Chapter 26

I am torn between two actions. The agency have booked me into the “Jazz on a Summers Day” re-enaction as  George Shearing, the  British pianist from Battersea, and I have the Royal command from Veronica to see her. I have a reconstructed videorama of the whole concert  and must have watched it a hundred times. I know every scene backwards and now I have a chance to be in it. The pull of seeing V is strong but the music as always is stronger. I opt for being George for a day. Hell what’s a day anyway Veronica can wait.

The day is hot and because I’m blind my other senses are turned up to 10. I can smell the salt from the sea and the onions from the fast food tents. I am sitting on the side of the stage as Anita O’Day swings  “Sweet Georgia Brown”, then goes into a fast “Tea for Two”  she has  Jimmy Jones on piano, Whitey Mitchell on bass, and John Poole drums. Her scat singing on Tea for Two, is the best, musical, clever, and entertaining. Her trio are with her all the way with call and call back causing happy laughter in the audience. I am on soon and I have composed a new set called “Brazil”. On the film there is only about two minutes of recording on it of me and my quartet. With Toots Thielmans on guitar and Emil Richards on vibes. I have managed to get hold of a good conga player called Armando Peraza but as yet don’t have a bass or drums. I may just pinch them from Anita’s band.

When Anita has finished her set she comes over and kisses me in the forehead. She smells of Chanel and whiskey. Her husband Don Carter, a great drummer, taught her to play the drums and her percussive style of singing is influenced by that.

I ask how Don’s doing and she says she hasn’t seen him for a while. That relationship is heading for the rocks.

Toots comes over and takes my arm. It’s time for our set. He guides me to the piano, and there is an expectant buzz from the seating. I play a few chords from “Lullaby of Birdland,” my big hit, just to say who I am. Then Willis Conover announces us and we hit our stride. George learnt his trade playing the pubs in Battersea on rickety old pianos that hadn’t seen a tuner in years. This one is a joy to play. I can’t see the make but its action is like a Bosendorfer. Maybe I’m wrong, it just may be a very good local one that has been tuned to perfection. What do I know being blind has it’s drawbacks.

Anyway the crowd are with us, and that is what it’s about.

When we finish the applause is light but enthusiastic. Maybe they are all Chuck Berry fans. Though how he got onto a jazz bill, God knows. Maybe George Wien had a brain storm. As we come off Jack Teagarden takes my hand and says he enjoyed the set and am I going to hang around for his. I like Jack he is a gentleman. So let him guide me to a chair on the side and I settle down to listen to the most lyrical of players.  He is giging with Louis Armstrong, Trummy Young et al. How can you not enjoy Satch in his pomp. I feel privileged to be seated on the same stage as the Father of swing. When I was trudging through the rain in Battersea to my residency at the Mason’s Arms who would have thought I would be on the same stage as Satch. America has been good to me. I feel at home here. George Shearing on the same bill as Monk,  Guffrie, Satch, Mulligan, Sonny Stitt. By now I am really into Shearing. I’ve almost forgotten about Joe Coolz, Doil and Veronica.

Eventually it is time to go, all the perfomers here are from the “ All That Jazz Agency”, we are all prosed up being someone else with microchips in our necks. Somewhere in the Crab Nebuala, Jazz on a Summers Day is coming to a close.

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Back in the apartment there is a message from Veronica. I say a message but it is more of an admonishment. I don’t feel I have anything to be sorry about. A gig’s a gig and my living. Being a IGBI agent has not been a bundle of joy so far, much the opposite. There must be a way short of death to get out of this contract. Brian is no help, fussing over the fact that I have not contacted Veronica. Is he in awe of her? He keeps asking me when I am leaving for the telebooth. I feel in need of sex and Veronica is not on the list. Well she is on the list but not available. I call Zeno Jane and get a sorry I’m not available hologram of her in hot pants and a wet T shirt. I could use the dream machine, but it’s not the same as the real thing. If I was back in the whore house on 116^th St. I could bunk up with big Sal. There is something to be said for being trapped on Earth in the 1930’s, at least I could get my rocks off anytime I wished.  But hold on a sec. I am forgetting about Georgia. She likes me for what I am, no gelt changed hands and we had fun at the Hitchcock remake.

‘Brian call the MWD shop, ask for Georgia McGee’

‘But Sir, you have to go and see Miss Veronica.’

Brian, do as I say or I will send you back to Wireless World and have you recycled as a hand drier.’

‘No need to be aggressive’.

‘Brian you are such an old queen sometimes.’

He eventually does as I ask and a hologram of Georgia appears in her white operators coat, all starch and disinfectant. We agree to meet at the surroundaround, the James Bond film, “You Only Live Twice” is still playing. She wants to be Bond so I opt for Blofeld. Then back to my place for a party a deux.

Brian is sulking but we manage without him. I fix a pasta with Sea World clams and a bottle of Martian Sauvignon to wash it down. Then we hit the sack. She is as athletic and passionate as I remembered. Afterwards I fall into a deep sleep. When I wake Georgia has gone and left me a note. It reads

‘Scrap Brian, Love G’

‘Brian what did you do to upset Georgia?’

‘Nothing Sir, whilst you were asleep I thought I might was your clothes.’ But I shrunk her silk shirt.’

‘Not the one she paid 1000k for on Silk World’.

‘Afraid so Sir, I told her you would buy her another one but she was sore and left without thanking me’.

‘Brian as of now you are on a last warning before recycling. Get me MWD on the line, I have to apologise, I like her you fuck wit. Or is that the reason you shrunk her blouse?’

‘Rightaway Sir’

Georgia’s hologram appears by the bed.

‘Brian’s on his last warning and I’ll replace the blouse. Am I forgiven?’

She laughs. ‘Yeh you’re forgiven just buy me a ticket to see the Rolling Stones. The real thing mind not a prosthetic concert.’ Now this is a big order. Tickets to the actual concerts back on Earth in the 20^th century are like getting an audience with the Black Pope. Impossible.

I laugh too, ‘Nothing easy then, I’ll ask around.’ The hologram fades as she says goodbye.

‘Brian you heard her, make it happen or you’re silicon.’

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