with an instrument.
I looked across the table at that big old smile and the beads of perspiration on that wide ebony forehead.
“No, I mean it was really nice.”
The smile broadened, and he just nodded.
“She here tonight, Daddy?”
He leaned back in the chair, which must have held together by sheer willpower.
“I thought you might get around to that. Earlier. She asked about you.”
“And?”
“She said she might be back. She has a gig over the Hilton. All gown and tux for the snappy set.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
He nodded toward the piano on the bandstand. “So meantime, you comin’ up, Mickey?”
Daddy is the only one who ever made “Mickey” sound like a suitable substitute for “Michael.”
“I’d only slow you down tonight, Daddy.”
His eyebrows rode halfway up to his bald crest. “You think you can slow Daddy down?”
It was my turn to grin. “A herd of elephants couldn’t do that.”
“C’mon. Let’s give that box a mass age.”
Daddy waved Clyde Williams out of the audience. He’d been sitting ringside with his sax assembled, like a rookie hockey player choking his hockey stick waiting for a nod from the coach.
We followed Daddy onto the stand. I settled into the piano and Clyde loosened up his fingers, while Daddy got comfortable around his bass. It was at moments like this that I said an extra prayer for Miles O’Connor for putting the dimension of music into my life.
I caught a little grin on Daddy’s sly face when he yelled over to Clyde and me, “Cherokee.” It’s an old Charlie Barnett tune that’s played at about a hundred beats to the bar. I groaned and my head hit the music rest.
Daddy held up the three-flats sign and launched an avalanche of notes on the bass that I could feel in the pit of my stomach. By the time I waded in, I had adrenalin coming out my ears, and we did it at a full gallop.
We went through eight choruses of improvisation on the fly, when Daddy finally held up the closed-fist sign for the last chorus. I said a sincere prayer of thanks.
There was a nice ripple of applause before Daddy laid down a bass introduction to a mercifully slow and sleepy “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” It was like hot-walking a horse after a race.
Two choruses had me cruising with my eyes shut, when I heard those beautiful lyrics in the clear, sweet voice of one of God’s angels. The voice was right behind me, and I could feel the satin touch of long, tapered fingers on my neck.
I didn’t want to turn around, or speak, or breathe to break the spell until that last gorgeous line.
I turned around and saw that face with the auburn hair and the smile that makes everything else in the room background. I couldn’t remember a time when it didn’t, although we’d only met at Daddy’s a few weeks before.
Lanny Wells did something in Filene’s executive offices during the daytime, but at night her pumpkin turned into a microphone, and she turned into the finest jazz vocalist I’ve heard since Harry Ortlieb’s recordings by Sarah Vaughn.
When Lanny spoke, it sounded like she was still singing.
“Daddy said you’d be here tonight.”
“Hey, it’s Monday night. How was the gig?” I checked out the evening gown. “Must’ve been way uptown.”
She smiled. “ This is way uptown. You look like you had a day.”
“And a half. I’ll tell you sometime.”
Daddy leaned over the piano. “Let’s give ‘em ‘Route Sixty-Six.’”
I swung back into position, and after a driving pacesetter from Daddy, Lanny took us on a tour of my favorite road to California.
It was just after four in the morning when Lanny and I climbed the steps to street level and hailed the last cab in Boston. We were the only car on the snow-dusted street when we pulled up to her apartment house on Commonwealth Avenue.
I walked Lanny up the six steps to the door.
“Would you like to come up for coffee? I grind it fresh.”
“Would the Bruins like to beat the Rangers for the Stanley Cup?”
I love to throw sports analogies at her because she looks so cute while she’s grasping for a clue as to what I’m talking about.
“Does that mean ‘yes’?”
“It means ‘yes,’ but no. I have to be awake enough to play in the big league in about four hours. If I sleep fast, I’ll get three hours.”
I gave it a second or two before asking a question to which I really did not want to hear a negative answer.
“How about a real date? Dinner, North Shore?”
“When?”
That sounded promising. “Wednesday? I’ll give you a call. Would you like to?”
“Would Versace like to see Chanel in the red?”
It was my turn. “Does that mean ‘yes’?”
She kissed me. “Call and see.”
9
It was about 8:30 AM Tuesday when I stepped off the elevator at Bilson, Dawes. I never made it down the corridor to my office. I was cruising past the cluster of secretaries’ desks with a paper cup of black caffeine, when Julie waved to me from behind a telephone. Her right hand pointed south, and her expression said, “Poor baby.”
I got the message. Mr. Devlin wanted to see me.
I parked the coffee on her desk and caught her attention. She held a hand over the mouthpiece and looked up. I reached over and pushed her “hold” button. She looked indignant.
“Hey, you just cut off a client.”
“No, I didn’t. That was your lunch date.”
“You listened!”
“Of course. Do me a favor. I may not get serious time in my office till Groundhog Day the way this thing is going with Lex.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Oh, ‘Lex,’ is it?”
“Only out of his hearing. Otherwise it’s ‘Your Excellency.’”
“You better not get those two confused. You’ll be seeking employment.”
“Naw, he wouldn’t fire me. That would be small and vindictive. He’d just eat me alive. To finish the thought, I’ll never get to my mail or messages. Go through it all, will you? If anything looks like an emergency, leave a note on my desk. I may get to it by Friday.”
I headed for the lion’s den. I heard from behind, “What’s an emergency?”
“Death threats, malpractice actions, my subscription to DownBeat is expiring. I don’t know. I trust your judgment.”
The King was in his throne room, skimming the Globe and inhaling something black and steaming out of a paper cup. I thought of my own, cooling on Julie’s desk, and wished that I had known that it was the breakfast hour.
He waved me into the chair in front of his desk. I accepted the invitation, beginning to feel like a golden
