without replying.
Ben felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Denny Bachalo—Dr. Denton on the marquee. He played drums in the combo. “Hey, Ben baby. Chill already.”
“Easy for you to say. The drum set is always lit.”
“Cut the bossman some slack, okay?” Denny had long jet-black hair. He always seemed to be wearing the same pair of torn blue jeans and the same NO FEAR T-shirt. “Can’t you see he’s seriously stressed?”
Ben glanced back over his shoulder. Earl had been on edge, pacing and mumbling and generally acting as though the world were coming to an end at any moment. “I don’t get it. He’s had the club for a year and he’s never acted like this before.”
“Yeah, but tonight’s gonna be something else again. Ain’t it, Scat?”
The tall, lean older man idly fingering his saxophone nodded. His actual name was Ernie Morris, but on the club circuit, he was the Scatman. Scatman Morris could run his fingers up and down the sax stick so quickly it was like a scat singer free-falling through the scales.
“Major to-do tonight,” Scat answered, never removing his eyes from the sax. “All the cards on the table. Make-or-break time for this club. Earl’s been in honeymoon land till now. But tonight they’re gonna expect him to show what he can do.”
“Who’s this they ?” Ben asked. “You think someone will cover the show?”
Scat nodded. “Major press tonight. The World . The Oklahoman . Word is John Wooley’s going to be out. Maybe James Watts. Maybe even some of the TV babes. Karen Keith. LeAnne Taylor.”
Ben’s head tilted to one side. “Karen Larsen?”
Scat shook his head. “Didn’t hear the name. Why?”
He suddenly looked embarrassed. “Oh, no reason.”
Denny let out a snort. “That’s the third time I’ve heard you mention her name tonight. Have you got a thing for this Larsen woman?”
Ben turned away, his face flushing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Dr. Denton and the Scatman exchanged a long look, followed by a hearty chuckle.
“Where’s Gordo?” Ben asked, changing the subject as nonchalantly as possible. “If he’s late for rehearsal again—”
“Speak of the devil!” The voice boomed out from the back of the club. A moment later, they saw the youngest member of the combo, their lead guitar and sometime bass player, emerging from backstage. “Did ya miss me, Benji?”
He did not smile. “My name is Ben. Benji is a trained dog who appears in sappy children’s films. And you’re late.”
“Sorry, pal. Had a little trouble at home.” Gordo Grant was a punk from the deepest, poorest part of the North Side who had somehow managed to pull himself up and out, send himself through two years at TCC, and teach himself to play guitar licks like nobody’s business. “Gimme a second and I’ll be ready.”
“Fine,” Ben said. “Maybe I can use the time to shed a little light on the subject. You guys wanna help me move this stage light over?”
“Not particularly,” Denny said. “Why?”
“Well, you know what they say. Many hands make lights work.” After checking to make sure Uncle Earl wasn’t watching, he stood up on the piano bench and began grappling with the huge overhead, trying to bring it closer to the piano.
Eventually Gordo was unpacked and Ben had a sliver of light, so they began to play. The first number in their set was their own version of “Sweet Georgia Brown,” mostly arranged by Scat. What began slow and almost balladic gradually picked up steam until, by the final stanzas, it was a full-blown jazz spectacular. They led with it for a reason; it was their best number.
Usually. Tonight, however, it reeked. Denny was dragging the tempo, Ben was botching the syncopation, and even Scat, who was normally flawless, missed a few notes. The song limped to its concluding riff.
“Well,” Gordo said, smiling amiably, “that stank on toast.”
“What’s wrong with us tonight?” Denny called down from the drums. “My grandma