Jack of Diamonds (61 page)

‘Just a sarsaparilla, thanks, Gina.’

‘Right away, Mr Spayd.’ We both watched as her trim backside undulated across the room.

‘Nice ass, but she’s out of bounds, Jack.’

I turned to him and grinned. ‘Gimme a break, Lenny. I just got here and may not be staying long enough to disobey the rules.’

Lenny laughed. ‘Jesus, Jack, you ain’t changed from London. Still a bunny banger, huh?’

I laughed. ‘Look who’s talking!’

‘Yeah, that’s the downside of Mrs Fuller’s rules, but this one is a damn good one. Don’t get your meat where you get your bread. Stops a lotta drama and keeps things runnin’ smooth.’

‘Bridgett sounds like she could use a little meat herself.’

‘Eh?’

‘I mean, she herself possibly needs, you know, a guy in her life . . . what’s the matter with that husband of hers?’

Lenny looked over my shoulder and grinned like an ape. ‘Say, why don’t you suggest that to her yourself, Jack?’

I turned to see Mrs Fuller standing directly behind me. Plainly, she had heard my remark, but her face remained impassive. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Spayd,’ she said,
sotto voce
, ‘I hope you are feeling refreshed?’

I could feel my face burning but managed to mumble, ‘Ah, yes, thank you, ma’am!’

Jesus, there goes my audition!
Gina returned with my drink and, before I could thank her, Mrs Fuller smiled at her and said, ‘Thank you for taking care of Mr Spayd, Gina.’ Her tone was pleasant enough and didn’t change when she turned to me and said, ‘We’d like you kindly to audition in half an hour, Mr Spayd. I’ll come over to take you to the piano bar. I’m greatly looking forward to hearing you play. Enjoy your drink.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, I’ll do my best.’ I felt like a schoolboy in front of the headmistress, though no headmistress had ever had the style and charisma of Mrs Bridgett Fuller.

Seated again, Lenny raised his glass. ‘To your successful audition, Jack. I know you gonna be fine, buddy. It’s only natural she’s a little anxious. My word is all she got. Cain’t entirely blame her, eh?’

‘Lenny, you mentioned the piano?’

His face lit up. ‘Steinway, baby grand – only the best for you, buddy.’

‘Thank you. Hope I get to play it more than once.’

Lenny ignored my remark. ‘Sorry, Jack, couldn’t do it in blue. Bridgett decided she cain’t do nothin’ wid a pale blue Steinway. The one we got is black as a nigger’s ass.’

First the Jews, now that word nigger again. Was this simply white gentile America or was it something worse? I decided to ignore it, for now. ‘Piano sounds great, Lenny, but with all the shortages, how the hell did you get hold of a Steinway baby grand?’

Lenny looked slightly apologetic. ‘Jack, buddy, it ain’t new, but almost. We couldn’t get no new one, but we’ve ordered a bran’ new one for the Firebird. The fucking krauts in New York are having trouble getting their act together – same thing as us, post-war shortages.’

‘Have you had it tuned?’

‘Of course, poifect, best tuner on the West Coast, come originally from San Diego. Mexican. Blind guy – Manuel Picconas – he’s got ears can hear a pin drop a thousand yards away! He’s done piano tuning for Erroll Garner, Duke Ellington. Also Count Basie, W. C. Handy, you name it.’ If Lenny was being truthful, this was impressive. ‘You ain’t never gonna believe this, Jack. You know that movie – Humphrey Bogart and what’s her name, that actress, Swiss, Swedish, somethin’ like that, speaks foreign.’

‘Ingrid Bergman,
Casablanca
?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe I’m the only guy in America ain’t seen the movie.’

I laughed too. ‘I’ve seen it four times.’

‘Yeah? Well then, you’ll remember the bar.’

‘Rick’s Café.’

‘Yeah, right . . . Well, we got the Steinway baby grand they used in the film. It’s bin in storage at the props department; never been used since the movie.’ He grinned. ‘Nice, eh?’

I agreed it was. ‘I’ll be honoured to play it,’ I replied. The only problem was that the piano Dooley Wilson played in Rick’s Café was a small decorated upright. The Hollywood props department was probably correct. I knew Lenny liked a bit of a story. Why present a naked fact if you can dress it up and give it a bit of style, a pair of tap shoes and a red bow tie?

On the dot of half an hour later, Mrs Fuller appeared at the door of the Longhorn. I watched as she came towards us. She was sheer class, every inch. I was back in the library, a small boy fronting Mrs Hodgson.

Lenny rose in anticipation. ‘Jack, I’d love to listen to you play, but I gotta meeting wid Sammy. He reckons one of the kitchen hands is pilfering from the meat freezer. Perhaps we can have a drink later, after you finish. How long you reckon you gonna be?’

‘I really don’t know,’ I said. ‘I plan to play a composite of jazz, blues, classical and popular . . . maybe three-quarters of an hour?’ Mrs Fuller had almost reached us. ‘It depends on . . .’ I completed the sentence by raising my eyebrows.

‘Right on time, as always, Bridgett,’ Lenny said.

She gave Lenny a brief smile, then turned to me. ‘Mr Spayd, if you’d like to follow me, we’re ready for you,’ she said crisply. Or perhaps that’s just how I imagined it.

‘Is there to be an audience? Lenny told me about the GAWP Bar, ma’am,’ I explained.

‘No, not this time.’ Mrs Fuller smiled, a bit like the Cheshire cat, I thought. ‘I shall have the pleasure of having you all to myself.’

She turned on her heel and marched off without a backward glance, leaving me to scramble after her
. Jesus, what am I letting myself in for?
It was pretty obvious I’d got off to a poor start. Then Joe’s words surfaced once more. ‘Jazzboy, when you get to mess up big time, it a great chance to know yo’self. Pro-ceed upwards and onwards wid that knowing.’ I played piano and thought of myself as a professional; it was time to grow up.

I caught up with her as we crossed the foyer and headed down a thickly carpeted passageway towards a large, dimly lit room with
The Princess
in gold metal script against rose-pink velvet directly above the words
Members Only.

The décor consisted of old-rose velvet drapes, cream walls, subdued lighting and leather booths in the same old rose as the drapes. The bar occupied half of the wall at the far end and was upholstered in the same leather as the booths, studded in gold and topped with marble. Gold pseudo-antique tables and chairs clustered around it. Beside the bar, an archway draped in old-rose velvet with gold tassels led into another room. At a pinch, the room could hold fifty people.

Miss Frostbite, had she observed The Princess, might have declared, ‘Too much, much too much, my dear,’ but I know my mom would have clapped her hands in glee, then almost immediately felt the room was too grand for her.

However, the décor was less important than the acoustics, and the tone and tuning of the beautiful black Steinway baby grand standing on a small stage. My fingers suddenly itched to try it, even if I was destined to play it only once. What the heck, this was one sweet shining black baby.

Attempting to conceal my excitement over the piano, I clapped my hands several times, turning in a different direction with each clap.

Mrs Fuller raised an eyebrow. ‘Mr Spayd, I think you’ll find the acoustics are adequate.’

It was another putdown but I no longer cared; I was too anxious to lay my hands on that beautiful keyboard. ‘Do you have any requests?’ I said, stepping up onto the small stage and adjusting the lid so that every note would carry. Any performer would have to be careful not to push the stool too far backwards after a set or they’d tumble off the stage. There was barely sufficient room for the piano and stool. It was an obvious design fault, but one that, happily, focused my attention and calmed my nerves.

‘Just play one or two examples from your usual repertoire, please, Mr Spayd. Mr Giancana informs me you have considerable musical range.’ The tone of this last remark was, I thought, just a touch acerbic – Mrs Fuller was preparing herself for the worst. Clearly, she’d made up her mind about me: I was merely one of Lenny’s wartime buddies and she wasn’t about to trust his judgment on anything.

I sat down and adjusted the stool.
What the heck, here goes nothing . . . I can always go scuffing
, I thought. Settling myself, I began to play, softly at first, just warming up my fingers and testing the piano’s touch and tone, easing myself into the music. It had been nearly a week since I’d played and being back at the keyboard felt like coming home. Jack Spayd became whole again. Nothing mattered, the world around me simply disappeared, I was in my own shining universe.

I began with an almost languid version of ‘Sentimental Journey’, the Les Brown hit from 1944. As my fingers warmed up, I segued into the more upbeat ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, just giving the keys a bit of a workout. I ran through several popular songs, then added a little ragtime followed by some blues – ‘St James Infirmary’ to begin with – then I launched into the aria of Bach’s
Goldberg Variations
, moving on through the first variation until I was completely immersed in the intricate short pieces that had always been among my favourite pieces. After indulging myself with several of them, I moved onto the first movement of Beethoven’s
Sonata Pathétique
.

When I came to the end of the movement, I paused for a moment and suddenly realised my audience was no longer only Mrs Fuller. To my immense surprise, the room was filled with people standing in utter silence. Suddenly, they were clapping, yelling and whistling. The piano bar was filled to capacity – standing room only – and I could see the restaurant and kitchen staff in their uniforms, crowding three deep through the archway at the side of the bar. One of the chefs, in a tall white toque, was beating on a saucepan with a wooden spoon, adding to the din. I was completely taken aback. ‘More! More!’ they began to shout.

There seemed no graceful way to refuse, so I launched into a selection from George Gershwin’s
Porgy and Bess
, an all-American finale.

More clapping and yelling followed, and one of the kitchen staff called out, ‘Brother, we got ourself a jazz man, the best there could be! I gone heard myself in heaven!’

To their delight, I turned towards the kitchen and dining-room staff and performed a stiff little bow. ‘Oh, man, brother, you da best!’ The chef’s opinion was generally supported, and there was much nodding of heads and more clapping. It felt good to be back at a keyboard and, while I appreciated the obvious delight of the ladies, whom I presumed were the girlfriends and wives of the high rollers, the response of the black folk working in the dining room and kitchen seemed to me to be the best affirmation of all.

I stepped carefully to the edge of the tiny stage in an attempt to see Mrs Fuller in the happy murmuring crowd. A manicured female hand appeared, and reached up and pulled me into the mayhem. Overcome with emotion, she embraced me and kissed me hard on the cheek, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘Jack, that was . . . well, what can I possibly say? That was
wonderful
!’ She kissed me again, this time a little more decorously. ‘You had the crowd in the palm of your hand; they loved you, I loved you! Jack, your repertoire is so divinely eclectic and all of it’s excellent. The music was beautiful, simply marvellous,’ she went on, then added, ‘for once, Lenny got it right. Please, please stay!’

‘What about your GAWP members, shouldn’t I play for them?’

‘You just did. Word got around ten minutes after you began and they all came in from the pool.’ She grinned. ‘I think they’d lynch me if you didn’t agree to stay.’

Of course I loved her reaction, and if at heart I was a jazz musician, I’d at least established my credentials here as a solo entertainer. Nobody had been forced to listen and obviously they thought I was providing them with more than reasonably competent background music for a busy cocktail bar. ‘Thank you, Mrs Fuller,’ I said, in an attempt to recover from her surprising reaction to my playing.

‘It’s Bridgett from now on, Jack; plain Bridgett,’ she said.
Lady, there is nothing plain about you
, I thought as she dropped a small curtsy and added, ‘At your service, maestro.’

Wow! What a turnaround! I thought it was as good a time as there was likely to be to apologise for my crude comments about her to Lenny, which I was certain she’d overheard.

‘Bridgett, I want to apologise for the remark I made to Lenny.’ The crowd was drifting away and we followed it through into the foyer.

‘What remark, Jack?’ She looked directly up at me, her big green eyes wide and innocent. It was a gracious gesture and I realised Bridgett Fuller was a very charming liar. Then she added, ‘I think I’m the one who needs to apologise, for doubting your ability and for not taking Lenny’s recommendation seriously.’

She had cleverly turned the conversation away from any awkwardness. ‘No, of course not. I understand. I’m Canadian, a complete unknown – you had every right. I’m glad I exceeded your expectations.’