SailtotheMoon (17 page)

* * * * *

After an exhausting day scouring the hospitals, clinics,
doctors’ surgeries and everywhere else they could think of, Zazz insisted that
they lie down for a couple of hours before the Band opened. It would be highly
unlikely anyone would turn up much before eleven, but just in case he planned
to go around nine. He’d checked, and this was an improv jazz night, so if his
father was awake, alive and anywhere near sentient, he’d be there. Beverley had
booked them a room at the Buckingham again, but Zazz wore a cap over his
distinctive hair and slouched. He got away with it. Nobody stared at them or
approached them. It might have been his glare, or the way he held on to Laura’s
hand as if he were afraid she’d get away. He fucking needed her now.

In their room, he led her to the bed. “We need to rest. I’ll
set my phone alarm so we get to the club.”

She agreed, and only then did he see how weary she looked.
He drew her close. “Hey. We’ll get past this.”

“Maybe,” she said, and that was all. She stripped to her
underwear and crawled between the sheets. He did the same. And for the first
time since they met, they slept, just slept.

When he awoke to the
beep
of his alarm, her side of
the bed was cold. He doubted she’d had any sleep, but over the years he’d
become accustomed to sleeping when he had the chance. The shower was running,
so he went and joined her. Only large enough for two, but they didn’t need much
room. He found the gel and smoothed his soapy hands over her body, relaxing
into her curves. “You’re better than meditation,” he murmured against her hair.

She gave a muffled laugh, then stopped abruptly.

He lifted her chin, gazed into her eyes. “No, don’t. Let’s
live in the moment, hmm? If we didn’t need to be out of here soon, I’d make
love to you. We both need it. But we have to go. I want to find a table
somewhere in a dark corner.”

But they could kiss, and the feel of her warm, wet body
against his soothed him better than a massage.

They dressed, jeans and unremarkable T-shirts, and he picked
up his favorite jacket, the well-worn leather one. He paused, glanced at her.
“I bought this with my first decent wage. Sent the rest to my dad, to show him
I was making a living from music. I don’t know what he did with it.”

They took a taxi to the venue. It wasn’t far away, but it
did involve walking along streets that in his day had been decidedly and
interestingly dicey. He recognized landmarks—the old newspaper building, all
black glass and chrome remained, as did the pub that had one of the cabins from
a doomed airship as part of its décor. People wandered along and in an odd way
it made him feel heartened that he could find his way around still, at least in
this part of town.

The Band On The Wall had once been a pub. The proprietors
had bought it and knocked the insides out. It became the hottest club in the
city, especially for jazz and indie. The performers had originally performed on
a stage so small it was little better than a shelf, hence the name.

His first clue was the outside appearance. “Clean,” he
murmured. “And fuck, neon lighting.” A long streak of neon crept along the
upper story and curled to a pattern above. It seemed wrong. “This was one of
the grungiest venues in the city before it closed. And the coolest too.”

He’d worn his hat again, pulled it over his hair and low on
his forehead. The taxi driver hadn’t recognized him, but he should have known
his luck wouldn’t last. He took Laura’s hand and led her inside. The man behind
the desk glanced at them, and then looked again. A classic double take. “Wow,”
he said.

Zazz fumbled in his pocket for his wallet.

The man shook his head. “You’re okay.”

“No.” Zazz tossed down three twenties. “This is a charity
now, right?”

The man nodded.

“Then take it. I never played here, but I’d always wanted to,”
Zazz said.

The doorman brightened, his eyes alight with speculation.
“Perhaps you can tonight. Have a word with the band if you want to jam.”

Zazz shook his head. “I just wanted to see the place.” He
paused, stepped aside when two other people arrived. It was barely ten, early
yet. “I used to come here a lot. With my father.”

His new friend stared, eyes wide, then blinked. “Yeah, I
read about that. Jimmy A’s your father?” He shook his head, his overlong hair
trailing on his shoulders, his bald pate gleaming in the unfortunately placed
spotlight above him. “Explains a lot.”

Zazz leaned a hand on the counter, getting in his face. “And
that would be…?”

“The experimental approach, the sophistication.”

Raising a brow, Zazz stepped back. “Sure. Thanks. Have you
seen him?”

“Jimmy A? Yeah.” The man grinned. “Last night and he said to
expect him tonight.”

Sighing, Zazz glanced at Laura, an interested witness. “He’s
not arrived yet?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve only got here myself, man. I don’t
know. But in the old days, I heard Jimmy A never used to arrive until gone
midnight.”

“Sure.” After reaching for her hand, Zazz led Laura into the
club.

The same and yet different. Someone had put the club through
the washer. It was cleaner, leaner, but more stripped-down. Its previous
incarnation had been more authentic, even though the restorers had taken pains
to reveal the Victorian interiors. People had sat in unmatched chairs at a
variety of tables, from wrought iron Victorian originals to plain deal ones. The
bar had served beer pulled from the barrel because it was cheaper that way. He
bought a couple of drinks, two beers, and even took a sip from his. It tasted
good.

They chose a small table to one side, away from the
brightest lights, but on the bottom floor, not the mezzanine. Easier to get
away if the worst happened and he attracted attention.

But it seemed the clientele here was as cool as ever.
Although professional spots lit the stage, instead of the haphazard arrangement
that used to be there, they kept the place mercifully gloomy.

A few musicians played a version of
Tiger Rag
. Not
too fast, not too in time, acceptable pub music, not stellar. Zazz gave Laura a
wry grin. “I like it.” They sat close enough to murmur in each other’s ears if
they wanted to. He did. In other circumstances, he’d have had a great evening
here. But not now. It burned him that he had to wait and see, that this was his
only clue to his father’s whereabouts. He’d been here before. Not now.

A woman came through the door, and to his dismay, Zazz
recognized Kelsie. What was worse, behind her strode the unmistakable figure of
Riku.

“Busted,” Laura said. He nodded in response but kept his
attention on his friend and bandmate. Dressed fairly conservatively, for Riku,
in black boot-cut flares and an asymmetrically cut coat, his boots the only
sign of his flamboyance. Apart from his bottle-green hair, which flared for a moment
as they walked under a bright light. He’d made up, too, but only eyeshadow and
liner, not the full getup that took him hours.

He strode over to their table and glanced at Zazz’s beer,
one thinly plucked black brow raised. “Your first?”

“And my last. I couldn’t order soda here. Didn’t seem
right.”

Zazz kicked a chair to the table as Kelsie, looking far too
smug for the occasion, found another. They sat. “I like this place,” Riku said.

“What are you doing here?”

Riku gave his easy smile. “Fine way to say hello to a
friend. I came to help. Kelsie called me last night and I flew up this
afternoon. Easy.”

“Sure.” Zazz cleared his throat. “Thanks.” He guessed. “I
can see you’ve made an effort to appear normal.”

Riku let out a shout of laughter. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Zazz exchanged a glance with Laura, something that was
becoming more of a habit as time went on. Sharing, for good or for bad,
checking reactions. He didn’t need Laura’s cynical eye-slant to tell him she’d
realized Kelsie’s call hadn’t been just to help. After all, how could he help,
except to keep Kelsie happy? He didn’t know Manchester, he wouldn’t know where
to start.

“We don’t have to leave until we find him,” Riku said.

“I thought you were going to New York to visit your family,”
Zazz said.

“Even more reason to stay here,” Riku said. He leaned back,
lifted his chin and half closed his eyes, gazing down his nose with a
deceptively lazy expression. “The folks can wait. They weren’t expecting me. It
was nothing definite.”

He read more in that, knew Riku well. Riku had flown across
an ocean to get away from his wealthy family. He’d refused to ask them for
financial help. He’d told Zazz that meant they’d call him back and send him on
the path they’d deemed was success. He wanted some fun first. Now he’d found
success without their help. Zazz could only imagine how that would feel. The
only thing he’d turned his back on was death, poverty and despair.

And his father. He’d abandoned the old man. He’d never, ever
forgive himself for that, even though at sixteen, he’d seen nothing else he
could do. Now guilt was eating him up and he prayed Jimmy would show up.

The noodling on the stage reached a new tone. Someone had
joined them, and with one clear trumpet blast, sent the band up another level.

Jimmy A was back.

Riku’s pose disappeared as he spun his chair to get a full
view of the stage. There he was, the legend, the man who’d inspired a
generation. Not the pathetic wreck of ten years ago, not the cheerful old man
of last week, but Jimmy A. He played his horn in a different way now, holding
it to one side of his mouth, necessitated by the injury the gang had inflicted
on him in San Francisco. The power was largely gone, but not completely. He couldn’t
sustain it. Instead, he used a new technique, shorter, more staccato, more
Dizzy Gillespie than he used to sound. Jimmy had used smooth transitions to
create a sound that was almost effortless, but that required a huge amount of
lung power he didn’t have anymore.

Now he played differently. And as fucking amazing, to Zazz’s
biased ears.

He could listen to the man all night. If that man wasn’t his
father, and if he wasn’t terrified that this new technique had cost him too
much.

The room fell silent, people’s faces turned toward the
stage. Jimmy lived here, more alive than Zazz had seen him for a long time.
Almost ever. But Jimmy didn’t have the frenetic tics Zazz was used to seeing
when he was high, the twitch of the pinkie on his left hand, the tics of his
eyes and brows. None of that. Was he on new stuff? No, they’d found his old
favorite at the flat. Zazz had recognized the distinctive taste of the shit.
White filth.

But he wasn’t on coke and Jimmy preferred that and heroin,
never used skank, weed or meth much. Old-fashioned, he’d say with a wry grin.
“Fetch me my works, boy.” Keeping his syringe and needles clean wasn’t Zazz’s
favorite chore. From the age of seven he’d done it for his father, always aware
that addiction had other terrors, infection with hepatitis or AIDS always
possible from shared needles. He shuddered and Laura put her hand over his,
instantly bringing him back to the here and now.

She leaned close, bringing the scent of lavender shower gel,
reminding him of the soothing presence she’d given him earlier. “Hey.”

He squeezed her hand. “Hey.” She wouldn’t be able to hear
him now. Jimmy was showering the air with a silver rain of notes, fast,
accurate, in tune.

It didn’t mean anything. Bird Parker played his most
intricate pieces when he was high as a rocket. Zazz’s father had done the same.

He could wait until the old man wore himself out and went
looking for a fix. Or he could stop this and bring it to an early conclusion.
He stood, jerked his head to Riku. “Since you’re here…” he said, raising his
voice.

Riku grinned and got to his feet. “Sure.” They sauntered to
the stage, waiting to be recognized. Jam night meant a few people were gathered
at the foot of the narrow steps leading up. They might have to wait for a
while. More people wanted a turn with Jimmy. But he and Riku were unmistakable
together, even here, where it wasn’t cool to make a fuss.

From the stage the old man saluted them and grinned. Not too
far gone to recognize them then. At least this close, they could ensure he
didn’t have anything else. Zazz wondered where he’d found a vein this time.
He’d used his mouth, between his toes, worse. Bad shit burned out veins, made
them unusable and eventually an addict would run out of viable veins. They’d
pop the stuff under the skin. Maybe he’d snorted it.

But he didn’t look wasted.

The crowd made room and Zazz and Riku took the stage.
Someone handed him a guitar, and Riku found one too. Electric, not too fancy.
He checked the tuning, decided on standard. From the sounds Riku was making,
he’d decided on something a bit different. He always did.

Zazz glanced at him, then to his father for the cue. “You
youngsters start, I’ll follow,” he said.

Zazz glanced at Riku. “
Heartbreak
,” he said. Laid-back,
at least at first. They could do it unplugged or full, heavy volume. This place
screamed for unplugged. Zazz retuned. Standard didn’t work with this one. His
professional part kicked in, until the realization hit him that this was the
first time he’d played on a stage with his father. Jimmy had encouraged him to
play, but before his first street performing stint in London Zazz had never
played to anyone but the mirror in his bedroom.

His father had heard the song at least once. They’d done it
at the concert Jimmy had attended. Zazz didn’t know if he’d remember,
especially in the state he presumed Jimmy was in, but to his surprise the
trumpet sounded true from the first.

It sounded great. Sharper than V’s sax, edgy, but blending
perfectly. Jimmy had played with a lot of musicians, from scratch bands to the
cream of the crop, so he had far more experience jamming than Zazz had ever
gained. His generation didn’t go in for long solos, and Murder City Ravens
played as a unit, with only the occasional deviation into solo spins.