Charlie stared out the window and watched the cars roll down Seventy-Second Street. Even at four in the morning, traffic. His own reflection, over the passing cars, upset him; he wasn't sure when he had become so pale, so wrinkled. He swirled the deep black coffee around in his mug slowly, the steam rising to crimson the tip of his nose. He blew the steam away from his face, first absent-mindedly, then rhythmically, to the tune of "Night and Day." That song stuck in his head; it was the last piece the band had played that evening. Charlie drummed his right hand on the table, picking out a solo trumpet riff only he could hear. Someplace, far inside his drunken consciousness that coffee couldn't reach, Charlie cooked with an imaginary trio backing him.
When the song ended, silence. He had blown the world away with his music, leaving only Charlie Hightower, trumpet player, alone on the stage, listening to his own echo.
"Charlie?"
The voice shook him from his trance. Charlie looked up and saw Johnny Rose, self-billed agent extraordinare, standing at the door of the diner. Charlie waved him over, in the same motion running his fingers through his rapidly thinning grey and brown hair, trying to fix the appearance of a man who had spent all night, all year, all his life, drinking.
Johnny looked slowly around, then trudged over, walking with the small, unsteady steps of a man going on no sleep and no happiness. His navy pinstriped suit was without its trademark white carnation in the right lapel, his shirt hung open at the collar. He slid into the booth across from Charlie.
"Hi Johnny. Sorry to get you up, but I just wanted to explain that -"
"What? It's not your fault? Again?" Johnny stared at him. "Look at you - clothes all messed up, eyes bloodshot, hair sticking out every which way. You wake up in another alley after screwing up another booking with another damn band, and you claim that it's not your fault. Right."
"But it's not. Those guys, they didn't like me. If they did, one of them would have told me the second set was starting."
"Even if they did tell you - and Tab swears he tried like hell to find you and tell you - you were probably too drunk to play anyway. Why? Why can't you learn to lay off the booze on the nights you play?" Johnny waved away a waitress who half-heartedly approached the table with a filthy dishrag and a stained menu.
"If Tab says that, then he's a damn liar." Tab hated him. The whole band hated him. There were six of them - six! Any one could have come out back and seen him in the alley. No one did, and the set started without him. Charlie had run back inside and up onto the stage in time to catch his solo riffs on "So What?", but it didn't matter. At the end of the night, Tab told him he was history. "I wasn't drinking until after Tab told me I was out of the group," Charlie lied.
"Do you know how hard I worked to get you into that group? Tab Washington! That was a huge break for you, and you blew it." Johnny pulled a yellowed handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped the July sweat from the back of his neck."I told him you had changed. I promised. You made me look like a damn liar."
Charlie leaned forward. "But -"
"No buts. Listen to me - I can't keep bailing you out like this. Word is out on you and your drinking. They've started calling you 'Highball Hightower.' Nothing short of a name change is going to save your career at this point."
"I can still play, man."
"Charlie, nobody cares. There are plenty of good sidemen out there, players who are reliable and don't get drunk in the middle of a performance. No one wants to hire an old drunk."
"Come on, Johnny." Charlie could feel his vision blurring. His voice had dropped to a whisper. "We've been friends for years. You've got to help me."
Johnny sighed and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. "All right. Let me make some calls tomorrow. But if I don't find anything, I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go. I'm barely making it now - I can't afford to spend my time on another lost cause."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. Remember - no promises." Johnny stood and touched Charlie on the shoulder. "But I'll try."
Charlie watched Johnny walk down the aisle and turn out into the muggy New York night. Soon the grey Cadillac pulled past the window and roared off down the street.
* * * * * *
The phone wakened Charlie from his drunken sleep. He picked up after the fifth ring.
"Hello?"
"It's Johnny."
Charlie sat upright in bed. Feeling the blood flee his head, he returned quickly to the supine position. "Any luck?"
"Maybe. It depends on you."
Charlie smiled. "I'll do anything. Anything at all."
"Are you sure?"
"It's not illegal, is it?" Charlie laughed into the phone. He sat up again, more slowly. "I don't have to kill a guy or anything?"
"It's not illegal." Johnny didn't laugh.
"Fine, then I'll do it."
"Okay, be at the Alley Door at three o'clock. Today. And be on time please. And no drinking."
"God - Alley Door?" Charlie reached for the bottle of whiskey on the floor near his bed and took a swig.
"Yes, and be grateful. It's all that's out there. Like I told you - no one wants to take a chance."
"Fine, I'll be there. Hey - what's the gig anyway? Some kid trying to put a band together?"
"Hardly. Kid Childs is trying a comeback."
Charlie didn't say a word. He didn't hear Johnny hang up. An old story began picking its way through his hangover. He replaced the receiver on the cradle and wandered slowly toward the kitchen area of his one-room apartment, the nearly empty bottle still in his hand.
Kid Childs. Amazing.
* * * * * *
Everyone knew about Kid Childs. Five years ago, he was the brightest young piano player in New York. He worked with all of the big names - Monk and Dizzy and Ella and Sinatra. His hands flew across the keyboard, weightless hands across greased keys. He worked the pedals like a man stamping out small fires, and was known for rocking the bench so dramatically that he occasionally would tumble to the stage in the middle of a performance.
Then the call came. Miles Davis. He was going to be in town for one show at the Blue Note, and he wanted Kid as his piano player. Kid wanted desperately to play with Miles. He worked feverishly after Miles called, perfecting every Davis tune and improvising dozens upon dozens of technical, stylish solos.
When the night arrived, Kid's family and friends filled a dozen tables in the audience. The band did two sets to an overflow house. Kid got ovations for his playing, and Miles was Miles. At the end of the night, Kid expected Miles would ask him to join the band on their next tour of Europe, maybe an album or two, something like that.
All Miles said, at the end of the night, was, "You play good, Kid. But your sound isn't what I need. Bill Evans fits in better. But thanks for sitting in."
Kid was crushed. He went back to his regular engagement with his regular sides, but they could sense he had changed. He played with more anger now, unable to caress the keys on a ballad. Every tempo was doubled, every note fortissimo. He changed the order of the songs, eventually eliminating every piece that was not a Davis standard or Davis composition.
Finally, one night, he snapped. During a performance of "Green Dolphin Street", Kid had, during the trumpet solo, walked over to his trumpeter, Louis Jackson. That in itself was not unusual - Kid often moved about the stage, urging his men to play louder and faster. That night, though, he had a look in his eye. He reached Jackson and screamed, "You don't like me, Miles? I don't fit?" Jackson kept playing, trying to reach the end, but Kid punched him in the stomach. When Jackson fell to the ground, Kid began stomping on his hands. Jackson pulled them under his body, but Kid got down on the floor and grabbed them back. He yanked at the fingers, pulling joints out of socket, bending them backwards until they snapped.
Sticks Fletcher, Kid's drummer, rushed around to help Jackson, who was writhing on the floor, trying desperately to crawl under the piano and out of harm's way. Sticks knocked his drums over in his hurry, sending a high-hat cymbal clattering across the stage and into the first row of tables. Skeets Henderson cracked his bass when he dropped it in his lunge to pull Kid away. Two off-duty cops and a bartender ran to the stage, but everyone arrived too late; Jackson's hands were shattered. He never played again.
Kid spent the next year in and out of various mental hospitals and clinics. Doctors knew something was wrong, but they never figured out what it was. Every once in a while, Charlie would hear Kid's name mentioned as part of a comeback. But nothing more.
About a year ago, someone reported Kid had killed himself, jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge on a frosty December night. This morning was the first Charlie had heard of the name Kid Childs since.
* * * * * *
Charlie drank nothing all morning or afternoon. He got his trumpet out, an old Selmer model he had used for ten years, and polished it with a dingy T-shirt. He cleaned the trash out of his case, the folded fliers and little slips of paper. Phone numbers. IOUs. He carefully put the trumpet back beside his mutes and mouthpieces.
Outside of Johnny, the trumpet was probably Charlie's best friend. Ten years ago, he had pawned his first trumpet, the one his father had gotten for him on his eighteenth birthday. That trumpet was old, rusty, with valves that stuck at times and a large dent in the bell where Charlie had hurled it out a sixth-story window one night, drunk with rage over being fired again. Charlie was great - he knew that. It had to be the horn holding him back.
The trumpet survived the fall, of course, and Johnny kept on playing it until all the work dried up. His wife - the first one, the one who left him the night he chucked his trumpet out the window down onto a Village sidewalk - called him 'Charlie the Cat' because she was convinced he had nine lives.
She took three of those lives - herself and the twins - the night she walked out. They hadn't known she was pregnant yet, not when she left. He ran into her about five years later, on some nameless, numberless street midtown or downtown or uptown, and saw the boys. He didn't ask, and she didn't say, but he knew. They would be almost twenty now, men instead of boys, young men setting out to make something of themselves. He always wondered what she told them about him.
He pawned that trumpet for booze money, whiskey probably. It always came back to whiskey, at least back then. He didn't play for a year, living on whiskey, crashing with friends who seemed to tire of his presence with alarming speed.
Then, one day, he walked past a pawn shop in the Bronx and saw this trumpet. This shiny, gold trumpet, in the window. Just like that - he wanted it back. Not the trumpet itself even, but what it meant, what it represented. No matter how he tried, he could not suppress the music. It ran through him, into every cell, every capillary carrying rhythm and harmony to the outposts of his body.
So he walked in and bought the trumpet that day, paying with the watch his wife had given him on their first anniversary and the money he had saved for his next bottle. He worked his chops back into shape, playing the scales and arpeggios and etudes drilled into him by his old Jewish music teacher when he was twelve and learning on a rented horn.
And one day a knock brought a man named Johnny Rose to the door. I live downstairs, he said, and I've been listening. I like your sound - do you need representation?
* * * * * *
On the subway ride uptown, Charlie tried to imagine what Kid looked like. He pictured a thin black man, with grey hair and wrinkles that belied his real age. He probably would be in mismatched clothes, maybe missing a sock. Maybe his shirt would be buttoned improperly like that of a small child being hurried along to church. He wondered if there would be a doctor there, looking after him, needle poised, ready to calm Kid down if needed.
He thought back to the story and wondered about security. He looked down at his own hands, strong and pale, with big ugly knuckles that he hated. He wiggled his fingers slowly back and forth, then faster. He continued to stare at his hands for the rest of the ride.
The Alley Door was as bad as Charlie had heard. The only access was from a side alley, down a rickety set of wooden steps. A quartet of winos, failing miserably to find the harmonies of "Sweet Adeline," guarded the door like gargoyles. Inside, a single bulb cast a dark light on the area behind the bar. Another light hung over the main area, and a third one over the stage. Sawdust and napkins coated the floor. The place reeked, of booze and drunks, of vomit and failure and despair.
"You Charlie?" A voice came from the stage.
"Yeah." Charlie looked toward the voice. A tall black man absent-mindedly plucked the opening riff to "So What?" Another man, shorter and very dark, appeared from behind the drum set.
"Well, get up here," called the drummer. "We ain't got all day. Kid'll be here any sec."
Charlie walked to the stage, slipping once in a pile of vomit. "Great place," he said, unpacking his trumpet.
"Well, what do you expect, Highball?" The drummer looked at him without smiling. "Name's Fletcher, Robert Fletcher. But everyone calls me Sticks."
"I know. You played with Kid in the old days. So did Henderson," Charlie said, gesturing toward the bassist. Charlie hadn't recognized them from a distance.
"Oh, so you know me?" Sticks smiled. "Fine. A couple of rules before Kid gets here. One - no Miles tunes. Nothing he ever wrote, nothing he made famous."
Charlie nodded. "What else?"
"The other rule is - don't show him up. Me and Skeets, we take real good care of Kid. We're not about to let anything happen to him. You screw with him, you're out of here. And from what Johnny said, you can't really afford that."
Charlie said nothing. Sticks returned to his drums. Charlie blew some warmup exercises into the trumpet. His arpeggios echoed in the emptiness of the bar.
As Charlie was finishing the run of diminished sevenths, he looked up and stopped. Kid stood there, staring at him. Kid was nothing like Charlie expected. Rotund, with massive legs and arms, Kid had to be pushing three hundred pounds. He wore a tattered grey fedora on his bald head. He looked young, probably younger than he really was. He wore an ironed white shirt and navy tie; the shirt was even buttoned correctly. But his eyes, there was no fire behind his eyes. Every performer, in his element, gets a look in his eyes. It's not a voluntary thing, but a product of the internal knowledge that something great could happen at any moment. A solo could sparkle or a note could be held with just the right amount of vibrato. Anything could happen. That feeling was what had drawn Charlie into the pawnshop. Charlie looked into Kid's eyes and saw none of that, just stark whiteness against a face, a night-black face.
"Hi - I'm Charlie Hightower. Nice to meet you, Kid." Charlie stuck out his hand, then, remembering the stories, quickly pulled it back.
Kid said nothing. Finally, with a grunt, he turned and trudged toward the old upright piano sitting against one wall. He sat heavily on the bench and started plucking at the keys. Not all of the keys sounded, and the ones that did sorely needed to be tuned. But Kid seemed oblivious to those things. He played scales, slowly, up and down the piano. Charlie watched his hands and was surprised at the awkward fingerings and wrong notes.
After about five minutes of this, Kid said, "Let's play."
"You know 'Trinkle Tinkle,' Charlie?" Skeets called out. Charlie nodded.
Sticks counted out four at about half of Monk's original tempo. Charlie figured he was counting in half time, but Kid started playing at the slow tempo. Agonizingly, Charlie listened as Kid picked out the notes of a jazz standard. The rhythm section plugged along, playing softly and slowly behind Kid, adjusting the tempo as needed to help him stay on the beat.
Kid sat hunched over at the piano, his head nearly touching the keyboard. His feet were firmly planted on the floor, making no attempt at all to work the pedals. Occasionally his head would jerk up, a response to some phrase that sparked a memory of the past. Just as quickly, though, the head would bend back and Kid would stare at the piano again, a puzzle he could no longer solve.
When the time came for Charlie's solo, he rattled off a series of stock jazz riffs, nothing spectacular. At the end, he looked over at Sticks, who nodded. Skeets and Sticks each played their solos, or underplayed their solos, and the song eventually ground to a halt.
"Sounding great today, Kid," Skeets called out. "Best yet."
Charlie was amazed. They treated Kid like, like a child, praising everything he did that was not horrible and consoling him when he faltered. This, Charlie thought, is what my career has come to - playing down to a man with more talent than anyone in the room could even begin to hope for.
They played that way for an hour, with Kid showing no real improvement (they had to start 'Potatohead Blues' six times before he could find the beat). Sticks finally said, "How about one more, Kid, then we'll call it a day?" Kid grunted. After saying, "Let's play," Kid hadn't spoken another word. Sticks turned to Charlie. "Got a favorite?" The stern look in his eye reminded Charlie of the rules.
"How about 'Night and Day'?" Kid nodded once, and Sticks counted off another lifeless tempo. The piano lurched into an introduction, Kid faltering on several easy chords. The group worked its way through the chorus and up to the solos. Kid took first solo this time. His runs were unimaginative and lacked any sparkle. Sometimes Kid would just slip back into playing scales. He reached the end and Charlie started. He noticed himself missing notes now, overblowing some pitches while not reaching others.
Each note was another failure, another mark against him. Once, he was stabbed by a jealous boyfriend - jealous of someone else, as so often happens, although too late to save Charlie from the business end of a serrated kitchen knife and two weeks in the hospital. Muggings, drunken falls out of windows, wanderings into traffic late at night. And fights - bar fights, alley fights, fights at home, fights backstage - lots of fights for no reason at all, at least none he could remember.
Charlie thought about that while he played, not needing to concentrate, not at this level. All those things and a hundred more, always hoping one day to get a shot, to be a star, or at least not a bum. All of that, nine lives used up - at least! - and none left, all so he could end his career as a glorified musical babysitter.
Finally, with a loud scream, Charlie blurted out a stratospheric C and held it, above the continuing rhythm of the bass. Ten seconds, fifteen seconds. Charlie felt his lungs straining against his chest wall, waiting to burst out, crying for air. Still he held the note, unwavering, above it all. Kid turned from his piano and stared at Charlie.
Charlie got off the note and pointed his trumpet directly at Kid, prodding him, challenging him. He tripled the tempo and burst into a chaotic solo. He pounded his foot on the floor, urging the drums and bass to follow. They refused. He played louder to drown them out, never turning his bell from Kid's direction. He ripped off chunks of music and flipped them at Kid, over and over. Kid reacted like a man under attack, cowering to the far end of the bench, eyes wide, hands shaking.
At the end of his solo, Charlie started again with another chorus. Softly this time, below the drums and bass that still refused to catch him. Kid still stared. For the third chorus, Charlie plunged his straight mute deep into the bell. For the fourth, he moved up a step. The bass refused to budge, giving the whole solo an atonality that seemed to get Kid's attention.
Charlie moved the next solo back down and dropped the volume. Kid started trying to keep up. He played simple chords, not quite able to keep the tempo. Charlie felt his lips start to ache, but he kept playing.
Chorus after chorus, Charlie kept going. Kid would play a chord or two, then turn and look, almost as if for approval, at Charlie. Charlie would nod, then Kid would turn back and play a little more. He caught the tempo after about ten minutes of Charlie's soloing.
Finally, with a run of altissimo notes, Charlie ended his solo. He dropped his volume and harmonized with the bass. Kid ran his hands, with more agility now, across the keys. Charlie walked over toward the piano and stood next to Kid, pleading with his trumpet.
On the fourth solo, Kid started rocking back and forth on the bench. His right hand churned out a solo that, while far from perfect, was the best of the day. At the end, Kid looked up at Charlie, then went back to the melody. They played one final chorus together and ended the song with a flourish of high notes that echoed around the room after the music had stopped, finally fading into a dark silence.
"Get out, Charlie," Sticks shouted. "Get the hell out. I warned you."
Charlie looked down at Kid. "It's been a pleasure playing with you. Wish I could have done it five years ago." He stuffed his trumpet into the case and walked off the stage.
"Hey. Hey you." Charlie turned. The voice was gnarled, but not angry.
Kid shouted, "Where you going?"
"You heard him - I'm out," Charlie shouted back.
"Aw, you know ol' Sticks - he's just pulling your leg. Get back up here." Kid smiled, showing two gold teeth and four white ones.
Sticks stood behind his drums. "Kid, are you sure? He was trying to make you look bad." He glared out at Charlie. "We don't need any hot shots around here."
"Maybe we do," Kid said.
* * * * * *
The group meshed after that first practice. Skeets happily welcomed Charlie, but Sticks still seemed to resent him. Charlie took more of a leadership role in the group, counting off the tempos and suggesting pieces to Kid. Kid readily agreed with most of Charlie's suggestions and was very apologetic when he rejected one.
Word soon got out that something great was happening at the Alley Door. At first it was just street people, drawn as much by the chance to be out of the summer sun as by the music. The group kept playing, and little by little the crowds began to grow. By mid-October, Jack Gardner, the owner and barkeep, could expect a fairly full house most nights. He had Kid and the boys playing two shows a night, seven nights a week. Kid showed signs of coming out of his funk. His fingerwork improved, his solos regained some of the magic that had marked him as such a promising talent in the past. Charlie noticed his own playing improve as well. He had stopped drinking, choosing instead to concentrate his efforts on arranging for the group. But in accordance with Sticks' suggestion, he stayed away from all of the Davis standards.
A few weeks later, the story of the resurrection of Kid Childs hit the jazz world. A critic from the Times showed up one night, drawn by the rumors. His column the next day trumpeted the group's achievement, calling it "masterful jazz" and "the hottest music in the city today." Everyone wanted to see Kid Childs and his hot young trumpet player (a phrase Charlie hated - after all, he had been around longer than Kid). Jack added new tables and better lights. He even rented a black Mason & Hamlin grand piano for Kid. The piano covered almost the entire stage. Talk started of a tour of the jazz clubs, maybe even a trip to Europe.
One night, after the performances were over, a man from a record label approached Kid. He said it was time for Kid to make his comeback recording. Kid agreed, on the condition that it be a live recording and that it be done at the Alley Door. The contracts were signed and a date was set.
* * * * * *
About two weeks before the record was to be cut, Charlie woke to a knock at the door. Kid stood there, a stack of records under one arm. Charlie invited him in.
"I wanted to talk to you, away from the other guys," he said. "Do you have any of these?"
Charlie thumbed through the albums. He had a couple, but most he did not.
"These are mine from before," Kid said. "There are a lot of cuts on here I'd like to do. Can you work up some arrangements before the session?"
"Sure. Any in particular?"
Kid took a deep breath. "I'd like 'So What?' I'd like to do ''Round Midnight'. And I'd like 'Green Dolphin Street'." All Davis standards.
"I guess," Charlie stuttered. "But are you sure you want to mess with what we've got now? The sets are great." He heard 'Green Dolphin Street' in his mind, felt Kid's wingtips battering his hands.
"They're missing something," Kid said. "I want these for the recording, to go with some of what we've got." He stood. "I'll leave the albums for you."
"Thanks," Charlie called after him. He pulled an album out of the stack. "Kid Childs Live!" screamed the title. Charlie could see Sticks and Skeets in the background of the cover photograph, as well as a young trumpeter identified as Louis Jackson. Charlie blew the dust off his player and started the record. Hissing and popping all the way, Kid launched into a wild "Bye Bye Blackbird."
The sound, that was what Charlie remembered about Kid. He had seen Kid play six or seven years ago, right when he was first becoming popular. At a dark little bar in the Village, Kid had mesmerized Charlie with his sound. Charlie propped his feet up on the coffee table, sat back, and listened. The Kid on the record, that was the one everyone had raved about. Charlie closed his eyes and could see Kid playing, rocking the bench, grunting along with his solos, smiling at the applause.
Now, Kid sounded nothing like that, and Charlie knew it. He suspected Kid knew it as well. Maybe that was why Kid wanted the arrangements - to take his one big shot at grabbing a piece of the past before he was too gone into the future to remember it. Three years could be a lifetime.
Charlie picked up his pencil and staff paper. All through the night he worked, writing what Kid wanted, all the while wondering what his punishment for failure might be. And for the first time in more than a month, he had a drink - just one - to calm his nerves.
* * * * * *
Sticks was adamant against introducing the new arrangements. "Are you nuts? If he hears these, he could lose it again. Remember - you would be the target. You're putting your own ass on the line."
"Listen," Charlie said, "I don't want to do them any more than you. But Kid wants them badly. He'd get suspicious if I refused to do the arrangements. Besides, he seems fine to me."
"Suit yourself," Sticks said. "But I'm not as mobile as I once was. If he attacks you, you may be on your own."
"I'll take my chances," Charlie replied.
Kid loved the arrangements. Charlie had meticulously worked them off the records. The group practiced six or seven hours a day, working in the new songs, in preparation for the recording session. Charlie kept a close eye on Kid when they played. But he never flinched, never made a move to show that anything might be wrong. And every night, back at home, to calm his nerves, Charlie would play one of Kid's old records and have a drink.
* * * * * *
On the day before the recording, Kid stopped rehearsal early. They weren't to perform that night, so Kid wanted to take off early and let everyone relax. As Charlie made his way out into the bright sun, he saw Sticks waiting for him at the top of the steps.
"What's up?" Charlie said. He walked out of the alley and up the street, with Sticks matching him stride for stride. Charlie held his free hand up, shading his red eyes from the sun and from Sticks. He was glad no one noticed them in rehearsal. His nerves had been worse than ever the night before. There was a dream, Charlie being chased across a sheet of staff music by giant loafers bearing Kid's face on each shoe. The dream was comic, even silly - he knew that. Still it had shaken him to the point of needing more than one drink.
"It's not too late to take out the new stuff. Kid listens to you. Tell him."
"Why? The new ones are our best numbers. Plus the whole thing has already been timed and promoted with those songs in."
Sticks stopped. "I can't believe you could be so stupid," he hissed.
Charlie turned and stared at him. "Stupid how?"
"You don't see it? I just don't believe it."
"See what?"
"Kid thinks you are Miles. He thinks that you are Miles Davis coming back to save his career."
"That's crazy."
"Is it? He has you doing all of the arrangements. He asked you to bring in some of Miles' songs. He constantly seeks your approval on everything. Don't you see it?"
"You're nuts," Charlie said. He buttoned the top of his coat against the wind and resumed his walk up the street. Sticks ran after him and blocked his path, standing right in front of Charlie, nose to nose, their eyes only inches apart.
"My God." Sticks stepped back, almost stumbling over a hole in the sidewalk.quot;Your eyes - my God. You got drunk last night, didn't you? " He poked Charlie in the chest. "Didn't you?! "
Charlie turned away. He looked back down the street at a sandwich board posted at the edge of the alley. It boldly announced the next day's concert. Charlie could make out his own name right below Kid's. "I had a couple," he admitted.
Sticks pushed him in the back, knocking him down onto the cement. "Dammit! You're going to blow this for all of us, aren't you? You're going to show up hammered tomorrow night and blow it!" Sticks bent, shouting into Charlie's ear. "If you do, I'll kill you. I mean it - you won't live out the night."
Charlie swung his trumpet case around and clocked Sticks in the mouth. Sticks hit the ground like a scolded puppy, scrambling backward on all fours.
"I'll do what I want, when I want," Charlie said softly and slowly. "Just worry about yourself. I'll be fine."
Sticks spit, a red stream. "Fuck you," he said. "Maybe Kid will kill you first, tomorrow, when it hits him that you aren't Miles. And I'm not going to be the one to pull him off." Sticks stood, brushing the dirt from his pants. "Fend for yourself."
* * * * * *
"Kid?"
"What's up?"
"Nervous about tomorrow, I guess." Charlie knew Sticks was crazy. But all night, he couldn't get the notion out of his mind, the thought that Kid might not be as right as he seemed.
"Big day."
"You've been through it. How did you, prepare?" Charlie stared across the room at the full bottle of whiskey on the counter.
"Prepare? I never really needed to."
"All this stuff - the taping and the big audience, all the important people - it doesn 't make you nervous?"
"Nope. Never has. Performers - the good ones, at least - they thrive on all that. It stirs up the creative juices. Boy, I remember the night with Miles, I was on fire!"
"With Miles?" Charlie was surprised to hear Kid talk about it so easily, to even bring it up.
"Yeah. You knew I played with him once, right?"
"Well, yeah. But I thought -"
"What? That I was crazy, that thinking about Miles would push me over the edge or something like that?"
"Something like that. But -"
"Listen, Charlie. I know all the stories out there. My favorite is the one about me jumping into the East River because I couldn't do it anymore. Frankly, if I thought that was true, I probably would have jumped into the river."
"Why?"
"It's in my blood, Charlie - the music. It 's behind the eyes and coats the teeth and gnarls the guts. Life, pure life. Miles may have put me down a little, but he didn't get my life."
"That day, when I first came in, you were like a corpse up there. No life."
"The life was in there. It just took some calling out. I guess I should thank you for that."
"Kid, I've got to ask you something." Charlie took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. "Sticks thinks you think I'm Miles. And, to tell the truth, I thought so to, kind of at least, until tonight."
Charlie heard Kid snort, then grunt and hum a little, then break out with a loud laugh, so loud and long that Charlie had to hold the phone away from his ear.
"You? Miles?" he said when he stopped laughing. "Man, no way you could be Miles. Miles is a brother - you sure ain't. I may have been crazy - or so they tell me. But I'm not blind." Charlie and Kid laughed together at that.
"Thanks Kid. I feel a lot better. Guess I have nothing to worry about."
"Sure. See you tomorrow. Miles." Charlie could hear Kid's laughter as he hung up the phone.
* * * * * *
They were all there in the audience. Goodman and the Dorseys and Glenn Miller at one table. Sinatra and Nat Cole sat with Ella at another. Hamp was at the bar, mixing drinks for Brubeck and Dizzy. And Miles - he was there, front table, alone, hat down over his eyes. His trumpet lay on the table, glinting in the spot that illuminated the stage.
Charlie heard the music start. Kid, Sticks, Skeets - they were all there, playing. Hot stuff, rhythmic, harmonic, vibrant. The Kid of old, from the records. Charlie sat and listened from somewhere, not backstage, not the audience, just nearby.
Suddenly he was on stage, trumpet in hand. Kid pointed at him and smiled, saying something - Charlie wasn't sure what - to the audience. He looked into the sea of people. They weren't inside anymore, but out on a street, surrounded by towering buildings. Charlie saw people lining both sides of the street, people in the street stretching to the horizon, people hanging out of every window.
He heard the music start and put the horn up to his lips. He blew. Nothing. He blew harder. No sound. He blew until his cheeks bulged and eyes hurt and ears popped. A single, sad, flat note wobbled out of the horn, hit the ground, and ran into the crowd. It ran up to Miles. He stepped on it. It wailed, a low, plaintive wail that echoed off the buildings and hydrants and people, all the people.
Kid rose from his bench and walked up to Charlie. "Charlie, man. What did I say? Performers - the good ones, at least - they thrive on all this. It stirs up the creative juices. This was your shot.
"And you blew it.
"You blew it."
Charlie sat up in bed. Sweat streaked across his forehead and down his cheeks. His bedclothes, soaked, clung to his skin, rippling with each breath and with the allegro beating of his heart. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. He realized he had been screaming.
He ran into the next room, grabbed the bottle and shoved the opening between his lips.
* * * * * *
Charlie waited until he knew they would have had to start. The record people, they paid a lot for this, they wouldn't sit around all night, not for anything. He pulled his black wool hat down to his eyebrows and tightened the belt on his trenchcoat. As he rounded the corner, he saw the people, outside in the cold December air, packing the alley. He pushed his way through the mob, up as close to the open door as he dared.
"- the Kid Childs Trio." Wild applause from inside. Charlie craned his head around the door, looking toward the stage. Kid stood at the mike, stylish in his black tuxedo. Charlie 's tuxedo hung at home, in his closet. Noise in the alley made it difficult to hear Kid's words. He spoke for only a few seconds, then walked out of sight over to where the piano would be. More applause.
Then the music started. "Night and Day." The alley got quiet with the first strains of music, and Charlie listened, taking in every note. Kid had gotten it back, the fire, the intensity Charlie remembered from the albums. Kid was taking the crowd and audio equipment and record executives, all the pressures, and using them to find something that everyone knew was gone, that everyone knew had disappeared the night he kicked Louis Jackson right into the hospital.
Everyone, that is, but Kid. And Charlie, at least after last night. How could he not have known.
Charlie eased his way back through the people, first people, then shapes, indistinct, undefined, then no one and nothing. Charlie was alone in the alley, alone with Kid and Sticks and Skeets. He could hear "Night and Day," and he was playing, really playing. The solo came and he took off, blowing his whole drunken failed career into the horn.
Applause. Crazy, beautiful applause rained down from somewhere as he played. On and on he played, chorus after chorus, not stopping, not even seeming to breathe. He had, at once, grasped the full weight of what Kid had said. He had to play.
People walking up the street that night, they would have seen a crazy old white man with a black hat pulled down over his grey hair, wrapped, mummy-like, in a tan trenchcoat. He would have been dancing, small, rhythmic steps, stopping once in a while, even turning little circles. They would have seen fingers flailing about in midair. And a broad grin on his face.
Two days later, had they read the Times closely, they would have seen a short item noting the death of longtime trumpeter Charlie Hightower, found bobbing in the frigid East River, probably after a drunken stumble off of the Brooklyn Bridge.
And, had they gone to the funeral, the only jazzman they would have seen was Kid Childs.
© Tim Cramm 1998.
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