Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle
I shrugged.
—Streets paved with gold over there?
—Nope.
—I guess not, or all those nice Irish people be right back over there. Where nobody poor and the girls throw out the dresses they wear but once. Might go there myself.
—You’ve made your point.
—I made one of my points. I also wear this dress nights I step out by my own self, or with some man else.
She was in, through the black leather-padded doors that opened out to the street as she approached.
It was my turn. I strolled right up to the doormen, white. A black man couldn’t have stopped a white man from entering. They nodded, stepped back – tap tap – and let me pass. They knew me by now. They saw the same suit every time I came their way, the cap, the boots beneath the cuffs. I was one of their own; they could wink and cheer me on.
—I got the heebies, said one.
—I got the jeebies, I said back.
They were Armstrong’s lines, and they’d become famous since he’d first shouted them the year before.
—Is he frying tonight? I asked.
—Word is.
—But you don’t know for sure.
—No one knows for sure, sport.
—Fair enough.
—Word is, he was in the Sunset last night. Maybe our turn tonight.
—Okay.
I slipped them both a dollar, no show, no high-hat. I had the money, but didn’t flaunt it. They liked that; one of their own. They let me open the door myself.
—See you on the way out, lads.
But I didn’t.
I left my cap with the hat-check girl; it was a hats-off kind of place. The girl, a light-skinned doll who seemed new to the job, didn’t seem sure what to do. I leaned across and took the ticket from her hand, left a nickel in its place, and walked straight into the music and the heat that always came with it.
I worked all day for the dollars and nickels I handed around as I moved through this new world and made myself memorable, a man to know, a man to step aside for. But I was handing out far more than I earned lugging beef and hog-meat. I was spending more boodle than I’d ever had before.
I looked for Dora.
So, where did it come from?
I robbed it.
She was, as always, easy to locate. I looked where everyone else was looking, and there she was, dancing with another guy, doing what she called the Bunny Hug. I could tell her heart wasn’t in it; the bunny was a dead one and the guy would be dragging its corpse around for another few minutes. But only she knew, and I knew. She was killing the time till I arrived. A coloured girl couldn’t sit by herself and wouldn’t be let stand alone for long. She’d be shooed along to a tableful of college boys or the hard guys bellying the bar. I could watch now and feel sorry for the sap. He was trying for the tough but elegant look, the spats, the stripes; he was almost there, not quite. He was too pink to impress, even a woman as pink as himself. He was carrying weight, too soft at the neck and ears, and sweating through the stripes – which didn’t mean he wasn’t tough. The white clients, the would-be guys and dolls, liked these tough guys leaning on the bar or mingling with them. The presence of gangsters made them feel safe on this knife-carrying side of town, especially in the black and tans, where the street sometimes followed them onto the dance floor. I looked again at the guy in the stripes. He was carrying a gun; it was sitting fat there in his jacket pocket, right side. But the gun and his wop credentials didn’t matter. He was no match for Dora. I let them at it.
The tough guys had made me halt, the first time I’d noticed them. It was New York all over again. It was Dublin. They’d got there before me. But she’d seen me scope them, and guessed.
—They ain’t Irish, Henry S., she said. —The Irish don’t come down here.
—Never?
—Ever. They Eye-talians. They like to dance and they like to dance to hot music.
And she was right. The crooks were there for the night out, killing time between heists. So I left them at it and watched the band tap away the remaining seconds of their dance.
I’d seen them before, together or in different set-ups. They went wherever the work was. We could go to another place later and find two or three of these same men on the stage, along with others we’d never seen before. The leader one night sat well back another night. I’d seen some of these men in the orchestra at the Vendome, the picture house up the street, and I’d seen the trombone player on the back of a truck, minutes before, with Mister Ammons. He’d had time to change or shake himself; he was sharp as the other men up there, no sign of the street on his threads. The gold drape behind him shimmered, as if there was a huge gorgeous woman rolling behind it, being tickled by the notes and beat. I knew the drummer; I knew his name. Baby Dodds. He beat the rim of his bass drum, and did a dance of his own, without moving his arse from the stool. Then, chorus over, he was moving among the drums again, herding the others, the great jazz drover, taking them with him without even trying.
Two hi-hat taps put a stop to the tune and, as partners stopped and people upped or sat, I got on to the floor and took Dora from the pink lad. I had to be quick. The band didn’t wait; the applause was too polite. They were out there again, thumping and skipping through Sweet and Low Down.
—How’s it goin’? I said to the pink lad with the gun, and we left him there, as the dancers filled the floor and quickly swallowed him.
Each dance was a new one, even when it had a name. I was a late starter, but I was climbing over the lost time. I held one of Dora’s hands and jumped back twice. I pulled her to me, and jumped to meet her. We rubbed close for a second – we were free to while we danced – and jumped away and rolled around, and back around. I sent out a leg, just missed a fat girl whose chap had let her slip. Dora swung me aside, and planted a kick where I’d just been. My turn again – my toe just grazed her final sequin. Then, hard gut to just soft and right, we stared and promised each other a hiding. Sweet and Low Down was like a quick creep up the stairs; that was how these men were playing it, shoes off, before the light came on and caught us. Then, there, in the final bars and seconds, we invented the dance to go with it. We crept across the floor, my hand on her back, hers on mine, finger to my lip, mine to hers; we crept up to the bed. She bit my finger, I grabbed her arse. We hopped over the creak in the stairs, and the audience – there was no one else dancing – knew what we’d done, and laughed and gave us more floor, and more danger. I looked, and saw: the players were looking down at myself and Dora, staring at our feet. Baby Dodds was leaning over his kit, making sure he matched us. The banjo player stopped for a second, to pull his chair nearer the lip of the stage. The notes and beat were ours; we were playing the song. We crept backwards, looking over our shoulders, our faces an inch apart. We didn’t kiss; we wouldn’t get away with that. We pretended to trip, and caught ourselves. The horn player made his trumpet laugh – waw, waw, waw, waaah. One last dash – she opened the door; I slammed it. She jumped; I caught all of her. Two perfect taps on the hi-hat; we were done.
It was stupid, but the sex beneath was well worth the sweat.
There were other couples across the floor, ready to dance up the stairs, waiting for the band to let them go. We stood aside; it wasn’t worth doing any more. The band jumped right back into Sweet and Low Down and the floor was full of creeping couples, fingers bitten much too early, arses grabbed that should have been left alone. The band relied on itself again; the music was polite.
—I could use a tall drink, she said.
We could do that together, drink, if we stood and didn’t share the cup.
She followed me to the bar. It was no big distance but the bodies were piled against it and pushing. Gin could be got outside, or at the kitchen door, for two paper dollars a pint, but me and Dora preferred our drink with a small bit of style. I held back, to catch the bartender, a stride piano tickler on his nights off. I’d met him once, in the Loop, recognised him from the Panama and stopped him f
or a chat. I’d terrified him. I didn’t know how or why back then, six or seven weeks ago, didn’t know that I could have earned him a kicking, far from home and talking to a white man. But I was learning.
—You don’t sweat much, Henry S.
—Neither do you.
—Expected of me, she said. —But you? All you white boys sweat. Where is it?
—I sweat, I told her. —But I manage it.
—Well, how?
The barman saw me. He looked over thirsty faces, two-deep and angry, for the sign from me. I tapped my nose, then hit my temple – a drink for a woman and a drink for a man.
—I sweat when it suits me, I told her. —If the foreman’s walking my way, I’ll sweat like a bastard. In the company of a woman, in my Sunday best, I sweat a good bit less.
—You saying you turn it on and off?
—Yeah. More or less.
—Hell.
—True as God, baby. There’s nothing to it, once you get the hang of it.
I’d learnt how to talk again. I handed over the folding cush, showed the barman the palm of one hand, to let him know the change was his. And I took the cups from him, over the heads of men who’d been waiting a long time to be served. Her cup was taller, thinner; her tea was pink. Mine was the usual.
—If there ain’t nothing to it, she said, —you can teach me.
—You don’t sweat.
—I sweat the stuff other bitches use to mask their sweat. Teach me, anyway.
—Fair enough, I said. —Listening?
—Both ears.
—Every day, in ever-y way, I am getting better and—
There was a face in mine. It was the pinkish tough guy’s and he was looking pinker.
—Yeah, he said.
He nodded. Licked his bottom lip.
—A smart guy.
—Can I buy you a drink? I said.
—More smart guy.
I was stuck. I agreed with the man – I’d been stupid – but spoken agreement would have meant a smack in the mouth and consequences, and so would disagreement. I looked back at him and let him take it further.
—Know what?
Again, no answer was the order.
—That shine behind the bar. Employed here to serve the clientele. He’s dead. And know who’s to blame?
I said nothing.
—You. Know why? Because he served you and you ain’t no client.
His hand was in his pocket. I was ready to break it. I was sweating now, not from choice.
—Yeah, he said.
He licked the bottom lip again.
I could tell: he’d nothing else to say. He was spent or he was building up to shoot me. But Dora was between us, tits on his gun arm. She was talking to him too, but I couldn’t hear words – there was some kind of riot going on behind, around us. He had to take his hand from his pocket; he had to step back to get out from under Dora. He didn’t want to – he was confused and delighted; she was a silver wall between us.
I turned, and saw him.
Louis Armstrong.
His mother had died – Dora told me; she’d come up from New Orleans and died. He’d been gone, and he was back. He put the trumpet to his mouth; the crowd went wild. He took it down. He did it again; he put the horn to his mouth. His eyes stopped looking – the pupils went up into his head, and he played. The drape behind him rolled and shook, and stopped. Nobody danced. Nobody sat. Nobody drank or took a breath.
It was the blues, his grief crying out of the bell. But it was no lament. It was the cry of a terrified child, left all alone, forever. No notes, no breaks, but all one howl that rushed at her dead body; it was angry and lost and – What about meee! – it turned, and turned, and returned to the body, and washed, and dressed her. His mother, mine – she skips and she laughs, her black eyes shine happy – he sent his mother home.
All by himself. He was alone there, somewhere of his own. The other men stood back, afraid to be too close to the death we were there to witness, and the aching, shattering sound that was coming from the man. It didn’t soften; there was no fond look back, no shared prayer.
But it stopped. The trumpet was still at his lips, the eyes were still clenched shut. For the first and only time in my life, I lived in absolute silence.
—That it?
A kid at the bar, whose mother was at home waiting up for him. I laughed, like I hadn’t laughed in years. The whole joint laughed, threw it at the ceiling. A pinkish hand held my shoulder.
—You’re alright, smart guy.
And the eyes up there on the stage were open again, and so was the mouth. The trumpet was at his side, held like a bat.
—Good evening, ev-ery-bo-dy.
There were a few claps that tripped over each other; we’d just laughed at his mother’s funeral.
—That it? he said.
He was smiling now.
—My name’s Mister Arm-strong. We going to play Saint James Infirmary, Saint James Infirmary, and ah—
The trumpet went to the mouth. The arm brought it up without seeming to bend. He turned to the band, Baby Dodds hit the rim of the big drum and the trumpet walked them into a dirty piece of blues that cleared the floor, then filled it again with the brave ones. The eyes were closed; the sweat rolled right over them. I watched him wipe his face while the trombone took a turn. That was the difference between the music when he was there, and the music when he wasn’t. When he wasn’t in on it, there were no turns, no solos; the players galloped along without them. It was tight, it was great, but it was anonymous. When he was there, they stepped out of the circle and had a go; names were made, sounds were invented. The trombone now rode every woman in the house and stepped back for a rest and a wash. And Armstrong put the horn to his mouth and played it like it hurt.
I looked for Dora and saw her with the pink lad. He was on his toes, pushing into her, trying to. Her hands were under his elbows, keeping his hands in the air. Any faster, she’d have been trying to get away. But, as it was, as I heard and saw, she was giving him the ride of his life. And the trumpet kept them at it. There were no dance choices out there; it was fuck or get off the floor.
I had to watch the face as he blew those notes and shaped them, let them go and followed. It was music made for riding, but he was working hard and having none of the fun. I couldn’t get my eyes off him. But I had to. Dora was out there, on the floor with the pink lad, doing what the trumpet was telling her to do. But before I could decide how I felt, what to do, where to bury the cunt that was tiptoeing after her with his langer headbutting her gut, the music became something else. The banjo was there, the trombone dipped and rose; it was dancing time again.
The floor was full.
I knew the tune; I knew all the names – Chicago Breakdown.
I made my move.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
—Mind if I cut in, pal?
He looked back at me, and stopped.
—It’s smart guy, he said. —I hear right? You want to take over here?
—Yeah.
—Be my guest, smart guy.
He held my arm.
—You’re a hard-boiled egg, right?
He squeezed until I leaned down and my ear was close enough to his mouth.
—Keep that pussy good and wet for me, smart guy.
He squeezed again, let go, and patted my arm.
—I’ll be watching yeh.
I grabbed Dora’s hands.
—I’m all danced out, Henry S., she said.
—What were you doing there? I asked.
—Saving your hide, boy.
She looked over my shoulder, and started to dance.
—Who is he?
—Don’t know his big name. Just the little one at the front. Carmine.
—Have you seen him before?
—Yes, I have.
—Here?
—Yes, Henry S. He might even own the establishment. You never can tell with these Eye-talian types.
??
?Christ.
—Do not profane in my presence, Henry S. We safe, I think. If we sensible. He made his point.
—And what’s that?
—You being stupid again. The point ain’t me. It you. So when Dipper finish this number, we finish dancing and you go.
—But—
—Listen to me. This number finish, you go.
Armstrong was bringing the song to its end. He stopped, and the clarinet was taking it to bed.
—Go, she said.
—Where—?
—No more. Get out. It me too, you know. You in trouble, I in trouble. Go on.
She was angry, and scared. And so was I. I didn’t want to leave her, and I didn’t want to step out there. The word from Carmine and the doormen, my pals, would have me dead and unmissed. Alfie Gandon says Hello. He was pink, his feet were small but, I saw now – too late – the fucker was lethal.
But Dora was right. She knew the rules, the do’s and all the don’ts. She’d had a word with Carmine as she hauled him round the tiles. I was safe, as long as I did what was expected. There was no messing here; I saw that in her face. I was choosing life or death.
I turned, and walked away. I’d keep walking.
But he sang.
—ALL YOU HEARD FOR YEARS IN IRELAND–
WAS THE WEARING OF THE GREEN—
The voice was huge, dark, and hilarious and terrifying. It was bigger than the fuckin’ trumpet.
—AND AH WAS BORN IN IRELAND —heh ha
SO IMAGINE HOW I FEEL—
It shook me, nearly took the fuckin’ jacket off my back.
I hadn’t heard him sing before.
—NOW IRELAND’S GONE BLACK BOTTOM CRAZY—
The power of the thing was shoving me to the door, forget the fuckin’ cap, straight out onto the street.
—SEE THEM DAN – YOU OUGHT TO SEE THEM DANCE—
But I had to look, to see that it was actually him.
—FOLKS SUPPOSE TO BE REAL LAZY—
I turned.
—EVEN DANCE – I MEAN THEY DANCE—
He was looking straight at me.
—I HANDING YOU NO BLARNEY—
And the mouth was looking at me.
—WHEN I SAY THEY GO—
THEY REALLY GO—
I saw the words.
—Streets paved with gold over there?
—Nope.
—I guess not, or all those nice Irish people be right back over there. Where nobody poor and the girls throw out the dresses they wear but once. Might go there myself.
—You’ve made your point.
—I made one of my points. I also wear this dress nights I step out by my own self, or with some man else.
She was in, through the black leather-padded doors that opened out to the street as she approached.
It was my turn. I strolled right up to the doormen, white. A black man couldn’t have stopped a white man from entering. They nodded, stepped back – tap tap – and let me pass. They knew me by now. They saw the same suit every time I came their way, the cap, the boots beneath the cuffs. I was one of their own; they could wink and cheer me on.
—I got the heebies, said one.
—I got the jeebies, I said back.
They were Armstrong’s lines, and they’d become famous since he’d first shouted them the year before.
—Is he frying tonight? I asked.
—Word is.
—But you don’t know for sure.
—No one knows for sure, sport.
—Fair enough.
—Word is, he was in the Sunset last night. Maybe our turn tonight.
—Okay.
I slipped them both a dollar, no show, no high-hat. I had the money, but didn’t flaunt it. They liked that; one of their own. They let me open the door myself.
—See you on the way out, lads.
But I didn’t.
I left my cap with the hat-check girl; it was a hats-off kind of place. The girl, a light-skinned doll who seemed new to the job, didn’t seem sure what to do. I leaned across and took the ticket from her hand, left a nickel in its place, and walked straight into the music and the heat that always came with it.
I worked all day for the dollars and nickels I handed around as I moved through this new world and made myself memorable, a man to know, a man to step aside for. But I was handing out far more than I earned lugging beef and hog-meat. I was spending more boodle than I’d ever had before.
I looked for Dora.
So, where did it come from?
I robbed it.
She was, as always, easy to locate. I looked where everyone else was looking, and there she was, dancing with another guy, doing what she called the Bunny Hug. I could tell her heart wasn’t in it; the bunny was a dead one and the guy would be dragging its corpse around for another few minutes. But only she knew, and I knew. She was killing the time till I arrived. A coloured girl couldn’t sit by herself and wouldn’t be let stand alone for long. She’d be shooed along to a tableful of college boys or the hard guys bellying the bar. I could watch now and feel sorry for the sap. He was trying for the tough but elegant look, the spats, the stripes; he was almost there, not quite. He was too pink to impress, even a woman as pink as himself. He was carrying weight, too soft at the neck and ears, and sweating through the stripes – which didn’t mean he wasn’t tough. The white clients, the would-be guys and dolls, liked these tough guys leaning on the bar or mingling with them. The presence of gangsters made them feel safe on this knife-carrying side of town, especially in the black and tans, where the street sometimes followed them onto the dance floor. I looked again at the guy in the stripes. He was carrying a gun; it was sitting fat there in his jacket pocket, right side. But the gun and his wop credentials didn’t matter. He was no match for Dora. I let them at it.
The tough guys had made me halt, the first time I’d noticed them. It was New York all over again. It was Dublin. They’d got there before me. But she’d seen me scope them, and guessed.
—They ain’t Irish, Henry S., she said. —The Irish don’t come down here.
—Never?
—Ever. They Eye-talians. They like to dance and they like to dance to hot music.
And she was right. The crooks were there for the night out, killing time between heists. So I left them at it and watched the band tap away the remaining seconds of their dance.
I’d seen them before, together or in different set-ups. They went wherever the work was. We could go to another place later and find two or three of these same men on the stage, along with others we’d never seen before. The leader one night sat well back another night. I’d seen some of these men in the orchestra at the Vendome, the picture house up the street, and I’d seen the trombone player on the back of a truck, minutes before, with Mister Ammons. He’d had time to change or shake himself; he was sharp as the other men up there, no sign of the street on his threads. The gold drape behind him shimmered, as if there was a huge gorgeous woman rolling behind it, being tickled by the notes and beat. I knew the drummer; I knew his name. Baby Dodds. He beat the rim of his bass drum, and did a dance of his own, without moving his arse from the stool. Then, chorus over, he was moving among the drums again, herding the others, the great jazz drover, taking them with him without even trying.
Two hi-hat taps put a stop to the tune and, as partners stopped and people upped or sat, I got on to the floor and took Dora from the pink lad. I had to be quick. The band didn’t wait; the applause was too polite. They were out there again, thumping and skipping through Sweet and Low Down.
—How’s it goin’? I said to the pink lad with the gun, and we left him there, as the dancers filled the floor and quickly swallowed him.
Each dance was a new one, even when it had a name. I was a late starter, but I was climbing over the lost time. I held one of Dora’s hands and jumped back twice. I pulled her to me, and jumped to meet her. We rubbed close for a second – we were free to while we danced – and jumped away and rolled around, and back around. I sent out a leg, just missed a fat girl whose chap had let her slip. Dora swung me aside, and planted a kick where I’d just been. My turn again – my toe just grazed her final sequin. Then, hard gut to just soft and right, we stared and promised each other a hiding. Sweet and Low Down was like a quick creep up the stairs; that was how these men were playing it, shoes off, before the light came on and caught us. Then, there, in the final bars and seconds, we invented the dance to go with it. We crept across the floor, my hand on her back, hers on mine, finger to my lip, mine to hers; we crept up to the bed. She bit my finger, I grabbed her arse. We hopped over the creak in the stairs, and the audience – there was no one else dancing – knew what we’d done, and laughed and gave us more floor, and more danger. I looked, and saw: the players were looking down at myself and Dora, staring at our feet. Baby Dodds was leaning over his kit, making sure he matched us. The banjo player stopped for a second, to pull his chair nearer the lip of the stage. The notes and beat were ours; we were playing the song. We crept backwards, looking over our shoulders, our faces an inch apart. We didn’t kiss; we wouldn’t get away with that. We pretended to trip, and caught ourselves. The horn player made his trumpet laugh – waw, waw, waw, waaah. One last dash – she opened the door; I slammed it. She jumped; I caught all of her. Two perfect taps on the hi-hat; we were done.
It was stupid, but the sex beneath was well worth the sweat.
There were other couples across the floor, ready to dance up the stairs, waiting for the band to let them go. We stood aside; it wasn’t worth doing any more. The band jumped right back into Sweet and Low Down and the floor was full of creeping couples, fingers bitten much too early, arses grabbed that should have been left alone. The band relied on itself again; the music was polite.
—I could use a tall drink, she said.
We could do that together, drink, if we stood and didn’t share the cup.
She followed me to the bar. It was no big distance but the bodies were piled against it and pushing. Gin could be got outside, or at the kitchen door, for two paper dollars a pint, but me and Dora preferred our drink with a small bit of style. I held back, to catch the bartender, a stride piano tickler on his nights off. I’d met him once, in the Loop, recognised him from the Panama and stopped him f
—You don’t sweat much, Henry S.
—Neither do you.
—Expected of me, she said. —But you? All you white boys sweat. Where is it?
—I sweat, I told her. —But I manage it.
—Well, how?
The barman saw me. He looked over thirsty faces, two-deep and angry, for the sign from me. I tapped my nose, then hit my temple – a drink for a woman and a drink for a man.
—I sweat when it suits me, I told her. —If the foreman’s walking my way, I’ll sweat like a bastard. In the company of a woman, in my Sunday best, I sweat a good bit less.
—You saying you turn it on and off?
—Yeah. More or less.
—Hell.
—True as God, baby. There’s nothing to it, once you get the hang of it.
I’d learnt how to talk again. I handed over the folding cush, showed the barman the palm of one hand, to let him know the change was his. And I took the cups from him, over the heads of men who’d been waiting a long time to be served. Her cup was taller, thinner; her tea was pink. Mine was the usual.
—If there ain’t nothing to it, she said, —you can teach me.
—You don’t sweat.
—I sweat the stuff other bitches use to mask their sweat. Teach me, anyway.
—Fair enough, I said. —Listening?
—Both ears.
—Every day, in ever-y way, I am getting better and—
There was a face in mine. It was the pinkish tough guy’s and he was looking pinker.
—Yeah, he said.
He nodded. Licked his bottom lip.
—A smart guy.
—Can I buy you a drink? I said.
—More smart guy.
I was stuck. I agreed with the man – I’d been stupid – but spoken agreement would have meant a smack in the mouth and consequences, and so would disagreement. I looked back at him and let him take it further.
—Know what?
Again, no answer was the order.
—That shine behind the bar. Employed here to serve the clientele. He’s dead. And know who’s to blame?
I said nothing.
—You. Know why? Because he served you and you ain’t no client.
His hand was in his pocket. I was ready to break it. I was sweating now, not from choice.
—Yeah, he said.
He licked the bottom lip again.
I could tell: he’d nothing else to say. He was spent or he was building up to shoot me. But Dora was between us, tits on his gun arm. She was talking to him too, but I couldn’t hear words – there was some kind of riot going on behind, around us. He had to take his hand from his pocket; he had to step back to get out from under Dora. He didn’t want to – he was confused and delighted; she was a silver wall between us.
I turned, and saw him.
Louis Armstrong.
His mother had died – Dora told me; she’d come up from New Orleans and died. He’d been gone, and he was back. He put the trumpet to his mouth; the crowd went wild. He took it down. He did it again; he put the horn to his mouth. His eyes stopped looking – the pupils went up into his head, and he played. The drape behind him rolled and shook, and stopped. Nobody danced. Nobody sat. Nobody drank or took a breath.
It was the blues, his grief crying out of the bell. But it was no lament. It was the cry of a terrified child, left all alone, forever. No notes, no breaks, but all one howl that rushed at her dead body; it was angry and lost and – What about meee! – it turned, and turned, and returned to the body, and washed, and dressed her. His mother, mine – she skips and she laughs, her black eyes shine happy – he sent his mother home.
All by himself. He was alone there, somewhere of his own. The other men stood back, afraid to be too close to the death we were there to witness, and the aching, shattering sound that was coming from the man. It didn’t soften; there was no fond look back, no shared prayer.
But it stopped. The trumpet was still at his lips, the eyes were still clenched shut. For the first and only time in my life, I lived in absolute silence.
—That it?
A kid at the bar, whose mother was at home waiting up for him. I laughed, like I hadn’t laughed in years. The whole joint laughed, threw it at the ceiling. A pinkish hand held my shoulder.
—You’re alright, smart guy.
And the eyes up there on the stage were open again, and so was the mouth. The trumpet was at his side, held like a bat.
—Good evening, ev-ery-bo-dy.
There were a few claps that tripped over each other; we’d just laughed at his mother’s funeral.
—That it? he said.
He was smiling now.
—My name’s Mister Arm-strong. We going to play Saint James Infirmary, Saint James Infirmary, and ah—
The trumpet went to the mouth. The arm brought it up without seeming to bend. He turned to the band, Baby Dodds hit the rim of the big drum and the trumpet walked them into a dirty piece of blues that cleared the floor, then filled it again with the brave ones. The eyes were closed; the sweat rolled right over them. I watched him wipe his face while the trombone took a turn. That was the difference between the music when he was there, and the music when he wasn’t. When he wasn’t in on it, there were no turns, no solos; the players galloped along without them. It was tight, it was great, but it was anonymous. When he was there, they stepped out of the circle and had a go; names were made, sounds were invented. The trombone now rode every woman in the house and stepped back for a rest and a wash. And Armstrong put the horn to his mouth and played it like it hurt.
I looked for Dora and saw her with the pink lad. He was on his toes, pushing into her, trying to. Her hands were under his elbows, keeping his hands in the air. Any faster, she’d have been trying to get away. But, as it was, as I heard and saw, she was giving him the ride of his life. And the trumpet kept them at it. There were no dance choices out there; it was fuck or get off the floor.
I had to watch the face as he blew those notes and shaped them, let them go and followed. It was music made for riding, but he was working hard and having none of the fun. I couldn’t get my eyes off him. But I had to. Dora was out there, on the floor with the pink lad, doing what the trumpet was telling her to do. But before I could decide how I felt, what to do, where to bury the cunt that was tiptoeing after her with his langer headbutting her gut, the music became something else. The banjo was there, the trombone dipped and rose; it was dancing time again.
The floor was full.
I knew the tune; I knew all the names – Chicago Breakdown.
I made my move.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
—Mind if I cut in, pal?
He looked back at me, and stopped.
—It’s smart guy, he said. —I hear right? You want to take over here?
—Yeah.
—Be my guest, smart guy.
He held my arm.
—You’re a hard-boiled egg, right?
He squeezed until I leaned down and my ear was close enough to his mouth.
—Keep that pussy good and wet for me, smart guy.
He squeezed again, let go, and patted my arm.
—I’ll be watching yeh.
I grabbed Dora’s hands.
—I’m all danced out, Henry S., she said.
—What were you doing there? I asked.
—Saving your hide, boy.
She looked over my shoulder, and started to dance.
—Who is he?
—Don’t know his big name. Just the little one at the front. Carmine.
—Have you seen him before?
—Yes, I have.
—Here?
—Yes, Henry S. He might even own the establishment. You never can tell with these Eye-talian types.
??
—Do not profane in my presence, Henry S. We safe, I think. If we sensible. He made his point.
—And what’s that?
—You being stupid again. The point ain’t me. It you. So when Dipper finish this number, we finish dancing and you go.
—But—
—Listen to me. This number finish, you go.
Armstrong was bringing the song to its end. He stopped, and the clarinet was taking it to bed.
—Go, she said.
—Where—?
—No more. Get out. It me too, you know. You in trouble, I in trouble. Go on.
She was angry, and scared. And so was I. I didn’t want to leave her, and I didn’t want to step out there. The word from Carmine and the doormen, my pals, would have me dead and unmissed. Alfie Gandon says Hello. He was pink, his feet were small but, I saw now – too late – the fucker was lethal.
But Dora was right. She knew the rules, the do’s and all the don’ts. She’d had a word with Carmine as she hauled him round the tiles. I was safe, as long as I did what was expected. There was no messing here; I saw that in her face. I was choosing life or death.
I turned, and walked away. I’d keep walking.
But he sang.
—ALL YOU HEARD FOR YEARS IN IRELAND–
WAS THE WEARING OF THE GREEN—
The voice was huge, dark, and hilarious and terrifying. It was bigger than the fuckin’ trumpet.
—AND AH WAS BORN IN IRELAND —heh ha
SO IMAGINE HOW I FEEL—
It shook me, nearly took the fuckin’ jacket off my back.
I hadn’t heard him sing before.
—NOW IRELAND’S GONE BLACK BOTTOM CRAZY—
The power of the thing was shoving me to the door, forget the fuckin’ cap, straight out onto the street.
—SEE THEM DAN – YOU OUGHT TO SEE THEM DANCE—
But I had to look, to see that it was actually him.
—FOLKS SUPPOSE TO BE REAL LAZY—
I turned.
—EVEN DANCE – I MEAN THEY DANCE—
He was looking straight at me.
—I HANDING YOU NO BLARNEY—
And the mouth was looking at me.
—WHEN I SAY THEY GO—
THEY REALLY GO—
I saw the words.