The Right To Sing the Blues by John Lutz Read Free Book Online Page A

musicians at the club,” Nudger said.
    “Sure. I know them all.”
    “What do they think of Willy Hollister?”
    “As a talent, they think he’s God. As a person they don’t particularly like him, but that doesn’t bother them much. Or him. They know they’re staying put, and he’s heading for Grammy awards, Mount Olympus, and the David Letterman show.”
    “Has he had trouble with any of the other musicians?”
    “No, only Judman.” Sievers’ voice became serious. “It’s a good thing he didn’t break any bones.”
    “Judman seems okay.”
    “I didn’t mean Judman,” Sievers said, mildly surprised, “I meant Willy Hollister. He used his fists. He might have fractured a knuckle and been unable to play piano.”
    “And that would cost the club,” Nudger said.
    “That’s right. Hollister packs in the paying customers and helps fatten my bank account.”
    “Heartless capitalist,” Nudger said, only half joking.
    “I’ve got a heart,” Sievers said with a grin. “It just happens to be stony and cold.” They’d reached an intersection. “You going to the club?”
    “No,” Nudger said, “my hotel. It’s the other way.”
    “Okay,” Sievers said. “I guess I’ll see you at the club later.”
    “You will,” Nudger told him, and watched him walk away. Sievers walked with a measured, smooth military erectness that, from a distance, made him appear much taller than he was. It was a walk that suggested control and efficiency. As he reached the next corner, the traffic light seemed to change just for him, and he crossed the intersection without breaking stride.
    Probably, Nudger thought, he was humming any number of tunes, all of which were “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
    V I
    ou’re no jazz-magazine writer,” Willy Hollister said to Nudger, in a small back room of Fat Jack’s club. It wasn’t exactly a dressing room, though at times it served as such. It was a sort of all-purpose place where quick costume changes were made and breaks were taken between sets. The room’s pale green paint was faded and peeling, and a steam pipe jutted from floor to ceiling against one wall. Halfway up the pipe was a large paint-caked valve handle that looked as if it hadn’t been turned in decades. Yellowed show posters featuring jazz greats were taped here and there on the walls behind the odd assortment of worn furniture. Duke Ellington, Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong. The room was filled with the mingled scents of stale booze and tobacco smoke.
    “But I am a jazz fan,” Nudger said. “Enough of one to know how good you are, and that you play piano in a way that wasn’t self-taught.” He smiled. “I’ll bet you can even read music.”
    “You have to read music,” Hollister said haughtily, “to graduate from the Juilliard School of Music.”
    Impressive. Even Nudger knew that Juilliard graduates weren’t slouches. You had to be able to whistle Beethoven’s Fifth all the way through even to get into the place. “So you have a classical-music background,” he said to Hollister.
    Hollister shrugged. “That’s nothing rare; lots of jazz musicians have classical-music roots. You oughta know that, jazz man that you claim to be.”
    Nudger studied Hollister as the pianist spoke. Offstage he appeared older. His blond hair was thinning on top and his features were losing their boyishness, becoming craggy. His complexion had an unhealthy nicotine-stain hue to it. Up close, there was a coarseness to Hollister that belied his elegant stage presence. He was a hunter, this boy was. Life’s sad wisdom was in his eyes, resting on haunches and ready to spring.
    The door opened and Marty Sievers poked his head in, glanced around as if looking for someone, then gave Nudger and Hollister a smile and a little half-salute and withdrew. Nudger wondered if Sievers had been listening outside and perhaps been forced by someone’s presence to open the door and look in to avoid the appearance of