Men from Boys

by John Harvey

  Juice Wilson, Bobo’s two-hundred-and-forty-pound drummer, had never moved so fast in his life unless it was the time he’d mistakenly wandered into a Ku Klux Klan meeting in his native Alabama. Juice dived over the drums, sending one of his cymbals flying into a ringside table full of Rotarians. He managed to pull Bobo off the gasping saxophonist with the help of two cops who hated jazz anyway. A waiter called the paramedics and the saxophonist was given emergency treatment under the piano while the audience looked on in stunned disbelief.

  One member of the audience was a photographer for Time magazine, showing his out-of-town girlfriend the sights of New York. He knew a scoop when he saw it, whipped out his camera, and snapped off a dozen quick ones while Juice and the cops tried to subdue Bobo. The following week’s issue ran a photo of Bobo, glassy-eyed in a straitjacket with the caption: ‘Is This the End of Jazz?’ The two cops hoped so because they were in the photo too and their watch commander wanted to know what the hell they were doing in a jazz club if they hadn’t busted any dopers.

  The critics in the audience shook their empty heads and claimed they’d seen it coming for a long time as Bobo was taken away to Bellevue. Fans and friends alike mourned the passing of a great talent but everyone was sure Bobo would recover. He never did.

  Bobo spent three months in Bellevue, playing silent chords on the wall of his padded cell and confounding the doctors who could find nothing wrong with him, so naturally, they diagnosed him as manic-depressive and put him back on the street. With all the other loonies in New York, one more wouldn’t make any difference.

  Bobo disappeared for nearly a year after that. No one knew or cared how he survived. Most people assumed he was living on the royalties from the dozen or so albums he’d left as a legacy to his many fans. But then, he mysteriously reappeared. There were rumors of a comeback. Devoted fans sought him out in obscure clubs, patiently waiting for the old magic to return. But it seemed gone for ever. Gradually, all but the most devout drifted away, until, if the cardboard sign in the window could be believed, Bobo Jones was apparently condemned at last to the Final Bar.

  Brew knew that much of the story but if he’d known the why of Bobo’s downfall, he would have gone straight back to the subway, looked up the Puerto Rican kid and given him his horn. That would have been easier. Instead, he sidestepped a garbage can and pushed through the door of the Final Bar.

  A gust of warm air, reeking of stale smoke and warm beer, washed over him. Dark, dirty and foul-smelling, the Final Bar is every Hollywood scriptwriter’s idea of a Greenwich Village jazz club. To musicians, it means a tiny, poorly lit bandstand, an ancient upright piano with broken keys and never more than seven customers if you count the bartender.

  Musicians play at the Final Bar in desperation, on the way up. For Bobo Jones, and now perhaps Brew Daniels as well, the Final Bar is the last stop on the downward spiral to oblivion. But there he was, one of the legends of jazz. One glance told Brew all he needed to know. Bobo was down, way down.

  He sat slumped at the piano, head bent, nearly touching the keyboard and played like a man trying to recall how he used to sound. Lost in the past, his head would occasionally jerk up in response to some dimly remembered phrase that just as quickly snuffed out. His fingers flew over the keys frantically in pursuit of lost magic. A forgotten cigarette burned on top of the piano next to an empty glass.

  To Bobo’s right were bassist Deacon Hayes and drummer Juice Wilson, implacable sentinels guarding some now-forgotten treasure. They brought to mind a black Laurel and Hardy. Deacon, rail-thin and solemn-faced, occasionally arched an eyebrow. Juice, dwarfing his drums, stared ahead blankly and languidly stroked the cymbals. They had remained loyal to the end and this was apparently it.

  Brew was mesmerised by the scene. He watched and listened and slowly shook his head in disbelief. A knife of fear crept into his gut. He recognised with sudden awareness the clear, unmistakable qualities that hovered around the bandstand like a thick fog: despair and failure.

  Brew wanted to run. He’d seen enough. Manny’s message was clear but now, a wave of anger swept over him, forcing him to stay. He spun round toward the bar and saw what could only be Rollo draped over a bar stool. A skinny black man in a beret, chin in hand, staring vacantly at the hapless trio.

  ‘You Rollo? I’m Brew Daniels.’ Rollo’s only response was to cross his legs. ‘Manny call you?’

  Rollo moved only his eyes, inspected Brew, found him wanting and shifted his gaze back to the bandstand. ‘You the tenor player?’ he asked contemptuously.

  ‘Who were you expecting, Stan Getz?’ Brew shot back. He wanted to leave, just forget the whole thing. He didn’t belong here but he had to prove it. To Manny and himself.

  ‘You ain’t funny, man,’ Rollo said. ‘Check with Juice.’

  Brew nodded and turned back to the bandstand. The music had stopped but Brew had no idea what they had played. They probably didn’t either, he thought. What difference did it make? He tugged at Juice’s arm dangling near the floor.

  ‘Okay if I play a couple?’ Brew asked.

  Juice squinted at Brew suspiciously, took in his horn case and gave a shrug that Brew took as reluctant permission. He unzipped the leather bag and took out a gleaming tenor saxophone.

  He knew why Manny had sent him down here. There was no gig. This was just a lesson in humility. It would be like blowing in a graveyard.

  He put the horn together, decided against even asking anyone to tune up and blew a couple of tentative phrases. ‘“Green Dolphin Street”, okay?’

  Bobo looked up from the piano and stared at Brew like he was a bug on a windshield. ‘Whozat?’ he asked, pointing a long, slim finger. His voice was a gravelly whisper, like Louis Armstrong with a cold.

  ‘I think he’s a tenor player,’ Juice said defiantly. ‘He’s gonna play one.’ Bobo had already lost interest.

  Brew glared at Juice. He was mad now and in a hurry. Deacon’s eyebrows arched as Brew snapped his fingers for the tempo. Then he was off, on the run from despair.

  Knees bent, chest heaving, body rocking slightly, Brew tore into the melody and ripped it apart. The horn, jutting out of his mouth like another limb, spewed fire. Harsh abrasive tones of anger and frustration that washed over the unsuspecting patrons – there were five tonight – like napalm, grabbing them by the throat and saying, ‘Listen to this, dammit.’

  At the bar, Rollo gulped and nearly fell off the stool. In spite of occasional lapses in judgement, Rollo liked to think of himself as a jazz critic. He’d never fully recovered from his Ornette Coleman blunder. For seventeen straight nights, he’d sat sphinx-like at the Five Spot watching the black man with the white plastic saxophone before finally declaring, ‘Nothin’ baby. Ornette ain’t playing nothing.’ But this time there was no mistake. In a bursting flash of recognition, Rollo knew.

  Brew had taken everyone by surprise. Deacon’s eyebrows were shooting up and down like windshield wipers. Juice crouched behind his drums and slashed at the cymbals like a fencer. They heard it too. They knew.

  Brew played like a back-up quarterback in the final two minutes of the last game of the year with his team behind seventeen to nothing. He ripped off jagged chunks of sound and slung them about the Final Bar, leaving Juice and Deacon to scurry after him in desperate pursuit. During his last scorching chorus, he pointed the bell of his horn at Bobo, prodding, challenging, until he at last backed away.

  Bobo reacted like a man under siege. He’d begun as always, staring at the keyboard as if it were a giant puzzle he’d forgotten how to solve. But by Brew’s third chorus, he seized the lifeline offered and struggled to pull himself out of the past. Eyes closed, head thrown back, his fingers flew over the keys, producing a barrage of notes that nearly matched Brew’s.

  Deacon and Juice exchanged glances. Where had they heard this before?

  Rollo, off the stool, rocked and grinned in pure joy. ‘Shee–it!’ he yelled.

  Bobo was back.

 
By the end of the first week, word had got around. Something was happening at the Final Bar and people were dropping in to see if the rumors were true. Bobo Jones had climbed out of his shell and was not only playing again but presenting a reasonable facsimile of his former talent, inspired apparently by a fiery young tenor saxophonist. It didn’t matter that Brew had been on the scene for some time. He was ironically being heralded as a new discovery. But even that didn’t bother Brew. He was relaxed.

  The music and his life were, at least for the moment, under control. Mary Ann was a regular at the club – she hadn’t signed with Manny after all – and by the end of the month, they were sharing her tiny Westside apartment.

  But gnawing around the edges were the strange looks Brew caught from Deacon and Juice. They’d look away quickly and mumble to themselves while Rollo showed Brew only the utmost respect. Bobo was the enigma, either remaining totally aloof or smothering Brew with attentive concern, following him around the club like a shadow. If Brew found it stifling or even creepy, he wisely wrote it off as the pianist’s awkward attempt at gratitude and reminded himself that Bobo had spent three months in a mental ward.

  Of his playing, however, there was no doubt. For some unknown reason, Brew’s horn had unlocked Bobo’s past, unleashing the old magic that flew off Bobo’s fingers with nightly improvement. Brew himself was as big a benefactor to Bobo’s resurgence as his own playing reached new heights. His potential was at last being realised. He was loose, making it with a good gig, a good woman and life had never been sweeter. Naturally, that’s when the trouble began.

  They were curled up watching the late movie when Brew heard the buzzer. Opening the door, Brew found Bobo standing in the hall, half hidden in a topcoat several sizes too large, a stack of records under his arm.

  ‘Got something for you to hear, man,’ Bobo rasped, walking past Brew to look for the stereo.

  ‘Hey, Bobo, you know what time it is?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s twenty after four.’ Bobo was crouched in front of the stereo, looking through the records.

  Brew nodded and shut the door. ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’ He went into the bedroom. Mary Ann was sitting up in bed.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Bobo,’ Brew said, grabbing a robe. ‘He’s got some records he wants me to hear. I gotta humor him I guess.’

  ‘Does he know what time it is?’

  ‘Yeah, twenty after four.’

  Mary Ann looked at him quizzically. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said, slipping out of bed.

  Brew sighed and went back to the living room. Bobo had one of the records on the turntable and was kneeling with his head up against the speaker. The record was one of his early ones with a tenor player called Lee Evans, a name only vaguely familiar to Brew.

  Brew had studiously avoided the trap of listening to other tenor players except maybe for John Coltrane. No tenor player could avoid that, but his style was forged largely on his own. A mixture of hard brittle fluidness on up tempos, balanced by an effortless shifting of gears for lyrical ballads – a cross between Sonny Rollins and Stan Getz. But there was something familiar about this record, something he couldn’t quite place.

  ‘I want to do this tune tonight,’ Bobo said, turning his eyes to Brew. It was the first time Bobo had made any direct reference to the music.

  Brew nodded absently, absorbed in the music. What was it? He focused on the tenor player and only vaguely remembered Mary Ann coming in with the coffee. Much later the record was still playing and Mary Ann was curled up in a ball on the couch. Early-morning sun streamed in the window. Bobo was gone.

  ‘You know, it’s funny,’ Brew told her later. ‘I kinda sound like that tenor player, Lee Evans.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know. He played with Bobo quite a while but I think he was killed in a car accident. I’ll ask Rollo. Maybe he knows.’

  But if Rollo knew, he wasn’t saying. Neither were Juice or Deacon. He avoided asking Bobo, sensing it was somehow a taboo subject, but it was clear they all knew something he didn’t. It became an obsession for Brew.

  He nearly wore out the records Bobo had left and, unconsciously, more and more of Lee Evans’s style crept into his own playing. It seemed to please Bobo and brought approving nods from Juice and Deacon. As far as Brew could remember, he’d never heard Lee Evans until the night Bobo had brought the records but damned if he didn’t sound very much the same. Finally, he could stand it no longer and pressed Rollo. He had to know.

  ‘Man, why you wanna mess things up for now?’ Rollo asked, avoiding Brew’s eyes. ‘Bobo’s playin’, the club’s busy and you gettin’ famous.’

  ‘C’mon, Rollo, I only asked about Lee Evans. What’s the big secret?’ Brew was puzzled by the normally docile Rollo’s outburst and intrigued even more. However tenuous Bobo’s return to reality, Brew couldn’t see the connection. Not yet.

  ‘Aw, shit,’ Rollo said, slamming down a bar rag. ‘You best see Razor.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Razor?’

  ‘Wunna the players, man. Got hisself some ladies and he’s . . . well, you talk to him, if you want.’

  ‘I want,’ Brew said, more puzzled than ever.

  But Mary Ann was not so sure. ‘You may not like what you find,’ she warned. Her words were like a prophecy.

  Brew found Razor off 10th Avenue.

  A massive maroon Buick idled at the curb. Nearby, Razor, in an ankle-length fur coat and matching hat, peered at one of his ‘ladies’ from behind dark glasses. But what really got Brew’s attention was the dog. Sitting majestically at Razor’s heel, sinewy neck encased in a silver stud collar, was the biggest, most vicious-looking Doberman Brew had ever seen. About then, Brew wanted to forget the whole thing but he was frozen to the spot as Razor’s dog – he hoped it was Razor’s dog – bared his teeth, growled throatily and locked his dark eyes on Brew.

  Razor’s lady, in white plastic boots, miniskirt and a ski jacket, cowered against a building. Tears streamed down her face, smearing garish makeup. Her eyes were locked on the black man as he fondled a pearl-handled straight razor. Brew had never seen anyone so frightened.

  ‘Lookee here, mama, you makin’ old Razor mad with all this talk about you leavin’, and you know what happen when Razor get mad right?’ The girl nodded slowly as he opened and closed the razor several times before finally dropping it in his pocket. ‘Aw right, then,’ Razor said. ‘Git on outta here.’ The girl glanced briefly at Brew, then scurried away.

  ‘Whatchu lookin’ at, honky?’ Razor asked, turning his attention to Brew. Several people passed by them, looking straight ahead as if they didn’t exist.

  Brew’s throat was dry. He could hardly get the words out. ‘Uh, I’m Brew Daniels . . . I play with Bobo at the Final Bar. Rollo said –’

  ‘Bobo? Shee–it.’ Razor slapped his leg and laughed, throwing his head back. ‘Yeah, I hear that sucker’s playin’ again.’ He took off the glasses and studied Brew closely. ‘And you the cat that jarred them old bones. Man, you don’t even look like a musician.’

  The Doberman cocked his head and looked at Razor as if that might be a signal to eat Brew. ‘Be cool, Honey,’ Razor said, stroking the dog’s sleek head. ‘Well, you must play, man. C’mon, it’s gettin’ cold talkin’ to these bitches out here. I know what you want.’ He opened the door of the Buick. ‘C’mon, Honey, we goin’ for a ride.’

  Brew sat rigidly in front, trying to decide who scared him more, Razor or the dog. He could feel Honey’s warm breath on the back of his neck. ‘Nice dog you got, Mr Razor,’ he said. Honey only growled and Razor didn’t speak until they pulled up near Riverside Park.

  He threw open the door and Honey scrambled out. ‘Go on, Honey. Git one of them suckers.’ Honey barked and bounded away in pursuit of a pair of unsuspecting Cocker Spaniels.

  Razor took out cigarettes from a platinum case, lit two with a gold lighter and passed one to Brew. ‘It was about three years ago,’ Raz
or began. ‘Bobo was hot and he had this bad-assed tenor called Lee Evans. They was really tight. Lee was just a kid but Bobo took care of him like he was his daddy. Anyway, they was giggin’ in Detroit or someplace, just before they was sposed to open here. But Lee, man, he had him some action he wanted to check out on the way so he drove on alone. He got loaded at this chick’s pad, then tried to drive all night to make the gig.’ Razor took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘Went to sleep. His car went right off the pike into a gas station. Boom! That was it.’

  Razor fell silent. Brew swallowed as the pieces began to fall into place.

  ‘Well, they didn’t tell Bobo what happened till an hour before the gig and them jive-ass, faggot record dudes said seein’ as how they’d already given Bobo front money, he had to do the session. They got another dude on tenor. He was bad but he wasn’t Lee Evans. At first, Bobo was cool, like he didn’t know what was happening. Then all of a sudden, he jumped on this cat – scared his ass good, screamin’ “You ain’t Lee, you ain’t Lee.”’ Razor shook his head and flipped his cigarette out the window.

  Brew closed his eyes. It was so quiet in the car Brew was sure he could hear his own heart beating, as everything came together. All the pieces fell into place except one but he had to ask: ‘What’s this all got to do with me?’

  Razor turned to him, puzzled. ‘Man, you is one dumb honky. Don’t you see, man? To Bobo, you is Lee Evans all over again. Must be how you blow.’

  ‘But I’m not,’ Brew protested, feeling panic rise in him. ‘Someone’s got to tell him I’m not.’

  Razor’s eyes narrowed, his voice lowered menacingly. ‘Ain’t nobody got to tell nobody nothin’. Bobo was sick for a long time. If he’s playin’ again ’cause of you, that’s enuff. You,’ he pointed a finger at Brew, ‘jus’ be cool and blow your horn.’ There was no mistake. It was an order.