I am back in the Fifth Precinct house. The paramedics arrived to cart Veronica off closely followed in by Doil. He is very agitated. Pacing the small room with the cage in the corner, banging his right fist into the palm of his left.
‘It was not supposed to happen that quickly. We knew Veronica might get hurt, it seems to be in the script, but it all took off too soon.’
I can’t help. I have done my bit. I Cloned up as Fats and played his numbers and a few improves, in Waller’s style. How many times have I done this gig? Three maybe four. Every time the scene changes but with the same result someone getting shot. At least this time I am not involved, no rolling a body up in the rug, nor a trip to the river.
‘Fats you will have to hang around for a few days we may have to replay it. Look up your squeeze in the cat house, so we know where you are. No running off to the Hamptons.’
There goes my gig on Italia, my turn as Oscar Peterson will have to put on hold. I rise to go but Doil puts a restraining hand on my arm.
‘Not so fast, I have to tag you.’
‘No fucking way I am not a criminal.’
‘IGBI orders. You won’t feel a thing.’
He sticks the business end of an inserter into my wrist, and he is right I don’t feel a thing.
******************
I buy Variety at the news stand and go to the diner on the corner of 116th and 3rd opposite the cat house. I order eggs and bacon with maple syrup and English muffins. Already seated are some cats from the Calloway Band. Jerry Blake the alto lead, Chu Berry and Ike Quebeck the tenor men. I sit down at the table next to them. Chu takes my copy of Variety and opens it at the listings page.
‘Hey Fats I see you are at the Stork Club tonight.’
‘It’s news to me .’ It certainly is news to me. I did not have a good reception at the Stork Club the last time I was in Town. And if it is the real Fats who is booked there, then God help him. Doil must have this sorted out. The real fats must be out of action somewhere, he can’t have two of us running around.
‘I hear it’s run by the mob. The Man must be a fan of yours.’
‘We have to take what we can, not everyone has the security of a regular band.’
‘Yeh Cab takes care of us, stay sober and hit the cues and the chair is yours.’
Ike never one to stay quiet for long says.
‘Cab is Mr. Nice and Mr. Notsonice, in one package so we have to be at our Sunday choir best. And no kicking the gong around.’
‘That man is a hummer.’ Says Jerry.
The waitress arrives with my grease. I let them kick the fat around while I do justice to the fine dining this joint does. On my second coffee they get up to leave.
‘Hey Fats, we would like to pass the time of day with you but we have a broadcast on NBC.’ Chu rolls his eyes. ‘It’s a twenty four hour gig in the Land of Darkness.’
I wave my napkin and tell them to knock ‘em dead. I take back my copy of Variety and look for the listing page. No need to look far, in a 3 column spread in large caps is my name under the logo of the Stork Club. The photo is of me at the piano with a list of my hits along side. I should be pleased if I was Fats, and I was not terrified.
*********************
Saul Brown, Brother in chief is seated by the window, as I enter the cat house. He is also reading Variety.
‘I wondered where you were. I thought you had gone over to the enemy.’
Should I ask him if he is The Saul Brown son of Tom, retainer to the Van de Bilt’s? Don’t be so nosey, what you don’t know can’t hurt.
I sit at the piano and play a few chords.
‘I’ve missed that Fats, give me some boogy.’
I oblige with a Joplin rag. I’ve missed it too. I only feel at home in front of the keys. Being a secret agent gives me the shakes. The sooner I save the Universe the better. I wonder how Veronica is? The last I saw of her she had two pieces of lead in her chest.
‘You know something Fats, maybe The Man has an idea. What is the point of getting salty. If he wants The House I am willing to sell it to him. Then I can get on with defending the poor. When you are at that doss he calls a club, you can tell him 50 G’s a year is all the gravy I need.’
He gets up and calls up the stairs. ‘Sal the man in the sky piece is back.
*********************
I have no intention of appearing at The Stork Club ever again. But to appease all parties I call the Club and ask for The Man. He answers. I tell him what Saul Brown said. He gives me a message for Saul and hangs up.
I am in the middle again. I should have stayed shtum. Saul has left the premises and the message is for his ears only, and as my gig at the Stork Club is not happening, I decide to give my time to the Cat House. The Madame is pleased as the Johns hang around for longer soaking up the music, and spending their hard earned Dime notes. Big Sal has a voice on her and helps with the chorus between tricks. If I am not going home then this joint is as good as any to lay my head. At about 4, the last John is kicked out just as the sun rises. I am pooped. The empty glasses on the piano top are testament to my blood alcohol level. My waistcoat pockets are stuffed with notes, half of which I shall give to the house as good will gesture. The Madame dressed in all her finery with every spare inch of bare flesh covered in jewelry, has a big beam on her face and slaps me on the back. I give her half my takings. She takes them and stuffs them down Big Sal’s cleavage.
‘You’ve earned it Honey. Now take him upstairs and put him to bed.’
If this is euphemism for sex, I am happy, if it isn’t then I am too tired to care.
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