Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent (36 page)

So while Sirocco's fans were waiting to catch a glimpse of the band
as they descended the metal stairs of their private plane, Carole-anne
was standing on a railway platform at Victoria.

Jury swallowed. Then he took the tickets from his pocket and slid
them across the table with a try at a smile.

When Carole-anne saw them, she didn't have to try. All the color
rushed back into her face. "Super! Where'd you
get
them?" Her
eyes narrowed. "You didn't go paying them scalper's prices, did you?"
Then her blue, blue eyes widened again and she grabbed the little
table, leaned across it and kissed him. "But wherever did you
get
tickets?"

Jury smiled then, got up, his legs cramped as hell. "Secret."

Carole-anne loved secrets.

The Ritz Hotel was still as luxurious as he had remembered it, but
not as large as it had appeared to his six-year-old eyes. Few things
would be. But however diminished in size, there was no diminution of
sparkle, color, and splendor: the plush carpeting, crystal chandeliers,
rose and gilt armchairs, columned alcoves where guests partook of
coffee or cocktails, and, of course, the long, raised lounge with its
white-clothed tables set for tea. Even at this late hour, there were
still the partakers of afternoon tea.

Alvaro Jiminez was drinking coffee in one of the lobby's alcoves. He
rose and shook hands when Jury identified himself. He was an
impressive man, over six feet, black face finely chiseled, wearing
designer jeans and a metal-studded denim jacket over a black
turtleneck. He wore no jewelry except for a Rolex watch. He spoke with
a self-deprecating air, was probably a master at it. His mother, he
told Jury, was Puerto Rican; his daddy from Mississippi. His daddy was
one of the best blues men he'd ever heard to this day.

"Went to school to Earl Hooker. Never did hear no one play like my
daddy, except maybe Robert Johnson, Otis Rush."

Jury smiled: "How about you?"

Jiminez laughed. "Me? Hell, I'm just back-porch, backyard blues."
He poured some more coffee from the silver pot. "I never was into that
manic speed picking. Not that I'm putting it down. Van Halen has the
most energy of any axeman I ever did see. I'm just not into that
'Spanish Fly'-type solo thing. There's too much metal; more over here
than in the States. Thrash metal. The baroque stuff I like. Our music's
not just doing the chinka-chinka-chinka rhythm or ten-bar
progressions—" He moved his hand along an imaginary fretboard. "—it's
more eclectic than that."

Not only did the diction change when Jiminez got into his real
love—blues—but the timbre of the voice dropped. Jury had inferred from
his manner that he was a sophisticated man. And although Alvaro was
really the moving force behind this band—he'd started it—when he
talked about Charlie Raine (who had taken over the tabloids, the media,
the covers of magazines), there wasn't a hint of rancor or jealousy. It
might have been because he, Charlie, wasn't trying to, didn't care.
That's what Jiminez was saying.

"I got a lot of respect for Charlie. Charlie don't buy none of this
glitz. He don't seem to want fame nor money nor a five-thousand-watt
spot on him. I asked him, 'Charlie, what
do
you want?' and he
doesn't even smile when he says, 'To be as good as you are.'" Alvaro
chuckled and shook his head. "I think he meant it."

Jury smiled. "Is he?"

Again Alvaro laughed as he jimmied a thin cigar from a case on the
coffee table. "Shit, no. Look at it this way: I got fifteen years on
Charles. Fifteen years of jams, club gigs"— he looked through the spurt
of flame from his lighter at Jury —"but he would be, finally."

"You'd still be fifteen years ahead."

Alvaro shook his head, sat back. Smoke coiled upward and he blew and
dispersed it. "Because he is
the
most focused axeman I've
ever come across. It's more than focus; it's like a mission with him.
You got to be able to separate yourself from the whole rock-star
attitude. You got to be one thing on stage, you got your attitude on
stage, but remember when you pack the axe away, like Sly Stallone says,
'You gotta go home and eat spaghetti with your mother.' When I

was a kid, I wasn't thinkin' about how did they stiff me with that
contract or if my CPA made a mistake on my tax return. Back then it
was just playin' for playin'. That's what I mean: you got to be able to
put that stuff to one side and just play. I don't have to remind myself
I was some shitty fourteen-year-old when I was trading licks with my
daddy, because I got so many friends back in Mississippi askin', 'You
still wanderin' around with that guitar case? What you got in it, coke?
Crack?' There's one friend who can play nearly as good as Stevie Ray
Vaughan reminds me I don't know nothin' and we sit around trading
S.R.V. licks and I realize I jumped off the stage not a moment too
soon. That's Charlie."

"The reason he's quitting?"

Jiminez shrugged. "I'm only guessing. Except for saying he's tired
and wants to try something new—vague stuff like that—he just don't give
no reason. No reason he got the schedule changed, either. We were
supposed to be playing Munich this week. Manager nearly cut his throat
over that booking."

"Doesn't make sense." Jury looked up at the ceiling, the magnificent
chandelier faintly tinged by a pinkish glow. "You say he's dedicated,
focused, and that sounds like 'ambitious' to me. But he's stopping at
the top, or near-top of his career." He looked across the table with
its silver coffee service at Jiminez.

"Tell me and we'll both know, bro'."

"Don't you think it's
strange
?"

"Strange? I think it's insane. But every man's got his own river to
cross."

Jury imagined Alvaro Jiminez had crossed a number of his own. "When
did Raine join up with your band?"

"First saw Charlie when we were on the road, let's see, four years
ago. Doin' one-nighters in what felt like one thousand gigs from
California to Florida. Charlie come in one night to a dive in the Keys.
He'd already met up with Wes; was working gigs in New York.
Word-of-mouth place this was, except nobody musta opened his mouth
because there couldn't of been more than twenty, thirty customers and
they was mostly bonged.

"Charlie would of stood out anyway. He was at the bar hardly tasting
his beer, had this little bitty amp hooked on his belt, had his beat-up
Fender leaning against a stool. He looked kinda familiar. Then I
realized he was a follower."

Jury frowned. "He'd been going from place to place where you played?"

"Think we were the fuckin' Dead. I ask him, did he have me mixed up
with Garcia, and he said, straight-faced, 'How could I do that?'"
Alvaro grinned. "The way he said it, I could of been better or I could
of been an asshole. Anyway, he pushed a demo at me, told me he wanted
to do a number if I didn't mind. Right there, that night. I asked him
what the hell's a teenage Brit doin' in Key Biscayne? 'Pickin' up work
when I can.' Well, he fascinated me. I said to him, 'You play lead, of
course.' Don't they all? He says, 'I play anything. Rhythm, bass,
whatever you want. Whatever kind of music' Well, he gets up there with
us in the next set and I mean those twenty, thirty actually took the
straws outta their noses. They did love him. He could play any of those
dusty old songs they wanted. 'Georgia on My Mind'—I thought they'd died
and went to heaven. Got up and danced even, some of them. He's just a
natural-born crowd pleaser. Put that together with someone's got that
kind of funky blues Clapton-like line and you got star quality."

Jury thought for a moment. "You changed the name of the band."

"Yeah. We all thought Bad News Coming was pretty beat, so all of us
tossed a couple of names in the hat. Sirocco was Charlie's. We didn't
even know what the hell it meant, but it had this nice sound."

Jury smiled. "Did Charlie know?"

" 'Hot wind that blows off the desert,' something like that. Looka
there what's comin' our way."

A woman in folds of gray sable with an uptight hairdo to match had
been sweeping toward their corner and had now arrived with a young girl
several paces behind. Leather opera gloves, Italian kid shoes, heavy
enough with diamond-drop earrings, necklace, and bracelets that the
woman reminded Jury of one of the chandeliers. "Aren't you part of
that Sirocco band?" Her voice was as showy as the rest of her, low and
thick with cultural attitudes. "Aren't you Mr. Jiminez?" Wiggins should
have heard the "Jim—" The girl blushed and looked away. Clearly, it was
she who had recognized Alvaro Jiminez.

"That's right, darlin'." He scrawled his name across one of the
Ritz's hotel register cards, looked at the woman, and asked, "I guess
you're comin' to the concert?"

The mother looked bemused. "What concert?"

The girl, Jury knew, could have died where she stood with
embarrassment. Alvaro caught her eye, asked her name (which she said
was Belle), and he said, "Tell your mama what concert, Belle."

This seemed to delight Belle; the blush receded, leaving an
afterglow that brightened her face and sparked her eyes. "Hammersmith
Odeon. Tomorrow night."

Jiminez grinned. "
You're
comin'."

The mother started in on a long explanation of their "schedule" for
tomorrow, places they had to go, people they had to see (all
important), and Jiminez kept on looking at Belle, from whose face the
light had fled, listening to her mother, to whom Alvaro was paying no
attention at all.

"There'll be a ticket at the box office, Belle. From me. Easy to get
there on the tube, but take a cab home."

Belle's eyes were widening more and yet more as he spoke. Jiminez
had plunked her down in Munchkinland where all the rules were suddenly,
and marvelously, different. The mother in sable was furious, Jury
could tell. Her Belle being allowed to breathe on her own, much less
hightail it to Hammersmith?

Alvaro was chuckling as they walked away, the sable bouncing as the
mother tried to keep up with her daughter, who was ignoring her.

"There's one seat taken, at least," said Jiminez. "I don't guess
cops have time for that kinda stuff."

"It's sold out."

Alvaro Jiminez seemed to think this was funny as hell. "You a
Scotland Yard superintendent and can't get tickets? How many you want?"
Before Jury could answer he said, "Hell, there'll be four at the box
office. Stage manager's a nice guy. He holds some back for us. Mind if
I say something?"

Jury smiled. "Of course not."

"Somehow I get the idea you ain't really into thrash security.
Can't say why. And I got to go, friend." Jiminez stood up. He seemed to
tower there.

As Jury stood to shake his hand, he said, "Just another fan, Alvaro.
I want to thank you. You didn't have to do this."

"I like to come down here, hang out with the swells. Almost didn't
get to sit down because I wasn't wearin' no tie. The reason the manager
chose the Ritz is because everybody's so rich, nobody'd bother us.
Excepting as long as we wore our ties." His expression was completely
bland. "Why're you so interested in Charles?"

"I'm trying to save someone's life."

"Well."

Jury knew from his tone he'd say nothing to anyone about this
conversation. They were walking toward the entrance, the long line of
glass doors that shimmered with the reflected lights of the
chandeliers. "Mind if I ask
you
one more question? About
yourself?"

"Go ahead, man."

They were looking out on Piccadilly now. "You said your daddy was a
great blues man from the Mississippi Delta. Was his name Jiminez?"

"Nope. That's my mama's maiden name. I went by Johnson until he
died. Then I changed it." He paused. "Mama ran off when I was eight
years old with a stand-up piano player. Never heard nothin' since."

As they both stood looking at the wavering circles of light
reflected by the marqueelike bulbs of the Ritz, he added, "What I
thought was, there's a lot of Johnsons in this world, but maybe she'd
recognize her own name and come see me."

Jury didn't have to ask if she had.

In a warehouse on the Isle of Dogs Morpeth Duckworth sat dressed in
black like a spider in his web.

When Jury and Wiggins walked in he was turning knobs, punching
buttons, flipping levers right and left like a man with ten arms; he
was surrounded by stacked-up amplifiers, stereo components, an
elaborate sound system, digital synthesizers, video screens. His legs
were outstretched, feet resting on two separate chairs on wheels like
a secretary's chair. He was a man in his element.

Duckworth nodded at them, pushed the chairs toward them with his
feet as an invitation to seat themselves. He flicked a few switches,
adjusted the volume, so that what sounded like nothing but feedback
screams was reduced to music loud enough to shimmer like a heat curtain
between them. Apparently, as far as Duckworth was concerned, that level
served as viable background music for conversation.

"Can you turn that down some more? My sergeant's ears bleed easily."

For once, Wiggins didn't appreciate being ministered to. He looked
at Jury sternly, perhaps warning him off from comment on the quality of
the soundtrack.

Morpeth Duckworth flipped a few more levers, obviously surprised
that anyone in possession of his senses would make such a request,
given this was prime Hendrix. " 'The Wind Cries Mary.' The, the,
the
most beautiful ballad he ever did." He talked about inversions, double
inversions, fat tones, and ghost bends like a man who'd just seen Mary
herself materialize in the shadows round the packing cases.

"You don't play with your fingers and sing with your chords, that's
what the clones don't seem to understand. Van Halen's been cloned to
kingdom come. Excuse me, that's literally Jimmy Page. When Kingdom
Come's lead guitarist slipped out and raised that bow I nearly fell off
the bed. Any halfway decent axeman could imitate Van Halen or Yngwie or
any other technical wizard. What these clones don't see is that they're
not
the ones they're ripping off. An obvious point. They'd
have to change their whole genetic system to sound like Page or
Knopfler or any of the others. It's this gunslinger mentality. For one
thing, most people got a tin ear and just because you got two
guitarists who are heavily into baroque, heavily classical, and one of
them does some thrashing around with arpeggio runs and the other does
Bach progressions, the tin ear can't tell the difference. Me, I don't
knock technical wizardry." He leaned forward as if to drive home this
point. "Here's the thing: they're so good at it, guys like Van Halen
and Malsteen, that you're damned right the technique stands out; it's
so clear it sounds like it's separated from the guys playing it. But it
ain't. And that's the reason you get some pissant sitting around doing
two-handed tapping and thinking he's Joe Pass, but he's not, so it's
nothing.