Dropsy dove down to retrieve him, stuffing his pockets with more bills along the way. Slapping Jim gently on the cheeks: “Y’okay, little fella?”
“Don’t feel so good. Think I gonna be sick.”
Walter rolled his eyes, peeved at the inconvenience. “Ah, crap. Why don’t ya take ol’ Nick outside, hero. Then come on back in and we’ll have another go or two. Let us weary travelers have a chance at winning some of that money back.”
“Just what I was thinking, sir.” Jim began to heave as Dropsy pulled him to his feet.
“Hurry fer chrissakes!” Otis, the Least Remarkable Man, was concerned that the sight of Jim puking may trigger the contents of his own destabilizing gut.
As Dropsy and Jim neared the door, Jim’s retching got louder. The second to last thing Dropsy heard from the table of used-up suckers was the voice of Skinny Roy:
“Dang, Walter, maybe we shouldn’t have made that youngster drink so much whiskey. Ain’t sure how such a little guy drunk so much without droppin’ over dead.”
And the
Dropsy couldn’t have hoped for a cleaner getaway. He slipped Black Benny a wad of currency before helping Jim down the stairs. Benny gave up a rare smile witnessed by no one.
Upon reaching the dark Perdido Street alley outside, Jim did indeed vomit for the best of two solid minutes. In the aftermath of sickness, he wiped chin to sleeve, then brushed sleeve to hand. The night’s winnings came out of Dropsy’s pocket for a final tally in the shadows. The split was fifty-fifty-fair and square just like always.
“Nice little take there, fellas?” The voice of Buddy Bolden startled the two. Cigar clamped between teeth, and horn in hand, Buddy’s tall frame conspired with the light of the alley’s mouth to form a long shadow.
“Thought you was gettin’ busy with them girls,” Dropsy deadpanned.
“Howdy, Buddy!” Jim grinned with yellowy eyes. “Some mighty nice playin’ tonight. Sorry we can’t stay for the next set.”
“Reckon that wouldn’t be too safe, all things considered and such, eh Jim?” said the silhouette of Buddy Bolden.
“Ah, hell, I’d keep on going but them fellas tapped out. Ain’t as fat as I reckoned.” Then, after a moment’s consideration. “From some place called Pennsylvania. Not much money up there, I guess.”
“Well then,” Buddy sounded tired. “What’ll you be spending all that hard earned cash on, Ratboy?”
“Funny you should mention, Buddy.” Jim smiled, a patch of dried vomit on his cheek cracking into a dozen smaller pieces. “I was thinking of buying that horn of yours offa ya. If yer willin’, I mean.”
“Didn’t know you played, Jim.” Pretending he didn’t know all about Jim’s grand notions of graduating from the rat killing business in favor of musical stardom.
“Well, if I had a horn I might.” Smile gone, vomit bits reassembled.
“Lots of horns besides this one around, I reckon. Better ones, ’n cheaper too, I s’pose.”
“I like that one,” Jim insisted, eyebrows nearly joined. “Ready to pay top dollar fer it, too.”
“That makes some sense, I guess. This horn does have some history. But it’s also got sentimental value can’t be bought. Anyway, after I’m done with it, it’s already spoken for by some-other- body.”
“Spoken for? By who?”
Dropsy had never seen such plain disappointment on Jim’s face. The sight of it made him uneasy.
“That little boy of mine,” Buddy answered coldly. “This horn got some of his daddy’s magic in it, I guess. Some other kinda magic too, most likely. Figgered on hanging onto it fer awhile then pass it on to West one day. Least I kin do fer the little guy ’sidderin’ I left him to be raised by a whore.”
“That horn may be worth twenty dollars brand new,” Jim angled. “I’ll give ya sixty fer it right now.” Jim’s eagerness tipped his hand. One more thing Dropsy had never before witnessed Jim do.
“Sixty, eh? Well, that’s a mighty tempting offer, son.” Playing with the player is what Buddy had in mind. “But I’ll have to pass.”
“Eighty?” Jim’s desperation brought Dropsy close to tears. Buddy smiled but shook his head, stroking the horn like a kitten.
“Hunnert, then,” said Jim firmly with beaten, angry eyes. “Final offer.”
Buddy’s expression softened with a thing approaching genuine remorse-or, more likely, pity:
“I’ll tell ya what. I’ll give you a little blow fer free. Just so’s you can see if you like it. Playin’ horns ain’t fer everyone, y’know. Might not be fer you once you have a go.”
“Really? I mean, ya wouldn’t mind? Ya ain’t kiddin’?”
“Normally I’d mind plenty, sonny. But truth is you and this horn have a special history- though you was too young then to remember ’bout it now. Sang to you when you was a little baby, this horn. Put a breath in yer chest and a smile on yer mama’s face. Only seems right you should have one little blow on it. Fer old time’s sake.” Buddy, unlike Dropsy, was aware of Jim’s true history. Knew that Jim Jam Jump was a stage name invented for him by Crawfish Bob, and that his real name was Dominick Carolla, son of Sicilian immigrants in spite of fair skin and blue eyes.
“Well, all right then.” Jim wasn’t exactly sure what Buddy was talking about, but it was true he’d felt a certain connection with this particular horn. It wasn’t just in the way that Buddy played it; there was something about the horn itself.
Reverently, Jim took the cornet from Buddy’s outstretched hand. Dropsy suddenly realized that, until this moment, he’d never seen Buddy not holding the damn thing. The man looked surprisingly thin and vulnerable without it in his hand.
Jim drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, then: lips to mouthpiece.
The sound that came out wasn’t a note of music so much as it was a toneless scream. Jim’s fingers depressed random keys, searching for the ones that might make sense to his ear, sending a trail of dissident, brassy coughs on a choppy journey through charcoal-colored air, the sound of it lightly amplified by dull mist. Finally, Jim seemed to find a note that suited him.
The lonesome, pitiful wail of Jim’s chosen note echoed through the tenderloin. The sound went on and on without benefit of second breath. Dropsy pressed both hands against his ears to shield his mind from its brittleness, the pressure of his left hand enraging the tender ear recently punched hard by Windmill Willie.
Buddy Bolden stood expressionless, looking at his feet, knowing certain things. Jim Jam Jump was in church. In rapture. The scar of his chest was burning, the scar in the shape of a hand.
The ugliness of the note’s journey was something Jim recognized at his core, an unwelcome and damning thing, a primordial reflection in a forgotten mirror. This thing was undeniably his, though, and so he didn’t turn from it. He took it for what it was-and embraced it absolutely. Hearing the sound of your own soul can be an enlightening and satisfying thing, even if it isn’t a pretty sound.
The cornet’s howl gradually tapered and finally did end, leaving perfect quiet-except for a rustling sound.
