Part 47 (2/2)

Funny part was, once it wasn't me in the car, it was Max, and the little girl was David Green . . .

The kid hooked up with us in Memphis. No suitcase, same clothes, same eyes. We were doing a five-nighter at the Peac.o.c.k Room, going pretty good but nothing to frame on the wall. Davey eared a set and tapped Max's ba.s.s. ”So I'm here,” he said. ”Want me to sit it?”

Max said no. ”You listen. After the bit, then we'll talk.”

Kid shrugged. Either he didn't give a d.a.m.n or he was elsewhere. ”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Jones,” he said.

”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Green,” I said. Brilliant stuff. He slumped into a chair, stuck his head on his arms and that was it.

n.o.body was hot, so we played some standard dance tunes and faked a jam session and sort of piddled around until two. Then we packed up and headed for the hotel.

”This is the Band of Angels,” Max said, but he didn't say it before we were at attention, all present and accounted for. ”Deacon Jones you already know. He is a trumpet, also a cornet and sometimes, when we're in California, a flute. I'm ba.s.s; you know that, too. The tall, ugly fellow over there is Bud Parker, guitar. Rollo Vigon and Parnelli Moss, sax and valve trombone. Hughie Wilson, clarinet.

Sig Shulman, our drummer, the quiet, thoughtful guy to my right. All together, the very best in the world--when they want to be. Gentlemen, our new piano: David Green.”

The kid looked scared. He pa.s.sed a limp hand around, as if he wished he was in Peoria. He almost jumped when Max put the usual to him. Who wouldn't?

”We're a jazz band, Green. Do you know what jazz is?”

Davey threw me a glance and ran his hand over his hair. ”You tell me.”

”I can't. No one can. It was a stupid question.” Max was pleased: if the kid had tried an answer, that would've been bad. ”But I'll tell you one of the things it is. It's vocabulary. A way of saying something. You can have a small vocabulary or a large one. We have a large one, because we have a lot on our minds. If you want to make it with the Angels, you've got to remember that.”

Sig began to tap out some rhythm on a table, impatiently.

”Another thing. You've got to forget about categories. Some bands play Storyville, some playLighthouse; head music and gut music--always one or the other. Well, we don't work that way. Jazz is jazz. Sometimes we'll spend a week kanoodling on the traditional, flip over and take up where Chico Hamilton leaves off. Whichever says what we have to say best. It's all in how we feel at the time. You dig?”

Davey said he dug. Whenever Max got the fever like this and started the sermon, you didn't plan to argue. Because he meant it; and he knew what he was talking about. Maybe it was the twentieth time most of us heard the routine, but it made sense. Practically everybody thinks of jazz in steps: from this to that. And there aren't any steps. Which is more ”advanced”--Stravinsky or Mozart?

Davey didn't know how important it was for him to say the right thing, but he managed fine. For a few minutes he'd laid his troubles down. ”I never thought of it just that way,” he said. ”It's quite a theory.”

”Take it in, Green. Think hard about it. What you've been doing is high up, but one way. I believe you can be all ways. I believe it because I have faith in you.”

He stuck his hand on Davey's shoulder, almost the same way he'd done with each of us over the years, and I could see that it hit the kid just as hard.

”I'll try, Mr. Dailey,” he said.

”Make it Max. Doesn't take as long, and it's friendlier.”

Then it was all over. Max closed the Bible and broke out some Catto's scotch, which is a drink he does not generally like to share; then he got the kid into a corner, by themselves.

I should have felt great, and in a way I did, but something was spoiling it. I went over to the window for some fresh: the sidewalks had been hosed down and they put up a nice clean smell, next best to summer rain.

”Nice kid.” I looked over; it was Parnelli Moss. He still had the shakes, but not so bad as sometimes. Hard to see how a man could hit the bottle the way Parnelli did and still finger a horn. Hard to see how he could stay alive.

He was wound. And I wasn't in any mood for it. ”Yeah.”

”Nice fine kid.” He held the ice-water near his forehead. Cold turkey, on and off. ”Max hummin'

up a new crutch.”

I ignored it: maybe it'd go away.

It didn't. ”Good?” Parnelli said.

”Good.”

”Poor Mr. Green. Deek, you listen--he'll stay good, but he won't stay nice. Hey, look out with that hoe, there, Max!”

”Parnelli,” I said, just as cool as I could, ”you're a fair horn but that's all I can say for you.”

”That's what I mean' he said, and grinned. I suddenly wanted to pitch him out of the window. Or jump, myself. I couldn't tell why.

He rolled the gla.s.s across his forehead. ”Give us this day,” he said, singsong, ”our Dailey bread--”

”Shut up.” I kept it in whispers, so no one else would hear. Moss was loaded; he had to be.

”Parnelli, listen, you want a hook in Max. That's okay, that's fine by me. Stick it in and wiggle it. But keep it away from me--I don't want to hear about it.”

”What's the matter, Deek--afraid?”

”No. See, the way I look at it, Max picked you up when your own mother wouldn't have done it, even with rubber gloves. You were O, Parnelli. Zero. Now you're eating. You ought to be on your G.o.dd.a.m.n knees to him!”

”Father,” Parnelli said, with a real amazed look, ”I am. I _am!_”

”He's been a nurse to you,” I said, wondering why I was so sore and why I wanted to hurt the guy this much. ”n.o.body else would have bothered.”

”For a fact, Deek.”

”They'd have let you kick off in Bellevue.”

”For a fact.”

I wanted to slug him then, but I couldn't. I knew he hated Max Dailey. For the life of me, Icouldn't figure out why. It was like hating your best friend.

”You like the kid, Deek? Green, I mean?”

”Yeah,” I said. It was true. I felt--maybe that was it--responsible.

”Tell him to cut out, then. For the love of Christ, tell him that.”

”Go to h.e.l.l!” I swung across to the other room: it was like busting out of a snake house. Davey Green was there, all to himself, sitting. Only he was different. Those hard, bitter-type lines were gone.

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