over my mind. For some reason, it welled up into anger. I dropped her hand and got a grip on her arm. I moved her back to the far wall. I knew it was the anger driving me, but I let it. I was spitting the whispered words between my teeth.
“Listen to me, girl. If you’re not telling the truth, you’re playing with people’s lives. The girl who wrote that note could have been killed for it. She did it for you. That man over there came through three punks and a sumo wrestler to get here. So did I. You probably won’t understand this, but there’s an innocent boy who could be convicted of murder if I don’t get some answers. Now what’s the game?”
I stopped when I heard Harry spit out “Mike!” from across the room. I realize my voice could be heard beyond our little corner. I waited for an answer.
Nothing. She was still the porcelain doll. There was no expression whatever in her eyes. She just shook her head. Her voice was dead calm.
“I’m sorry. There is no trouble. You were kind to try to help me.”
That did it. The steam was gone. I knew I was running on empty. I apologized for what had probably been an absurd scene from her point of view and motioned Harry to the door. I put a twenty in her hands for the inconvenience, although at that moment, I felt more inconvenienced than she was. Someone was playing ping-pong with me, and whether it was Red Shoes, Mei-Li, or both, I was fresh out of clues.
The corridors were empty when we made our way down the stairs. It was a relief. I wasn’t up to the kind of gauntlet we ran coming in. The door creaked open to a gust of fresh snowflakes that had camouflaged the grit of one of Boston’s oldest sections.
I felt ridiculous thanking Harry for risking his life on a chase for a nonexistent goose, but he understood. We wished each other a happy Thanksgiving, and he headed up toward Harrison. I offered him a cab ride, but he wanted to walk. The streets were deserted, and the snow-flakes actually felt good on the skin.
It was only a couple of minutes before a cab answered my wave. I gave the driver the address of my apartment on Beacon Street at Berkeley and then remembered that it was Monday, just before midnight. It felt like at least Thursday. I gave the driver a different address higher up on Beacon Street just above Charles. The driver acknowledged, and I started nodding off in the backseat as we headed down Beach Street.
I was drifting into neutral as I watched Harry’s fresh footprints in the snow. My last impression was of the steamed-up windows of the coffee shop on the corner and the three sets of equally fresh footprints that came from the door.
8
It was just past midnight when the cab pulled up outside of Daddy’s Club. The cabbie gave me a gentle nudge, and the brisk bite of the snow-carrying wind brought me the rest of the way back to the outskirts of the land of the living. I was fighting the temptation to jump back in the cab and call it a night, but Monday night is Monday night, and there are some things that feed the soul more than rest.
I passed a couple of departing, slightly lubricated college kids on my way down the narrow cut-back staircase to the below-ground haunt of one of Boston’s great assets. The club draws a spate of yuppies and college types earlier in the evening, but around midnight they begin to dwindle. After the other clubs and restaurants have closed, Daddy’s pulls in jazz musicians from in and out of town, as well as devoted listeners who can handle the late hours. It undoubtedly violates the city’s code of closing times, but the police give it their best benign neglect.
The whole room is about forty feet by twenty, with a miniscule bandstand at the front and a bar that runs the length of the left side-wall. It is either meticulously clean or filthy enough to drive cockroaches to cleaner surroundings. I have no idea which, because the lighting, or lack of it, would make a mole feel at home.
I slid up onto a bar stool at the near end of the bar, and every muscle in my body rose up in rebellion for not taking it home. But then, this was Oz, Valhalla, Never-Never Land. When I came through that door, the world out there dried up and blew away.
One of the most serious elements of my education at Harvard came from a luck-of-the-draw roommate. My first two months with Harry Ortlieb were, if not hell itself, at least a lower ring of purgatory. Harry was a music major with an addictive penchant for modern jazz. In particular, Harry idolized that rebellious cluster of jazz musicians who took the idiom out of the bounds of comfortable, decent harmony and pushed it into the sometimes discordant world of newfound chords. He personally stocked every recording made in the fifties and sixties by the principal emissaries of that assault on the ear and central nervous system called “bebop.”
For the first two months of our freshman year, I spent every torturous moment in our dorm room at Holworthy House fighting the urge to rip whatever CD by Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Mingus, whoever was fouling the air at the moment, out of his state-of-the-art player and tuck it as far up Harry Ortlieb’s ass as the length of my arm would permit. My only regret in my fantasy was that CDs have no sharp corners.
Then the third month came, and to my own shock and surprise, if not Harry’s, I started to like it. I started asking for particular pieces and actually listening to Harry’s explanation of what they were doing. Life became not only livable, but I started looking forward to our late nightly CD concerts with Harry playing DJ.
The effect went further than that. My father/guardian, Miles O’Connor, was, among his many other talents, an accomplished piano player. He drew me to the instrument out of sheer admiration for him. It stuck, and I found that at every stage of my life, whatever demons were haunting me could be tamed, or at least sedated, by an hour or two alone at a piano.
Enter Harry Ortlieb, and every moment I spent at the keys from freshman year on was turned to working out the intricacies such giants as Thelonius Monk had woven around the old standards. And every Monday late night in recent times was spent in that preview of heaven called Daddy’s Club.
I gave a three-finger sign to Marty behind the bar. He understandingly poured three fingers of Famous Grouse Scotch over four ice cubes. He had the maturity and gentility not to adulterate it with water or some twisted snip from a citrus object.
That first sip of the Grouse awakened taste buds that went right down to my toes. The second sip a minute or two later soothed the wrinkles off the brow and put this wandering soul deep in the proper attitude to hear and appreciate what “Daddy” Hightower on bass and his trio were doing on the bandstand. Sips three, four, and five carried me through the last chorus of a tune written by the great jazz bassist, Charlie Mingus, that had not been done so tastefully since Charlie did it himself.
When they finished, I moved across to one of the small, empty tables and settled into serious relaxation between sets. I was halfway to the Land of Nod when I felt a hand the size of a boxing glove on my shoulder.
“Well, ain’t you the picture of piss and hot sauce?”
Daddy slipped into, or rather consumed, the chair beside me.
I nodded toward the bandstand. “That was nice.”
He knew what I meant. He just smiled. Daddy was a piece of work. He stood six feet four in a crouch and weighed something less than the QEII. He actually dwarfed the stand-up acoustic bass. When he hovered over it, it became like an added appendage of his body.
Daddy had been in the New York scene in Harlem in the late fifties, early sixties, when Thelonius Monk and Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker, and, of course, Charlie Mingus were showing people that there was more to music than Lawrence Welk. When Daddy got into it on the bass, he played with such power and imagination that he could drive another musician to play six levels above himself. Some of the big ones used Daddy as a sideman on recording sessions. He was truly in his element.
Then the late sixties and seventies descended. Rock came along like a tidal wave and pushed some real talent into the backwashes. Jazz clubs withered and died, and the recording industry followed the rock thumpers after the money.
Daddy actually became a bouncer in a club where a group of giftless whambangers packed in an equally tasteless audience of everything from college rowdies to bikers. One night, Daddy waded in to break up a broken- bottle brawl, and they turned on him. It took surgery and six years before he could move his fingers enough to grip a bass.
Eventually it came back. Mostly. Some of the musicians from the old days backed him enough to open the cellar club on Beacon Street, and no serious jazz musician ever came to town without dropping by Daddy’s, usually
