Part 48 (2/2)

We got out of the Corn Belt fast, got booked into the Haig in L.A. and out-pulled everything since Mulligan. Quartets and trios were all the bit then, and that made us a ricky-tick Big Band, but n.o.body cared. In a month the word got around and they were coming down from Frisco to give a listen.

I didn't have much to do with either Max or Davey: they were buddy-buddy now. Max almost never let him out of sight--not that he neglected us. Every couple of p.m's he'd show, just like always, ready with the jaw. He was available. ”Got to take care of my boys . . .” But Davey was the star of the show, and he didn't circulate much. It was enough just to see him, anyway. His piano was getting better, but he was getting worse. Every night he told the story about him and Sally, how happy they were, how much he loved her, and how she got whatever she got and died. Every mood they might have had, he pulled it out of the box. And always ended up in Weep City. Used to be he'd get mad as h.e.l.l at the son of a b.i.t.c.h that took her breath out of her body and put her under ground; now he was mostly just sad,lonely, brought down.

And the Band of Angels couldn't do anything wrong. Before, we were a bunch of smart musicians; we could give you Dixieland or we could give you Modern; hot or cold; and nothing you could call a style. With Davey's fingers, we had a style. We were just as smart, could play all the different jazz, but we were blues men. We played mostly for the dame at the end of the bar, all alone, with too much paint or too much fat. Or for the little guy who won't dance so they think he hates women, only he's crazy about women, but he's scared of what will happen when he's up that close. We played for little chicks with thick gla.s.ses, thick chicks with little a.s.ses, and that drunk loser who kissed it all good-bye.

Blues men.

A paid ad said it: ”The Max Dailey band plays to that piece of everybody that got hurt and won't heal up.”

Blues men.

The Haig would have kept us six months more, forever maybe, but we had to spread the Gospel.

Max's Gospel. What was wrong with Birdland?

Not a thing. Max had been sniffing around The Apple for years, but who were we then?

Day we hit, he tiptoed in church-style. Spoke even lower, to Davey.

”Kid, this layout is all for the Bird.”

Common knowledge.

”Big troubles that spade had, yes, indeed,” he said. ”Big talent.”

We crept out; later on we came back and ripped that church apart at the seams. Davey was going like never before, but you couldn't get at him: he was lower than a snake's kidney. Once after a show I asked him did he want to go out and have a beer with the Deacon, and he allowed that was all right, but Max came along and I wasn't about to break through.

And that's the way it went. _Downbeat_ tagged us as ”the most individual group in action today”

and we cut a flock of alb.u.ms--_Blue Mondays_; _Moanin' Low_; _Deep Sh.o.r.es_--and it was gravy and champagne for breakfast.

Then, I can't remember what night it was, Max came up to my place and he didn't look gleeful.

First time I'd seen him alone since Rollo got picked up for molesting. He made it real casual.

”Deek, you seen Davey around?”

Something jumped up my throat. ”Not for quite a while,” I said.

He did a shrug.

”You worried?” I asked.

”Why should I be worried? He's of age.”

He powdered; then, the next night, it went and blew itself to pieces. I'd finished my bit with the horn--Sat.u.r.day p.m.--when Parnelli tapped me and said, ”Look out there.” I saw people. ”Look out there again,” he said.

I saw a chick. She was eyeballing Davey.

”Max's going to _love_ that,” Parnelli said. ”He's just going to eat that all up, oh yes.”

When it was over, the kid ankled down and gave the doll a full set of teeth. She gave them back.

And they went over to a dark corner and sat down.

”Oo-weee. Mr. Green has got himself a something. I do declare. And won't you kindly lamp Big M?”.

Max was looking at them, all right. You couldn't tell exactly what he was thinking, because none of it showed in his face. He turned the k.n.o.bs on his ba.s.s, slow, and looked. That's all.

After a while Davey and the girl got up and headed for the stand.

”Max, I'd like you to meet Miss Schmidt. Lorraine.”

Hughie Wilson's eyes fell out, Bud Parker said ”Yeah” and even Rollo picked up-- and Rollo doesn't go the girl route. Because this chick was hollerin': little-girl style, pink dress and apple cheeks and a build that said, I'm all here, don't fret about that, just take my word for it.

”She's been coming to hear us every night,” Davey said.

”I know,” Max said. ”I've seen you around, Miss Schmidt.”She smiled some pure suns.h.i.+ne. ”You have a fine band, Mr. Dailey.”

”That's right.”

”I particularly loved 'Deep Sh.o.r.es' tonight. It was--”

”Great, Miss Schmidt. One of Davey's originals. I guess you knew that.”

She turned to the kid. ”No, I didn't. Davey--Mr. Green didn't tell me.”

Our little box-man grinned: first I'd seen him do it for real. You wouldn't have recognized him.

And that's all she wrote. It was plain and simple: Davey was going upstairs with this baby and she was liking it; and let no cat put these two asunder.

She showed up on the dot every p.m., always solo. Listen out the sets and afterward, she and the kid would cut out. He looked plenty beat of a morning, but the change was there for all to see. No question: David Green was beginning to pick up some of the marbles he had lost.

And Max never said a word about it, either. Pretended he didn't gave a hoot one way or the other; nice as h.e.l.l to both of them. But Parnelli wouldn't wipe that look off his face.

”Playing out the line,” he'd say. ”Max is a smart fella, Deek. Anybody else, he'd put it on the table. Say: 'We're taking a European tour' or something like that. Not our bossman. Smart piece of goods .

It got thicker between Davey and his doll, and pretty soon, if you listened hard, you could hear bells. You could hear more. I didn't know why, you couldn't finger the difference: but it was there, okay.

We were playing music. Like a lot of guys play music. But we'd lost something.

But Max wasn't upset--and he was a tuning fork on two legs--so I figured it must be me. The dreams again, maybe. They were coming all the time, no matter how much I talked about them . .

It wasn't me, though. We were beginning to sound lousy and it kept up that way, night after night, and I was afraid I knew why, finally.

Three days after Davey had announced his engagement to Lorraine, the dam cracked. Like: We'd all gathered on the stand and Max had one-twoed for ”Tiger Rag” and we started to play.

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