Another morning, another hang over, another jazz club and another lousy pay check. Gus is me. I work for a newspaper. Jazz clubs, mostly. It’s a heap of bull. This is a town full of vice and big stories just waiting to come crashing down on the little paper I work for, and I can’t do jack shit about it.
So I get up and I go to work, and again, Ray (my boss) says:
“Gus, you sonofabitch, where have you been?”
And I go over to my desk and I sit down and wait for my “story”. The kid, I never bothered to ask his name, comes over and drops a file on my desk. For a second, just a second, I hope it’ll have something about a murder or a robbery or a big drug ring that needs to come down, and every time I kick my self for being so stupid.
The sticker on the front always reads “review”. Review. Re. View. Watch again. Watch the same show at a different club, over and over and over again.
But I’m a reporter, and its my job to tell people stuff. So come 8 o’clock, I head down to the club and I turn my trick, and the nice man pays me and my kids get to eat tomorrow (only I don’t have any kids, so I guess its my addictions that get fed). That’s normally not a problem.
I turn up out side the club. “Jazz, 50¢”, says the sign. Cute, but not clever. It’s by a canal. It looks like a pretty street, probably one of the first that was built after they dug the canal up. The air around me seems like its trying to escape, and the little breath I have quickly turns into vapour in front of my mouth. I miss my scarf.
I decide that a cigarette is in exactly what I need.
The smokes I keep in my pocket at all times are getting on a little now, but the green packet still bears the delicious sticks that I’ve come to depend upon. Lighting one up, I savour the warmth from the match for just a second longer then I should have done and burn my finger tip.
After a very long and delicious drag I have to go inside. The handle is cold to the touch, and the old door is heavy. Leaning my weight against it, it swings open.
Immediately, I’m hit with this overwhelming heat and smog. The rush of air outside the place nearly knocks me off my feet, but I manage to stay upright by clinging to the door. Inside, its not a bad joint. The air is suitably smoky, the piano on stage is a nice one and the cat, sorry, guy (I’ve been spending way too much time in these places) behind the bar has at least a deadpan expression. It might not sound like a lot, but when you’ve dealt with the guys who normally work at these places, ‘dead inside’ is a nice change.
I take my seat in the corner. A waitress comes over and I ask her what time the show will start. She tells me I’m right on time, so I thank her and order an orange juice on the rocks. I’m heart broken when she brings me back an orange juice on the rocks.
The pianist comes on first, and he’s pretty good. Pulling out my pen and paper, I make a note of his skill and jot down a few things about the layout and the view. He plays for some time, and the bassist (a black guy I recognise as Hank Dee-Williams) strolls on to the stage. I know this guy to be great by reputation, so I’m not surprised when he starts playing a nice riff. Sitting back, I sip my orange juice, smoke my cigarette and close my eyes. I hear more footsteps; the next band member. Some drums start up, also very good. Three months ago, I could actually enjoy jazz. Now, I only appreciate it on a technical level.
The music plays for some time and I light another cigarette – eyes still closed. After the song ends there is a polite applause. Not a lot, but enough. The next song starts. A few bars in, I jump at the sound of a female voice. Looking at the stage, I see a girl, a kid, who can’t have been more than 18, singing the best version of A Good Man is Hard to Find I’ve ever heard. On top of that, she’s beautiful.
Let me try and explain.
Her hair was a series of the most perfectly circular curls I’ve ever seen on a girl’s head. They swam and wove around her scalp like swallows in the spring. Her nose was a tight little button, dropped neatly. Starting exactly half way down her head and stopping exactly three quarters. Her eyes were framed with cheap, badly done makeup, but there was a sunken look to them that gave her years beyond her age. And her lips, oh christ, her lips. I could just imagine the kiss. Not a fire, not an inferno, but embers; a faint hum of warmth and beauty – a slow burn. Her shoulders were pale and curved like a weir falling over smooth rock. The halogen light on the stage picked out no hair on her arms. Her dress was silver satin, a long V going down between her breasts to about an inch below her cleavage. It clung to her hips, and I was jealous.
Suddenly I was staring. My eyes stung as reality sharpened and I realised I hadn’t blinked in over a minute. I sat in silence for the rest of the set; my orange juice un-drunk and my cigarette giving off desperate but unheeded ‘smoke me’ smoke signals. She said nothing between songs, only turning to nod to the band to let them know she was ready. Eventually, she spoke for the first time, and a well hidden southern accent broke through as she announced the final song. I knew I had to go – I couldn’t watch her walk off stage and out of my reality. I dropped a buck next to my drink and got the hell out of there.
The next day, I sit at my desk and wait, hoping that somehow the file will be mixed up and I’ll have to go back to Jazz, 50¢. The kid drops the file on my desk, a thick grin on his face. I look at the sticker.
“Homicide”, it reads.
“Aren’t ya glad, Gus?”
I look at the sticker and I know.
I know I will find who did it.