Part 47 (1/2)

Juanito walked into the Plaza. Children screamed at him. He listened to the screams. He collected them. The screams, the soft smell of old wood and the sharp smell of the cattle, crowds above, the men who looked at him with sadness, love, respect; these things he forced inside him, forcing past and future out, for now, the golden now.

Within the Chapel, he touched the white lace, knelt and made the sign of the cross, as all toreros did.

Then, when it was time, he joined the _puerta de cuadrillas_, standing on the left of Francesco Perez, who saluted him; and, to the music of the yellow bra.s.s, marched out into the ring.

The moments filled him. Standing quite still in the afternoon sun, he watched Perez dispatch his bull; then, Lombardini, who was awarded one ear.

”There is an _alternativa_,” whispered Enrique Cordoba. ”You can pull out now.” But Juanito did not hear the words.

Waiting, he searched the faces along the shady side of the _barrera_; and found her. ”_Va por ti_, Andree,” he said. ”I dedicate the death to you.”

And then he heard the swell of sound, the trumpets; and he turned his head. The toril gate began to open, slowly.

Slowly, from the center of darkness, came a shape.

Juanito Galvez smiled. Stepping out onto the warm and welcoming sand, he wondered what he had ever done to deserve such good fortune.

NIGHT RIDE.

by Charles Beaumont

He was a scrawny white kid with junkie eyes and no place for his hands, but he had the look.

The way he ankled past the tables, all alone by himself; the way he yanked the stool out, then, and sat there doing nothing: you could tell. He wasn't going to the music, The music had to come to him. And he could wait.

Max said, ”High?”

I shook my head. You get that way off a fresh needle, but then you're on the nod: everything's upbeat. ”Goofers, maybe,” I said, but I didn't think so.

”Put a nickel in him, Deck,” Max said, softly. ”Turn him on.”

I didn't have to. The kid's hands crawled up and settled on the keys. They started to walk, slow and easy, taking their time. No intro. No chords. Just, all of a sudden, music. It was there all the while, Poppa-san, how come you didn't notice?

I couldn't hear a h.e.l.l of a lot through all the lip-riffs in that trap, but a little was plenty. It was real sound, sure enough, and no accident. The Deacon had been dead right. Blues, first off: the tune put down and then brushed and a lot of improvising on every note; then finally, all of them pulled into the melody again, and all fitting. It was gut-stuff, but the boy had brains and he wasn't ashamed of them.

Max didn't say anything. He kept his eyes closed and his ears open, and I knew he was hooked.

I only hoped it wouldn't be the same old noise again. We'd gone through half a dozen box men in a year.

Not like this one, though.

The kid swung into some chestnuts, like ”St. James Infirmary” and ”Bill Bailey,” but what he did to them was vicious. St. James came out a place full of spiders and snakes and screaming broads, and Bailey was a dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.d who left his woman when she needed him most. He played ”Stardust” like a Boy Scout helping a cripple across the street. And you want to know something about ”Sweet Georgia Brown?” Just another seedy hustler too tired to turn a trick, that's all.

Of course, n.o.body knew what he was doing. To the customers, those smears and slides and minor notes were only mistakes; or maybe the ears didn't even notice.

”What's his name?” Max said.

”David Green.”

”Ask him to come over when he's through.”

I sliced my way past the crowd, tapped the kid's shoulder, told him who I was. His eyes got a little life in them. Not much.

”Max Dailey's here,” I said. ”He wants some words.”

Eight notes and you wouldn't touch ”Laura” with a ten-foot pole. ”Okay,” the kid said.

I went back. He dropped the knife for a while and played ”Who,” straight, or pretty straight. The way I'd heard it the night before, anyway, when it was too hot to sleep and I'd gone out for that walk.

Funny thing about a box: a million guys can hammer it, they can play fast and hit all the notes and transpose from here to Wednesday. But out of that million, you'll find maybe one who gets it across. And like as not he can't play fast and won't budge out of C. Davy Green wasn't what you'd call a virtuoso, exactly. He didn't hit all the notes. Only the right ones.

After a while he came over and sat down.

Max grabbed his paw. ”Mr. Green,” he said, ”you are a mess of fingers.”

The kid nodded; it could have been ”Thanks.”

”You don't do a whole lot, but it's mostly good. The Deacon likes it.” He took off his sungla.s.ses and folded them real slow. ”I'm a tight man with a compliment, Mr. Green,” he said. ”Rebop with the mouth, that pa.s.ses the time of day, but I'm here for other reasons.”A chick in a green sarong popped out of the smoke. She had a little here and a little there.

”Cents?”

”Bushmill's and soda,” Max said, ”and if you don't carry it, Bushmill's and nothing. Mr. Green?”

”Same, whatever it is,” he said.

My cue: I got up and killed the rest of my Martini. Max always liked to business solo. ”Gotta make a phone call, boss,” I said. ”Meet you outside.”

”Good enough.”

I told the kid maybe we'd see him around and he said, sure, maybe, and I took a fade.

Outside it was hot and wet, the way it gets in NO. I wandered up one side of Bourbon, down the other, lamping the broads. Tried a joint, but the booze was watered and the dancer didn't know. A pint-sized you-all with a nervous tic and rosy cheeks. She came on like a pencil sharpener. I blew the place.

Jazz might have been born in New Orleans, but it left home a long time ago.

Max was waiting in front of the Gotcha Club: he wasn't smiling, he wasn't frowning. We walked some blocks. Then, in that whispery-soft voice of his, he said: ”Deck, I think maybe we have us a box.”

I felt proud, oh yes; that's how I felt. ”Cuckoo.”

”Got to be handled right, though. The kid has troubles. Great troubles.”

He grinned. It was the kind of a grin a hangman might flash at a caught killer, but I didn't know that. I didn't even know there'd been a crime. All I thought was, the Band of Angels has got ten new fingers.

We broke at the pad, but the train didn't leave till eight the next p.m., so I had a party by myself.

It didn't help. I dreamed all night about that little girl, and I kept hitting her with the car and backing up and hitting her and watching her bleed.