Norton, Andre - Anthology (47 page)

 
          
 
''You know what you've got to do
tonight." Jeff knelt, petting his friend and receiving a purr recalling
the roar of an unmuffled Harley. "This is real important. I'll never,
ever, make a bet like this again."

 
          
 
Satch butted his head against Rath's knee and
looked straight into the man's eyes. Jeff stared back, mesmerized by the
assurance he saw there. The human blinked first.

 
          
 
"Are you telling me not to worry?"
The tabby's chin bumped over his knuckles. "I don't think I can. I'm too
nervous. I should eat, but I'm not hungry. I'll get coffee at the Jazz
House." He scratched Satch behind the ears.

 
          
 
"We'd better go." Jeff slung on his
jacket, zipped it a few inches, and thumped his chest. Satchmo sprang, landing
in his arms.

 
          
 
"Good thing you know when to use those
claws." Tucking Satch's tail under his left arm, Rath let the cat's head
protrude from the coat's opening. With a huge sigh he locked the door and
thumped down the stairs.

 
          
 
The walk to the Jazz House passed too quickly.
It seemed to Jeff as if they arrived there by science-fiction transporter
instead of by his feet. He hesitated, one hand on the door, then pushed into
the Jazz House. "Basin Street Blues" enveloped him and the cat.

 
          
 
"There you are." Steve stepped up to
meet them. "I thought you might not show. Where's your—oh, there. Sit
down, the coffee's on me tonight. Two, Gloria," he ordered. "The
first set doesn't begin for half an hour."

 
          
 
Jeff let Satchmo out of his jacket onto the
bar, where the cat shook to rid his fur of damp. Steve frowned, watching the
tabby's ears twitch. The cat paced down the long curving oak bar and stopped
again, listening. "What's he doing?"

 
          
 
"Probably finding the best place to
listen." Rath chose a stool, perching on the edge, noticing the fog at the
edge of his vision. Things were getting strange again. "He went straight
to the corner where the sound balances."

 
          
 
Satch sat, head up and tail wrapped primly
around his feet, as Wynton Marsalis wailed. The cat's ears pricked.

 
          
 
"Maybe he does know about jazz,"
Steve admitted. "But that's an established artist, a sound he's probably
familiar with. The trio's only been working together a few weeks."

 
          
 
Nerves scratched Jeffs throat, making his tone
harsh. "I don't think Satchmo's ever been to a live performance. At least
not with me." He sipped coffee that seared his tongue, and grimaced.

 
          
 
"My sister's kid's looking forward to
this cat," the coffee bar's owner remarked.

 
          
 
"I meant to ask you about that,"
Rath began. "Would it be all right if I bought her one? Satch and I have
been together a long time, and I—"

 
          
 
"Then our bet's off and you
welched," said Steve. "I want to see the feline do the things you
talked about. It's worth a little risk."

 
          
 
Jeff twisted his cup. "You're risking
nothing." His in-sides knotted and the room seemed to warp.

 
          
 
"Here they are," said Steve.

 
          
 
A tall, dark-haired young man walked to the
piano as a bass player and a guitarist took nearby chairs. The pianist waited a
few minutes for his partners to get comfortable and then struck a tuning A.
When the bassist nodded satisfaction, the young man sat down at the upright and
began stroking his long fingers over the keys without pressing.

 
          
 
Steve rose to turn off the stereo, waiting
until Pete Fountain finished "Way Down Yonder in New Orleans" before
he stepped to the microphone.

 
          
 
"Tonight the Jazz House welcomes you with
a new group. And there's an added attraction." He pointed at Satchmo.
"See the big cat on the bar? There's a bet. He's supposed to know good
jazz. The person he lives with says the cat will have an unmistakable reaction
to these musicians, particularly if they're good." He turned to the trio.
"Make it hot, men, the cat's watching."

 
          
 
The pianist caught ready-nods from the others
as Steve moved through the tables and sat down. Plunging his fingers onto the
keys, the young man slammed into Fats Waller's "The Joint is Jumpin'."

 
          
 
The music sounded a little ragged at first,
but the audience yelled moderate approval as the triad wound to a stop and
swung into the next tune. Jeff glanced at Satchmo. The cat had assumed loaf
position, but his head was high and his ears twitched as if he listened for
something elusive. His intent green eyes stared past the musicians. Rath
crossed his fingers, noticing as he did the sense of unreality taking over
again.

 
          
 
"Don't let us down, Satch," he
pleaded.

 
          
 
The third song gathered howls of favor as the
pianist blasted into Jelly Roll Morton's "Ballin' the Jack." The
young man's demeanor changed—eyes slitted, head thrown back, half-smile on his
lips, his fingers caressed the keys as he gave away his lead to his partners
and took it back without faltering. The sweating bassist watched him closely,
but the guitarist displayed a Cheshire cat grin. People ignored coffee and
conversation to listen. Some even clapped in rhythm.

 
          
 
They played "Old Man River" by Cole
Porter, followed by Cannonball Adderley's "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy" and
Brubeck's "Blue Rondo a la Turk." Following another classic, the trio
rollicked into a playful version of "The Birth of the Blues."

 
          
 
Steve grabbed Jeff's arm. "Where's the
cat?"

 
          
 
Rath glanced at the curve in the bar. The big
tabby-was gone. "I—I don't know," he stuttered. He felt as though
someone threw magic into the air and was trying to suffocate him with it.

 
          
 
"He's probably under a table," Steve
sneered. "Or someone dropped him out the door."

 
          
 
"Hey, look at the cat!" someone
yelled.

 
          
 
Jeff and Steve whirled. Rath grinned in relief
as the bar's proprietor lost his chin somewhere around his knees.

 
          
 
"Way to go, Satch," Jeff whispered.

 
          
 
Satchmo stood with the trio, his attention on
the guitar, the tip of his upright tail dipping to the strong beats. Round and
intent, his eyes looked greener than normal in the spotlights. The tabby's gaze
switched to the bassist and he paced over to the big instrument as if assessing
its vibrations.

 
          
 
"Looky there," Gloria said.
"You've lost this bet, Steve."

 
          
 
Jeff squinted at his feline. "He's not
smiling."

 
          
 
Steve frowned. 'What do you mean?"

 
          
 
"The guitar player barely passed. Satch
smiles when he really likes something." Jeff finished his coffee, feeling
somewhat better "Ijhink the bassist'll pass, too. But I really want to see
Satchfmo'with the pianist, the make-or-break man."

 
          
 
"Explain that."

 
          
 
"He's cueing the leads and setting the
pace. And Satch saved him for last."

 
          
 
"Two more, Gloria," Steve ordered,
sounding sour.

 
          
 
Satchmo disappeared behind the upright piano
while the group played "Ain't Misbehavin' " and "St. James
Infirmary." He sat close to the pedals during "Honeysuckle
Rose," his striped head tipped to the left. The intent pianist didn't
notice. When the trio began their hot version of "Mack the Knife" led
by the bassist, Satch leaped to the top of the upright and stayed there, the
upward quirk of his mouth plain to see.

 
          
 
"That's his seal of approval," Jeff
announced, reveling in the cat's magic.

 
          
 
The young keyboard player struck the last
chord and looked up, straight into Satchmo's wide green eyes. Neither moved for
long moments. The pianist finally broke the stare and turned to his cohorts.

 
          
 
"Game to try a new tune?"

 
          
 
"Sure," grinned the guitarist.
"If it goes as well as the rest of this gig." The bassist nodded.

 
          
 
"You'll pick it up easy." The crowd
quieted as he held up a hand for attention. "One. two, one, two, three,
four!"

 
          
 
He slapped down a few chords, broke the
pattern with a short run, and returned to chords again. The rhythm resembled a
cat's prowl. The bassist came in smoothly with a walking bass, and the
guitarist found his part high in the soprano. The sound solidified as the
musicians played off one another. People in the coffee bar jumped to dance or
sat clapping in time, thoroughly enjoying themselves and the original music.

 
          
 
The set ended. Wild applause followed the trio
as they stumbled to the bar, drunk with the heady mixture of good music and
appreciation. Steve ordered coffees.

 
          
 
"Wow," the guitarist said.
"It's never happened like that before."

 
          
 
"No kidding," agreed the bassist.

 
          
 
"It was the cat," said the pianist.
"The piece seemed to jump out of his eyes right into my head. Who does he
belong to?"

 
          
 
"Me," said Jeff proudly, putting an
arm around Satchmo after the tabby leaped onto the bar.

 
          
 
"Will you bring him for next Friday's
jam?" the keyboardist grinned. "I'll throw in some tuna. That cat's
fine, he's one with jazz, man."

 
          
 
Steve nodded. "You win. Give me a few
days to set up the meeting, all right?"

 
          
 
"Sure. We'll be here on Fridays."
Jeff looked down at his purring buddy. The room was upright again and the fog
gone, but everything sparkled. The tabby tickled him in the ear with his tail
and blinked slowly as if to say "See? Nothing at all to worry about."

 
          
 
Several days later Jeff’s phone rang,
startling him awake in the easy chair. He dumped Satchmo off his lap and rose
to answer, feeling lonely and achingly weary.

 
          
 
"Yeah?" His voice was raspy with
sleep.

 
          
 
"Rath, this is Steve. I'm paying off our
bet. Can you get here right away?"

 
          
 
"I've got to work, sorry."

 
          
 
"Tell them you quit. And bring the
cat."

 
          
 
Reality skewed suddenly. "What?"

 
          
 
"Terry McCormack's here. See you in a few
minutes." The line clicked dead.