You may wonder how the prosthetics work. After all I have been in the guise of Fats Waller for over a week now. Well I don’t know I just pay my fee and I’m Fats Waller or anyone else on The Agency’s books. The way it works as a practicality is simple. The prosthetic company dials in the DNA and transfers it to my body. I become Fats. Just the body part though, I have to go to the wardrobe department to get the duds. Hence me going off to Fats’s tailor in Brooklyn to buy more suits. I arrived in 1935 with one set of clothes enough for a nights gig, then I get stuck on the orders of the IGBI with no change of underwear. The chip in my neck tells me subconsciously that he has a tailor in Brooklyn. It tells me he likes steak and fries, cheap cigars, whiskey and big women. So I am happy, the chop house on the next block serves the best steak in Harlem, the cigars are free, whiskey is on the house, and I have big Sal in my bed. Or Big Sal lets me into her bed. Who’s counting? I play for my bed and board. No actual money changes hands but the IGBI are building up my balance in the Bank of Uranus, and I get paying gigs on the side. Like the proverbial porcine in the merde. Except I miss my own crib, and Brian’s tantrums and the comforts of my own century.
In my pocket I find the card given to me by Mrs Elsa Van der Bilt, and it reminds me of her invite to her pad on Long Island and her parting words of ‘Don’t be a stranger.’
I fancy a bit of sea air.
I make a visit to the pawn shop under the Cat House and buy a nearly new leather valise and camel hair overcoat. I say my goodbyes to Big Sal and head for Penn Station. The train to Montauk is the Cannon Ball special I have to change at Jamaica to get onto the Montauk branch the train splits in two at Manorville one branch to Greenport and one to Montauk. I am beginning to think this trip might be a mistake. As myself, Joe Coolz, I would have gone to a telebooth asked for Montauk put in my ID card and instantly I would be there, no hassle.
I get some looks as there is an unofficial segregation happening on the trains, especially in the first class compartments. Fortunately there is a piano in the dining section, so I play for my supper.
When we arrive at Manorville I step onto the platform to find a phone booth. There is one in the Soda Bar in the back. I call the number on the calling card. A deep baritone voice with a Virginia accent answers. I ask for Mrs Van der Bilt.
‘Who shall I say is calling, Sir’
‘Say a friend from the Reno club, she asked me over.’
‘I am afraid, Sir, she cannot be disturbed for just anyone’
‘Okay, tell her it’s Fats, Fats Waller’
‘If you cannot be serious Sir I will have to hang up.’
There is a click in my ear and he’s gone. Fucking Uncle toms they are worse than the red necks. I redial.
‘I really am Fats Waller, listen.’ I give him a chorus of Honey Suckle Rose.
‘That’s alright Sir, I mentioned your first call and she says to put you through.’
The porter is shouting all aboard. I am torn between announcing myself to Mrs van de Bilt and catching the train. She comes to my rescue on hearing the whistle.
‘Catch the train I’ll have Tom pick you up in the Duesenberg.’
I rush for the train but find it gathering speed and my bag and coat standing on the platform.
O well it looks like Tom has a longer drive than he thought.
No comments:
Post a Comment