London Calling by Sara Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page B

faces in an orange glow.
    Mirabelle moved to the bar. A man with a thin moustache smiled grimly and drained the last of his pint. He straightened his tie before leaning in to shout over the music, asking if he could buy her a drink.
    ‘I was hoping to hear Lindon Claremont,’ Mirabelle shouted back, cupping her hand against her cheek.
    ‘Lindon Claremont? Plays saxophone? He’s usually over in Soho. I’ve never heard of him playing in here.’ The man’s face was shiny with sweat and he was trying to speak clearly over the music so that he sounded aggressive, punctuating his words by jabbing his finger towards the stage. ‘These guys are good,’ he shouted drunkenly. ‘The one on guitar is Len Williams. He’s only just back from Australia. He’s why I came tonight. I heard he’d be on. He’s amazing! If anything he’s got better since I last saw him, which must have been during the war. It was the Bouillabaisse in those days. There was just a crazy West Indian, some crates of booze and not much else. The music though! Christ! It feels like a hundred years ago!’
    He motioned to see if she’d like a drink, leaning in too close. Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She stepped back.
    Mirabelle moved away and shifting out of his line of sight, she motioned to the bartender. Someone here must know something about Lindon. The jazz world, she guessed, was tiny, and one in which Lindon’s arrest would be big news; if only she could find someone to talk about it.
    ‘Is Lindon Claremont on tonight?’
    The man’s fingers clenched uncomfortably. ‘Lindon doesn’t play up this end of town. If he’s on he’ll be over in one of the Soho clubs.’
    ‘Is he playing over there then, do you think?’ Mirabelle pushed.
    The bartender’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly.
    ‘Lindon’s not regular anywhere, is he?’ he shouted.
    ‘I hadn’t heard of him on the circuit for a couple of days. I wanted to find him, you see. I was wondering where he’d got to.’
    The bartender weighed things up. ‘He got nicked, Miss,’ he admitted and then hurriedly added, ‘but I don’t know nothing about it.’
    He turned away as a burly fellow pushed in and ordered two gins and tonics. Mirabelle loitered but the bartender studiously avoided catching her eye. When the gins and tonics were paid for, he deliberately moved to the other end of the servery and started polishing glasses.
    ‘Excuse me!’ She waved her hand, but he turned away clearly not willing to discuss the matter any further. How frustrating! Mirabelle tapped her foot to the rhythm. The music was infectious. She moved slightly towards the stage and hung around. A man beside her nudged her arm and proffered a cigarette straight from the packet. There weren’t many black men in Jermyn Street. Apart from the saxophonist and the bass player on stage, he was the only black bloke in the whole club. He was smoking Chesterfields. Mirabelle let him light her one.
    ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed. ‘The barmen aren’t very friendly in here, are they?’
    The man nodded. He was dressed in a tight tan-coloured suit. The material had an unusual sheen. His hair was so short it was practically shaved and was slicked over with some kind of hair oil. Mirabelle could smell it – a tannin note on the smoky air.
    The man gestured towards the stage and shouted in a deep American drawl. ‘Benny got the beat. He’s one bad brother. You like music, lady?’
    ‘You’re a musician?’ Mirabelle guessed.
    ‘Yeah. I came to hear Len, and he’s good but he’s not good, you know? Benny’s the one holding it together up there.’
    Mirabelle took a deep draw on her cigarette. ‘I was hoping to hear Lindon Claremont play.’
    The man looked at her quizzically. ‘Here? You don’t know one joint from another, lady. Lindon got banged up. Not much loss – he’s more a shape in a drape than a hep cat. He don’t make love to that sax of his, know what I mean? They say he