A Series of Short Stories about William the Bloody
Let's Get Lost
He was a better player than Miles.
I know that's a bold statement. It's also the goddamn truth. There's a few things I know about, and jazz is one of 'em. He wasn't a technical guy, but hell, neither was Miles. It's about playing to your heart, and he had it in spades. And he was a better lay than Miles, and I know something about that.
But he was hooked, and Miles wasn't. I know all about that, too.
I was his girl. There were a hundred of us. He was never our guy. We gave ourselves to him, but he never gave back. Except when he was a better player than Miles.
Hey, I was quite the looker, once. So was he. We threw it down the drain. With booze, with junk, with everything. We thought we'd live forever. We always thought New York or Paris. It turned out to be Amsterdam.
We were at this dive. He was leading the wrong band. The piano player warmed up with Rush songs and the drummer kept trying to turn standard ballads into reggae. A backing band anxious to get back to their mediocre dreams to properly support a living legend. I was pushing drinks.
At the end of the night, after a painful take on "Round Midnight", there was only two people left. A guy, skinny, pretty short, looked like Billy Idol's stunt double, complete with spiky peroxide hair. Sounds a bit like him, too. Drank single malt whiskey and looked like he'd rather be anywhere other than listening to the lamest worshipers of Sly and Robbie and Geddy Lee slaughter jazz standards. I was right with him.
The girl looked like Eliza Doolittle's junkie twin sister, and she responded to every solo like she was a child watching a magic act. Each time I stopped by, she asked for absinthe. After the fifth time I told her we didn't have anything like that, the guy whispered to me to just bring a Shirley Temple and she'll never know the difference. She was real creepy.
Anyway, after the set, he announced in his mangled Dutch that the band was finished and that we were closing. The guy came up to him and they talked some. After he put his trumpet away, he came and told me they were coming home with us. That was the last thing I wanted. But like I said, I was his girl, so we went.
When we got to the hotel, I went about my work; bending the spoons, preparing the junk, opening the window to tempt in a breeze, everything but tying him off and finding an uncollapsed vein. There's a limit to what you can do, even if you're his girl.
"My manners have lapsed," he said to our guests as he found a vein and pushed the plunger in. "Can I offer you anything?"
"Not at all. I prefer second-hand smack, myself."
"Can I open it yet?" The girl has been looking at me with this crazy, hungry look on her face. Like that time Lori and I blew pot smoke in Tigger's face.
"Dru, luv, that is not your present. This is your present." The guy's pointing at him. At HIM.
"He looks all veiny, Spike. Not at all nummy."
He gets this frustrated look on his face, which spreads to his whole body. His long leather duster slaps his legs as he paces.
"Dru and I saw you play 'My Funny Valentine' in 1958, I think at the Five Spot. You and Stan. I'm more of an Ornette Coleman fan, myself. The double quartet is a brilliant idea, says I. But my Dru, she had a ball, and now she has a request. A special song for Valentine's Day."
Bullshit, I say. Neither of these two was even born ín 1958. But he's buying it. Totally. I don't get it.
The guy leans in. "Don't mention that it's May and Valentine's Day is three months past. It might cause her to ... just don't. And might I suggest that you play like your life depended on it. Because I do believe it does."
I tried to remember where he kept the gun. But he acts like this is the most natural thing. He opened up his case, put together his horn, warmed up a bit, and began to play. He played the head, sang the verses. A little solo right before last verse.
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart
Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Yet you're my favorite work of art
Is your figure less than greek?
Is your mouth a little bit weak?
When you open it to speak, are you smart?
Don't change a thing for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little valentine stay
Each day is valentine's day
I've seen him play that a thousand times, and I've always been impressed. It was so beautiful it made your soul ache.
The girl -- Dru, I guess her name is -- stood up and walked over to him. It might have been the fear, or it might have been the junk, but her face reminded me of one of those cat clocks. She had big yellow eyes and ridges that reminded me of the 'M' you see on the foreheads of tabby cats.
I started giggling. It was all just ... surreal. The guy whispered into my ear. "Luv, do stop."
He wasn't a tall man and she had an inch on him with those heels. She kissed his lips, she kissed his cheek, she kissed his neck and his eyes rolled back in his head. I heard a slurp and he fell to the floor. He was dead. I could tell. It was all I could do to keep my legs from buckling.
"Now Dru, we had this discussion about this." The guy's voice was so gentle, like he was comforting a five year old who found her goldfish, not a monster with the blood of "You remember what you did to Bix. You're supposed to take a sip, remember? Leave 'em feeling lightheaded. Now all our friends will hate us."
"Now the song will be mine forever! It will only belong to me! No one else shall have it!" She sounded like a crazed Shirley Temple, throwing a tantrum.
"That was his signature song, luv." The guy was starting to let his exasperation enter his voice. "There are a thousand records with that song on it. It is what he's known for!"
"And the whole world shall know it, Spike. All the children who love and play will have it. This is how I will rule the world." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "As long as the stars swim in the sea, the children will hear and be his, and he will ever be mine. Why, the world is mine already." They kissed, and the blood of the man who owned my heart began to drip down the blond man's chin. My heart sunk, my knees shook, but I couldn't turn away. She turned to me. "Why, she's already mine, isn't she?"
"Now, Drusilla, there's work I must do here. You run on. I'll take care of everything."
When Dru left, the guy -- Spike -- sat hard on the couch. "There are times I just don't know what to do with that woman. The madness and weakness are such a weight. But each time you think it's been enough, been much more than enough, she smiles and everything is perfect." He looks down at the body. "I imagine you know something about that."
"Am I going to die?"
"Yes." He looks right into my eyes. "Yes, you will die. It's the way of all flesh, dear." He stood and started pacing. "The question is, am I going to kill you? I could set you up in some murder-suicide deal. Thing is, I don't know that I could do that to him. I put on a show, saying I like harmelodic noise to the jazz snobs, but I'm a sucker for a melody. He played good. He shouldn't be made into the new Fatty Arbuckle." He stopped and looked at me. "Or, you take a walk, grab some smoke, and forget you saw me. When the sun rises, there will have been a sad, stupid accident, capping a life of tortured genius and wasted potential. And the poets will dream he's jamming with Bird."
He helped me to the door. My legs moved me to a friend's place, and we drank wine and smoked a few joints and cried 'til dawn.
The official story is that he fell out the window. Leading conspiracy theory says he was tossed out by a dealer. I just keep quiet. Wouldn't you?