Tiger Rag (24 page)

He bought a new black suit and the sort of expensive, splashy shirts he hadn’t worn in years. He cleaned himself up: good haircut, shave, manicure. He dyed his hair himself: it came out coppery, unnatural, but he preferred it to gray. After flying in to Newark, he checked in to a prewar hotel off Times Square, the Lancaster Arms, and ate soup and crackers at a deli
.

He had a plan of sorts. Step one: reintroduce himself to Sammy LeMond; step two: get into LeMond’s good graces again; step three: get the lay of the land. There was still no step four. He had listened to LeMond’s LPs with envy, but knew little about his personal life, aside from the fact he was married. He’d heard he was reclusive, rarely performing in public anymore, but was still generous with his friends. A clarinetist named Harry Madison attested to this one night in L.A., relating to Owen how LeMond had allowed him to eat off the cuff at his club
. He knew my eyesight was goin’,
Madison said
, and he done what he could. If there’s a better man around, I don’t know who he is.

Owen’s second afternoon in New York, he worked up the nerve to telephone LeMond’s apartment. A woman answered the phone. The new wife. She had a strong low voice. It unnerved him for a moment; it was not what he had imagined. He
hung up on her. He waited until the next morning to call again, and this time the housekeeper took a message. That evening LeMond returned his call
.

You’re back, Val. Come by my club tomorrow night.

Though he had heard about the club’s success, Owen was surprised to discover how ritzy it was, abuzz with well-heeled customers, limos in front, the sidewalk rope line managed by a pair of bouncers. There were eight-foot bronze mirrors behind the bar. The rows of bottles on glass shelves were lit mauve and magenta. Atop Doric columns, marble mermaids surveyed the room. The waitresses wore black pants, white vests, and red bow ties. They sailed out of the kitchen with trays of steaming crab platters, fried shrimp, garlic soup. A quartet of lean young musicians was burning up the stage with a double-time version of “Flying Home.” In a green neon suit and yellow shirt, the handsome trumpeter was obviously their leader. To close the piece, he reared back beneath a gold spotlight and launched into a wicked extended solo. Owen hadn’t heard anyone that good in years: the intricate phrasing at high speed, the tremendous volume. And he had presence. The stage was his
.

Owen found LeMond holding court in a corner booth with three other men. Businessmen. Armani suits and Santoni shoes. The one sitting next to LeMond was the oldest and flashiest: tanned, his silver hair glistening, he wore a purplish suit and a diamond-studded Rolex
.

LeMond himself was wearing a chalk-striped jacket and orange shirt. His brow was unlined and his thick hair streaked gray. He’s gotten older, too, Owen thought, but he still looks younger than me. LeMond had just turned sixty. He was on medication for high blood pressure and arrhythmia. He was plagued by vertigo and insomnia. After an angina attack, he
went in for weekly cardiograms, but everything looked all right. His wife put him on a regimen of vegetables, rice, and green tea. But that night, in high spirits, he was drinking more than usual. The champagne, he told himself, would help him sleep
.

He beckoned Owen to join them. As Owen slid into the booth, LeMond introduced him all around. The silver-haired man, Jake Romer, turned out to be president of the jazz division at RCA
.

This is a celebration, Val,
LeMond said
. Jake signed Lenny there to a three-record contract.

Lenny was the young trumpeter, just taking his bow
.

Bravo,
Jake shouted, raising his Scotch in the direction of the stage
.

Lenny’s conservatory trained,
LeMond said
. Knows every kind of music.
When the applause died down, he turned to Val
. What’ll you have?

Ginger ale, thanks.

Val’s a fine trumpeter himself, Jake,
LeMond said
. He’s just in from the coast.

Jake smiled at Owen, then looked away
.

Owen wished he could disappear at that moment. He was furious at LeMond for inviting him to such an occasion, setting him up for humiliation. His anger made it easy for him to forget that it was he who had called LeMond, fishing for just such an invitation. At the same time, Owen was dazed to find himself in such company—well beyond the realm of his recent fantasies—just two days after walking out of his run-down building in West Hollywood
.

The band left the stage, and Lenny Marquet made his way to their booth. Trumpet tucked under his arm, he had a confident
gait, smiling at friends in the audience, winking at girls. “Conservatory trained,” Owen thought mockingly. He could barely look at him
.

An hour later, they were all at LeMond’s apartment, Lenny and his band, the record executives, and about seventy other people, including two of the girls who had caught Lenny’s eye and were now planted beside him. Valentine Owen was glad to be among them, but at the same time felt even more uncomfortable than he had at the club. He recognized a number of guests: Keith Jarrett’s sidemen, Gary Peacock and Jack DeJohnette—both older than he had imagined; Sonny Rollins; Emile Griffith, the former boxing champion; Eartha Kitt; Craig Toland, the jazz critic for
Billboard;
and a couple of young film actresses whose names he couldn’t remember. There was a sumptuous buffet, a bartender from the club mixing drinks, and three of those waitresses with the red bow ties floating around with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Owen could have used a drink, but he resisted. Even spruced up, in his new clothes, he was sure he stuck out. In reality, hardly anyone took notice of him
.

Mostly he stood against the wall, taking the place in. LeMond was flush, all right. The white Steinway was still there and the African sculptures, but plenty had changed in twenty years. The apartment felt warmer, more intimate. The furniture upholstered colorfully, the carpets more ornate, the track lighting soft. The wife’s touches were everywhere: pale satin drapes, French mirrors, a collection of Haitian art. Gilt-framed photographs of the couple adorned a table beside the piano. In Paris and Tangier, on the Ramblas in Barcelona, tossing coins into a fountain in Copenhagen. She was certainly a beautiful woman, Owen thought
.

He filled a plate at the buffet. The stuff his stomach could tolerate: bread, cheese, potato salad. He drifted around the room. The music on the stereo was Lenny Marquet’s forthcoming album. The kid was more than good. He played his own compositions, some reconfigured Ellington, a samba, and two old New Orleans standards, “Riverside Blues” and “Weather Bird,” that he’d made his own. Owen sat by the window and listened. One of the actresses came over for a smoke. She stood with her back to him, gazing at the impressive view. She had long hair, an hourglass figure. Owen could feel the heat off her body. He wished he could touch her
.

At that moment, feeling a pair of eyes on him, he glanced up and there was LeMond’s wife in a knot of people in the foyer, putting on her coat, staring intently at him. She was even more striking in person. He mustered a smile, but she didn’t return it. Why the icy stare? Suddenly she was walking toward him. He stood up. There was nowhere for him to go. She stepped up close. He could smell her perfume. She was his height, looking into his eyes
.

I’m Joan. Sammy’s wife.

Pleased to meet you. I’m Valentine Owen.

She nodded, and he felt she was looking right through him
.

Sammy’s mentioned me?

No.

I’m an old friend. I met Sammy years ago. He helped me out.

He helps a lot of people.

Owen was sweating
. Well, I’ll never forget it.

She lowered her voice
. Stay away from Sammy, you understand?

What?

You heard me,
she said sharply
. I don’t want to see you here again.

Turning on her heel, she returned to the foyer and walked out the door with her companions
.

Owen was shaken. He nearly left the apartment then, too, but thought better of it. His instincts told him that if he didn’t stick around now, he might never get the chance to return
.

Joan Neptune took a taxi across town to a friend’s birthday party, and an hour later, sipping bourbon on top of all the champagne, Sammy LeMond acted on an impulse she surely would have quashed
.

He invited Lenny Marquet, Lenny’s bass player and cousin, Marvell Atkins, and Valentine Owen into his study and closed the door. Like the rest of the apartment, it had been made over: oak bookshelves, an antique desk, a plush sofa. On one wall there were inscribed photographs of famous jazzmen—Ben Webster, Stan Getz, Gene Krupa, Milt Jackson—each of them standing with LeMond. There were also photographs of early New Orleans bands, like Kid Ory’s Sunshine Orchestra and the Excelsior Brass Band. A beautifully preserved cylinder phonograph with a brass horn sat on a shelf between a humidor and a bust of a fierce, mustachioed man
.

As LeMond picked up the phonograph, he gestured toward the bust
. That’s Rafael Méndez, the Mexican cornetist. Recently passed away. He was trained classical—like you, Lenny—but he also played the cornet in Pancho Villa’s army.

You knew him?
Lenny asked
.

I did. Some say he is the greatest cornetist of all time.

He placed the phonograph on the coffee table, then sat down and poured each man a tumbler of bourbon
.

When LeMond toasted Lenny, Owen put his tumbler to his lips, but didn’t drink
.

Thank you for this party, man,
Lenny said
.

LeMond patted his shoulder
. This is just the beginning for you boys. Isn’t that right, Val?

Owen smiled, thinking, How the hell would I know? Fuck you, Sammy
.

Lenny downed his drink
. The fighter you introduced me to: is it true he killed a man in the ring?

LeMond refilled his tumbler
. Never got over it. Pretty much killed him, too.

I remember that fight,
Owen put in
.

The other guy was out on his feet, but wouldn’t go down,
LeMond said
. I was there.

Of course you were, Owen thought. Everything LeMond said was bothering him now
.

Emile’s a friend of Joan’s,
LeMond said
. She helped him through a tough time.

She’s a fine woman,
Marvell said
.

Yes, she is,
LeMond said
. Now, this is a special evening, and I’ve got a surprise for you, Lenny. Didn’t plan it, but it feels right.

He opened the armoire in the corner. On one knee, wobbling slightly, he reached way in, inserted a key in a lock, and brought out a cylindrical box with a gold top. It was labeled
EDISON GOLD MOULDED RECORDS
,
beside an oval photograph of a young Thomas Edison
.

With due respect to Méndez,
he said
, the man I consider the greatest cornetist of all time recorded this cylinder. In 1904. There is no possession I treasure more. Only three people have ever listened to it with me.

LeMond took one of the photographs off the wall and handed it to Lenny
. I expect you’ve heard of Buddy Bolden. This is his band. That’s him, second from right on top. He was about your age then. This is the only photograph of him there is.
LeMond fastened the cylinder to the mandrel
. And this is his only known recording.

No way,
Marvell said
. My grandfather talked about Bolden. He heard him play in New Orleans.

Onstage, live, is the only way you could hear him,
LeMond said
. Until now.
He lifted the needle and placed it on the wax
. Listen …

There was a sizzle of static before the soaring version of “Tiger Rag” filled the room. Tilting his head back, closing his eyes, Lenny drank in the sound. He never forgot that Louis Armstrong said a real musician doesn’t listen to the music, he listens to the notes, and that’s what he did, astonished at the progressions he was hearing from the cornet
.

Goddamn,
Marvell murmured
.

Valentine Owen had the same reaction, but his eyes were open and his mind was racing, trying to calculate the cylinder’s worth. A hundred thousand, two hundred, more?

The music ended, and LeMond lifted the needle
.

Was I right?
he asked
.

Lenny laughed
. I never heard anybody play like that. Not Miles, not anyone.

No one,
Marvell agreed, turning to LeMond
. But where did you get it?

LeMond shook his head and poured himself another shot
. Let’s just say this cylinder traveled a long way before it came into my hands. One day I’ll put it out in the world.

Somebody own the rights?
Marvell asked
.

LeMond smiled
. A ghost. And he’ll get his due. In the meantime, please keep this to yourselves—no questions asked. I need you to do that.

Lenny and Marvell exchanged glances
. You can count on it,
Lenny said
.

That’s right,
Owen put in
.

Good.
LeMond slid the cylinder back in its box, returned it to the hidden cabinet, and closed up the armoire
.

Thank you, man,
Lenny said
.

My pleasure. Now, I need to get back to my other guests.
He opened the door, and the noise of the party washed in
. You all run on ahead.

Thanks for inviting me in,
Owen said
.

LeMond patted his arm
. My pleasure.

Lenny and Marvell melted into the crowd. Owen lingered by the door long enough to see LeMond tuck the key away in a drawer at the base of the humidor
.

For ten days, Owen waited for an opening. He became a regular at LeMond’s club, waiting for LeMond to turn up, dining there every night despite the strain it put on his budget. It was like the old days, trying to attach himself to LeMond, except LeMond’s wife had ordered him to stay away. He spent hours lying awake in his hotel room, dredging his memory, trying to figure out why she would be so vehement about someone she’d never met, who hadn’t been anywhere near her husband in years. Then, at the club, he heard she was a psychic: could she possibly have read his thoughts and intentions regarding LeMond? He had to be more than cautious. He certainly couldn’t telephone LeMond again, or appear pushy in any way. He was in a quandary: if she had told LeMond to avoid him—and Owen couldn’t imagine she hadn’t—all bets were
off. But Owen was desperate, with literally nothing to lose. He just had to make sure he didn’t cross paths with her again
.