“Weak,” he whispered.
“Actually, I
am
the boss,” said Victor, gamely carrying on. “You’d do well to remember that, Mason, and I’ll thank you to show me some respect.”
“Respect is earned, not ordered up like Chinese take-out. At least I have some respect for good food.”
Okay, maybe we should have scripted this. You’d think that as a jazzman my improv chops would be strong, but they weren’t, not with this. And I hadn’t given Victor much to work with for a comeback.
“Why don’t you go back to playing your guitar for a living, then,” he said. “Oh, that’s right, you tried that and failed. That’s why you came crawling back for a pay-check.”
Now, that was over the line, even for a fake argument. Even when it was all for show, Victor had to win. I got pissed.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said, standing up, and I meant it.
I reached over and knocked his scotch out of his hand. It spilled over his expensive slacks, and his eyes tightened. I might have gone too far myself; he was pissed as well now. By now most of the bar was watching. Victor also stood up and for a moment I thought he was going to deck me. He’s smaller than I am, but he’s a martial artist among other things and you wouldn’t want to tangle with him for real.
“Victor,” Timothy said warningly, and Victor relaxed just a bit. Timothy was the only one who could calm him down when he started losing it.
“Just leave,” Victor said. “I’m sick of you, and I don’t need to put up with any more of your crap.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself.” I motioned to Lou. “Let’s go,” I said, and strode out of the bar without a backward look.
When I got outside I realized I’d ridden over with Victor and Eli, so I had no way to get home. I ended up taking a bus, with the usual hassle about Lou, and then BART to the Mission. I was in a rather sour mood; even though the spat with Victor had been phony, there had been an undercurrent to it that left a bad taste in my mouth. And I could already see trouble coming from this. I’d managed to get myself talked into a dicey situation, and not even for money, either. I’d played a lot of cheap gigs in my time, but this was the first time I’d been suckered in by nothing more than a cheese omelette.
THREE
I CALLED JESSIE THE NEXT DAY AND TOLD HER I’d reconsidered. I didn’t give her a reason.
“Might I ask what brought about this change of heart?” she said.
“Rent. Food. Victor hasn’t had much work for me lately, not that I’d take it, anyway.”
“Oh? No trouble between you, I hope.”
She’d surely heard about the fight at Gavagan’s, so this was my opening, my chance to rail against Victor, but I remembered Eli’s advice. It would be just a little too pat, and Jessie was no fool. I let that sit just a moment longer than usual before I answered.
“No, not really. Just the usual. We have some differences of opinion.”
“I can understand that,” she said. “Anything in particular?”
Again I was tempted but I didn’t push it. If I was going to worm my way into her confidence, it had to be done slowly. If you jump right in, sooner or later the person you’re trying to con starts wondering why you’re being so forthcoming.
“No,” I said. “Victor’s okay, I guess.” I changed the subject. “If I’m going to be looking for this woman, I’d like to have that photo of her. Using words to describe people works only up to a point.”
“Of course. I’ll be up in your neck of the woods later today if you want to meet up.”
I wasn’t happy that she apparently knew where I lived, but then, she’d obviously had me checked out thoroughly before she ever called me. I do like my privacy but I’m not hiding, either, so I’m not hard to track down.
“Café Java,” I said. “Sixteenth and Guerrero.”
That wasn’t one of my usual haunts, but I wanted to avoid my favorite spots. I’m not sure why; it just seemed like a good idea.
I was at an outside table later that afternoon, drinking a latte, when Jessie showed up wearing a floppy straw hat and carrying a large straw bag. It was big enough to hold all sorts of things—like a good-sized snake, for instance. She plopped herself down on the chair across from me, very much at ease.
The first thing she did, before even saying a word, was to reach into the bag and pull out the photo I’d seen at her office. When she did, I got a glimpse of something moving inside it. Lou’s head had already snapped around the moment she sat down, and he was staring fixedly at the bag. Not very polite, but I didn’t blame him.
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked. “Show it around like in a Raymond Chandler novel?”
“Something like that,” I said. “You said she’s a jazz player—what instrument?”
“Piano. Is that important?”
“Possibly. It gives me a few ideas about leads.”
“Such as?”
I put on a faux tough face. “I’ll ask the questions here, ma’am.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you will. From what I’ve heard you ask a lot of questions. I also heard something about some odd creatures roaming the city a while back, and you going around asking questions. Did you get any answers?”
“I did. Not always the ones I wanted.”
She waited expectantly for further explanation, but I just smiled blandly at her. Mason, man of mystery, that’s me. But it was interesting that she’d brought that up. We’d had to deal with some strange things indeed, some vicious, some not, that had been spawned by an energy pool. A gateway of sorts that I’d unwittingly helped to establish a while back.
We’d never been able to close it, though Victor and Eli had finally come up with a way to keep anything else from coming through, at least for now. But it was still a worry. I wondered if Jessie was aware of it, and if so, why she was asking questions about its consequences.
“Well, I’m late for a meeting,” she said, when it became clear I wasn’t going to say anything else. She knew enough about people not to push things, either. She scraped her chair back and got to her feet. “Mason. Lou.” She nodded to each of us and set off down the street without looking back.
I looked at the photo again, this time more carefully. It’s impossible to tell character from a photo, but that doesn’t stop anyone from trying. I was hoping to see something in it, a sly look or a narrowing of the eyes. But all I saw was a good-natured humor in the face, and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows who she is. She didn’t look like a thief. Then again, the good ones never do. Or maybe she just took a good photo.
I sat idly, sipping my latte and considering. I did have a good idea about how to go about finding her. If it didn’t pan out, I’d be at sea, though; I didn’t have any backup plan. But I’d deal with that when I had to.
According to Jessie, Jackie was a musician. Now, when you’re in hiding, it’s a good idea to change your routine and avoid those things that define you. If you’re an avid skier, stay off the slopes. If you’re a surfer, stay away from the beach. And if you’re a musician, don’t start up a band or hang around at jam sessions.
But that’s easier said than done. At first, you’re looking over your shoulder and jumping at every noise. But after a while, when nothing happens, you start to relax. You can’t live in fear forever, watching every step—it’s like being on a diet; for a while it’s not that difficult, but sooner or later old habits creep back and before you know it you’re scarfing down cheesecake.
And Jackie had last been with Jessie in Seattle. She might not even be aware that Jessie was now in San Francisco as well, much less that she’d been fingered as living in the city herself. So, the urge to play some music would seem harmless enough.
But where? You can’t just waltz in and start playing with people at random. Sure, there are jam sessions for jazz players, quite a few of them, actually. But most of them are geared toward the intermediate player, with a house band sometimes providing the rhythm section. There aren’t that many that cater to accomplished musicians, which, according to Jessie, Jackie was.
The prime jam session for jazz players is at the Dogpatch Saloon, four to eight every Sunday. Everybody’s welcome, and the players are surprisingly kind, but some heavy cats drop in on a regular basis. It’s intimidating unless you know your way around your ax, and mediocre players don’t usually brave the bandstand more than once.
Dogpatch, over on Third Street, is named for the area of the city it’s located in, namely Dogpatch. Whether that has anything to do with the old Li’l Abner cartoons, I don’t know. I do know Dogpatch used to be an industrial area with a few clubs and lots of machine shops and vinyl repair stores. As a result, nighttime parking was once plentiful, perfect for a club location. But now, like everywhere else in San Francisco, the area developed a rep as a hip place to live and parking has become difficult.
The Dogpatch Saloon is another bar where Lou is welcome. I used to spend a lot of time hanging out there, back when gigs were scarcer and the magical world was quieter. Eventually, Lou wormed his way in. He was on his best behavior at first, as he always is until people get used to his being around. Then he starts in with shameless begging, but by that time no one would even think of banning him.
Another thing I like about Dogpatch is that it never seems to change. No matter how long you’re away, you still see the same long straight bar with captain’s chairs, the same scuffed pool table, and, mostly, the same familiar faces. The bar was packed whenever I walked in carrying my ax, and since I knew at least half of the regulars I always got a bunch of friendly waves.
When I headed over there the next day Shirley was tending bar, which she always did for the Sunday jam sessions. She’s heavyset, short-haired, and knows more about fixing motorcycles than the average mechanic. The perfect stereotype of a particular type of gay woman, except that she’s entirely straight with a doting husband.
A young kid was up on the stage, nervously fingering his alto while the house band thumbed through their real books looking for the tune he called. I guessed it was his first time up there. It might be his last. I walked up to the bar and ordered a Sierra Pale Ale. Shirley whacked it down on the bar.
“Mason,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in here for a while. I hear you’re playing a lot around town, though. Too good for this place these days?”
“I’ve always been too good for this place. It’s just taken a while for others to realize that.” She snorted, looking down at my guitar case. In it, a blond fifties Gibson Birdland, my pride and joy.
“You going to honor us with a few tunes tonight?”
“I thought I might give it a whirl. Maybe I can even fool a few people.”
Lou made it up onto one of the bar chairs and stepped daintily on top of the bar itself, tail wagging hopefully, in search of a treat. Shirley reached behind her for some beef jerky.
“You need to teach that dog some manners,” she said, but she didn’t mean it.
“Yeah, sure. Good luck with that.”
I kicked back, drank some beer, and listened to the band, with the new kid sitting in on sax. They kicked off with “Pent-Up House,” an old Sonny Rollins tune. It was a good choice on the kid’s part, because although the timing on the head is a bit tricky, the changes are straightforward and easy to solo over, with lots of room and a steady swing rhythm. At first the kid was tentative, trying hard not to make the slightest mistake, and so his playing, naturally enough, was rather stilted. But he definitely had potential, and I added some loud clapping to the crowd response when he finished his solo. It was more enthusiastic than he strictly deserved, but the regulars at Dogpatch are nice people and all musicians remember what it’s like to be new and start playing out with the big boys—although not all of them care. But it worked; on the next tune he relaxed and just started to blow without thinking about it, and really caught fire. He was grinning when he stepped off the stage, just another jazzman.
Joe Antonelli, the guy on the piano, caught sight of me and motioned for me to come on up.
“Long time, no see,” he said. “What do you want to play?”
“Something easy. You call it.”
I could see him considering, trying to come up with the hardest tune he could think of, but finally he relented and decided to take it easy on me.
“ ‘Stella’?”
“Sounds good.”
“Stella by Starlight” is a standard I could play in my sleep. But it’s a nice tune, with great changes, and the challenge is to find something new about it each time. I plugged into the little house amp and gave it a credible ride, though it didn’t have my full attention. I was thinking about how to approach getting a line on the missing Jackie.
Since these were friends and acquaintances, it was a lot easier than it could have been. If you walk into a bar as a stranger and start flashing a photo around and asking questions, all you’ll get is blank looks. And unless it’s someone everybody hates, you can be sure that person will hear about it before the night is over.
But even though these were friends, I still had to tread lightly. She might well have friends here, too, and being an attractive young woman, maybe even more than that. The last thing I wanted was to let her know that someone was sniffing around after her.