ He paused for a moment, his face creasing into a baleful smile. ‘There is one thing . . . naw, you wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘C’mon, Manny, I’m interested. Anything’s better than Roseland.’

  Manny shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know if it’s still going, but I heard they were looking for a tenor player at the Final Bar.’

  Brew groaned and slumped back against the seat. ‘The Final Bar is a toilet. A lot of people don’t even know it’s still there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Manny. ‘The ideal place for you at the moment.’ He blew out another cloud of smoke and studied the end of his cigar. ‘Bobo Jones is there, with a trio.’

  ‘Bobo Jones? The Bobo Jones?’

  ‘The same, but don’t get excited. We both know Bobo hasn’t played a note worth listening to in years. A guy named Rollo runs the place. I’ll give him a call if you think you can cut it. Sorry, sport, that’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Yeah, do that,’ Brew said dazedly, but something in Manny’s smile told Brew he’d be sorry. He was vaguely aware of Mary Ann asking for directions as he made his way out of Chubby’s. So it had come to this. The Final Bar.

  He couldn’t imagine Bobo James there.

  The winos had begun to sing.

  Brew watched them from across the aisle. Two lost souls, arms draped over each other, wine dribbling down their chins as they happily crooned off-key between belts from a bottle in a paper bag. Except for an immense black woman, Brew and the winos were alone as the Seventh Avenue subway hurtled toward the Village.

  ‘This city ain’t fit to live in no more,’ the woman shouted over the roar of the train. She had a shopping bag wedged between her knees and scowled at the winos.

  Brew nodded in agreement and glanced at the ceiling where someone had spray-painted ‘Puerto Rico – Independencia!’ in jagged red letters. Priorities Manny had said. For once maybe he was right. Introspection was not one of Brew’s qualities but maybe it was time. Even one-nighters with Rocky King was better than the Final Bar.

  The winos finally passed out after 42nd Street but a wiry Latin kid in a
leather jacket swaggered on to the car and instantly eyed Brew’s horn. Brew figured him for a terrorist or at least a mugger. It was going to be his horn or the black woman’s shopping bag.

  Brew picked up his horn and hugged it protectively to his chest, then gave the kid his best glare. Even with his height, there was little about Brew to inspire fear. Shaggy blond curls over a choirboy face and deep-set blue eyes didn’t worry the Puerto Rican kid, who Brew figured probably had an eleven-inch blade under his jacket.

  They had a staring contest until 14th Street when Brew’s plan became clear. He waited until the last possible second, then shot off the train like a firing squad was at his back. He paused just long enough on the platform to smile at the kid staring at him through the doors as the train pulled away.

  ‘Faggot!’ the kid yelled. Brew turned and sprinted up the steps, wondering why people thought it was so much fun to live in New York.

  Outside, he turned up his collar against the frosty air and plunged into the mass of humanity that makes New York look like an evacuation. He elbowed his way across the street, splashing through gray piles of slush that clung to the curbs, soaked shoes and provided cabbies with opportunities to practice their favorite winter pastime of splattering pedestrians. He turned off 7th Avenue, long legs eating up the sidewalk, and tried again to envision Bobo James at the Final Bar, but it was impossible.

  For as long as he could remember, Bobo Jones had been one of the legendary figures of jazz piano, one of the giants. Bud Powell, Monk, Oscar Peterson – hell, Bobo was a jazz piano. But Bobo’s career, if brilliant, had also been stormy, laced with bizarre incidents, culminating one night at the Village Vanguard during a live recording session. Before a horrified opening-night audience, Bobo had attacked and nearly killed his saxophone player.

  Midway through the first tune, the crazed Bobo had leapt wild-eyed from the piano, screamed something unintelligible and pounced on the unsuspecting saxophonist, who thought he had at least two more choruses to play. Bobo wrestled him to the floor and all but strangled him with the microphone cord. The saxophonist was already gagging on his mouthpiece and in the end suffered enough throat damage to cause him to switch to guitar. He eventually quit music altogether and went into business with his brother-in-law selling insurance in New Jersey.