The Kill-Off

I looked at Rags. His eyes were closed, and there was a smile on his lips. I looked back at the girl, and I kind of frowned.

She didn't hardly have to move at all, to look like she was moving a lot. And she was moving a lot now. And if there was one thing that burned Rags McGuire up, it was that. He said it was cheap. He said singers who did that were acrobats.

Rags opened his eyes. His smile went away, and he lifted his hands from the keys and laid them in his lap. He didn't curse. He didn't yell. For a minute he hardly seemed to move, and the silence was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Then he motioned for her to come over to the piano. She hesitated, then went over, kind of dragging her feet, sullen and hard-faced, and watchful-looking.

And then Rags reamed her out-real hard. It was pretty rough.

She took her place again. Rags brought his hands down on the keys, and she began to sing. I moved in close. Rags gave me a little nod. I stood up close, drinking her voice in, drinking her in.

She finished the song. Without thinking how it might seem to Rags-like I might be butting in, you know-I busted out clapping. It had been so nice, I just had to.

Rags' eyes narrowed. Then he grinned and made a gesture toward me. 'Okay, baby, take off,' he said. 'You've passed the acid test.'

I guess he meant it as kind of an insult. Just to her, of course, because he and I are good friends, and always kidding around a lot. Anyway, she started down at me-and gosh, I'd forgot all about what a mess I was. And then she whirled around, bent over and stuck out her bottom at me. Kind of wiggled at me.

Rags let out a whoop. He whooped with laughter, banging his fists down on the top of the piano. Making so much noise that you couldn't hear what she was yelling, although I guess it was mostly cuss words.

He was still whooping and pounding as she marched back across the bandstand, and down the steps to the dressing room.

I grinned, or tried to. Feeling a little funny naturally, but not at all mad.

3:

RAGS MCGUIRE

I saw her for the first time about four months ago. It was in a place in Fort Worth, far out on West Seventh Street. I wasn't looking for her or it, or anything. I'd just started walking that night, and when I'd walked as far as I could I was in front of this place. So I went inside.

There was a small bar up front. In the rear was a latticed-off, open roof area, with a lot of tables and a crowd of beer drinkers. I sat down and ordered a stein.

The waitress came with it. Another woman came right behind her, and helped herself to a chair. She was a pretty wretched-looking bag; not that it would have meant anything to me if she hadn't been. I gave her a couple bucks, and said no, thanks. She went away, and the three-piece group on the bandstand-sax, piano and drums-went back to work.

They weren't good, of course, but they were Dixieland. They played the music, and that's something. They played the music-or tried to-and these days that's really something.

They did Sugar Blues and Wang Wang, and Goofus. There was a kitty on the bandstand, a replica of a cat's hat with a PLEASE FEED THE sign. So, at intermission, I sent the waitress up with a twenty-dollar bill.

I didn't notice that it was a twenty until it was in her hand. I'd meant to make it a five-which was a hell of a lot more than I could afford. Anything was a lot more than I could afford. But she already had it, and you don't hear the music much any more. So I let it go.

The waitress pointed me out to them. They all stood up and smiled and bowed to me, and for a moment I was stupid enough to think that they knew who I was. For, naturally, they didn't. They don't know you any more if you play the music. Only the players of crap, the atonal clashbang off-key stuff that Saint Vitus himself couldn't dance to. To these lads I was just a big spender. That's all I was to anyone in the place.

I saw the waitress go over to a table in the corner. There was a man seated at it, facing me, a guy with a beer-bleared face and a suit that must have cost all of eighteen dollars. There was also a girl, her back turned my way. The waitress whispered to her, and the girl got up. Her companion made noises of protest, and a burly, shirt-sleeved character who had been lurking in the vicinity, grabbed him by the collar and hustled him out.

The girl started toward the bandstand. There was a small burst of hand-clapping and stein- thumping. And my eyes snapped open and my heart pounded, and I half rose out of my chair. And then I settled back down again. Because, of course, it wasn't Janie. Janie wouldn't be in a joint like this, she wouldn't be hanging around with barflies. Anyway, I knew where Janie was, at home looking after the boys, whoring and guzzling and…

Janie was back in New York. I'd talked to her long distance that night-had her sing to me over the telephone. It was Melancholy Baby, one of our all-time hit recordings, one of the dozen-odd which still sell considerably-and thank God they do. Although I don't know who the hell buys them. Probably they all go to insane asylums, the patients there. It must be that way, the poor devils must all be locked up, since there seems to be nothing on the outside any more but tone-deaf morons.

Why, goddammit, I talked to a man a while back, one of those pseudo-erudite bastards who is mopping up with articles about modern 'music,' the so-called up-beat, 'cool' crap. I said, let me ask you something. Suppose the printer started 'interpreting' your articles. Suppose he started leaving out lines and putting in his own, suppose he threw away your punctuation and put in his own. How would you feel if he did that, an 'interpretation' of your stuff?

I shouldn't have wasted my time on him, of course. I shouldn't even have spit on him. He called himself a music critic-a critic, by God!-and he'd never heard of Blue Steele!

The girl didn't look like Janie. Not the slightest. I'd only thought she did at the time.

She sang. It was Don't Get Around Much Any More, another old hit of Janie's and mine. And she bitched it up. Brother, did she bitch it! But when I closed my eyes…

She had a voice. She had what it took, raw and undeveloped as it was. And she hit you. That's the only way I can say it-she hit you. She brought out the goose bumps, like that first blast of air when you step into an air-conditioned room.

And God knows I don't expect much. I work for something good, I do my best to get it. But I don't really expect it.

I began to get a little excited. I did some fast mental calculations. I was working single at the moment, doing a series of club dates. And I was just squeaking by. But the resort season wasn't too far off, and I had some recording checks due; and it would be easy enough to whip together another band. I could just about swing it, I thought. A five man combo, including myself, and this girl. I couldn't make any money with it, not playing the music. I'd be very lucky, in fact, if I could break even. But I could do it-do something, by God, that needed to be done. Give this mixed-up world something that it ought to have, regardless of whether it knew it or wanted it.

She finished the song. She was at my table before I could motion to her. I was still wrapped up in my calculations. I heard her pitch, but it was a minute or two before it sank in on me. And perhaps I should have expected it; and perhaps, by God, I should not have. From some girls, yes. From any other girl. But not her, not someone with the music in them.

I wanted to spit on her. I wanted to break my stein, slash her throat with it so that she would never sing another word. Instead, I said, fine: I hated sleeping by myself.

I suppose my expression had startled her. At any rate, she drew back a little. She didn't mean that, she said. All she meant was that maybe I