The Man Who Lived by Night (8 page)

“Hoagy, are we one of those awful couples who can’t get along together but can’t get along apart either?”

That one caught me flat-footed—pleasantly so. I hadn’t known we were anything to her anymore, except dead.

“We’ve never not gotten along in London,” I pointed out.

“That’s right,” she exclaimed, squeezing my arm. “Get me drunk?”

“With pleasure.”

She thought we’d be pulling in at the Anglesea, a fine old pub on Selwood Terrace with rough wooden floors and Ruddle’s on tap. We’d had fun there on our honeymoon. But I steered us past it to a fairly undistinguished looking family pub on Old Brompton Road.

It was crowded and smoky in there, and it smelled of beer and fried fish. The working-class clientele gave us the eye as we worked our way through them toward the bar—me for the tux, Merilee for being Merilee. I ordered pints of heavy Guinness draft for us and a piece of finnan haddie for Lulu. The meaty Hungry Horse menu hadn’t much appealed to her. When our mugs were set before us we clinked them and drank deeply. Merilee then swiped delicately at the creamy foam on her upper lip and made a little noise akin to a discreet hiccough. Among her many gifts she happens to possess the world’s most elegant belch.

The barman treated us to our second round in exchange for an autograph, which Merilee happily signed. As she handed the prized napkin back to him, she pointed to a sign prominently displayed over the bar.

“Tell me,” she said, “why is tonight called Poultry Night?”

The barman flushed with embarrassment. “Well, miss, it’s because … uh …”

“Because?” she pressed.

“Every woman … she gets a free …”

Merilee yelped.

“… goose.”

“Splendid custom,” I declared, raising my mug to the quick-fingered drinkers behind us, as well as glancing about for a familiar face, or a shifty-eyed face, or for anyone who looked like he didn’t want me to spot him. No one.

Three pale, knobby-knuckled workmen at the end of the bar bought us our third round. We returned the favor. Then I decided it was time to test those tapping feet.

“Shall we?” I asked, indicating the two square feet of vacant floor beside the jukebox.

“I thought you’d never ask, darling.”

I made my song selection and gathered her in my arms. A little shudder went through her when Ray Charles’s version of “Georgia on My Mind” came on. It was our song—the one we danced to over and over again that first night, at a Polish seaman’s club on First Avenue and Ninth Street, where we drank up peppery vodka and each other, and then went home and didn’t leave the bed for six weeks.

She was gazing at me now, her eyes brimming. “How did you know they had it?”

“Easy—I checked out every jukebox within a ten-block radius.”

“You romantic fool.”

“You got that half right.”

“Which half?”

“Ssh.”

We swayed slowly, cheek to cheek. She smelled of Crabtree and Evelyn avocado oil soap. Her smell. Also her secret—she won’t tell anyone she bathes in it for fear a beauty magazine will reveal it and she’ll end up smelling like every other woman in America.

When it was over Nat Cole sang us “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” Joe Williams did “In the Evening,” Mel Torme “Blue and Sentimental.” It was an uncommon juke.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, darling,” Merilee murmured in my ear, “but are you rising to the occasion these days?”

“Try me.”

She sighed. “I have.”

“Try me again.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Then why did you bring it up? So to speak.”

Her green eyes twinkled. “A gal just likes to know these things.”

We pulled up at her place on Cromwell Road a little after three. It was hidden from the road. To get there we turned in at a driveway, then passed under an archway, jogged around and found ourselves in a wonderfully private little cobbled mews of precious dolls’ houses. Hers was a cheery blue number with flowers growing in the window boxes. If she had mice they were doubtless singing ones.

Our tail followed us in, then backed out onto Cromwell Road when he saw we were staying. He was in a taxicab now. Picked us up the second we left the pub.

We sat there not talking for a while with the engine running and Lulu asleep in her lap.

I broke the silence. “Going to invite us in?”

She didn’t answer me right away. When she did she said, “No, I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? You’re not going to argue with me? Paw me? Pant?”

“Too old.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It isn’t simple, darling. There’s Zack …”

“I know.”

“There’s also the fact that you and I failed once before, and there’s no reason to believe we’ll do any differently now. I don’t want to live through the same pain all over again. I’m too old, too.”

“I don’t come with a warranty,” I said. “I’m not a Hyundai Excel.”

“And I’m not Donna Reed.”

“Neither was Donna Reed.”

“Good night, darling.”

“Sleep tight, Merilee.”

She woke Lulu up, kissed her on top of the head and got out. I watched her go inside of her house. So did Lulu, who scratched at the window and whimpered. I told her to shut up.

The taxi was still there, double-parked on Cromwell Road about a hundred feet from the driveway, lights on, engine running. Waiting. There were two people inside of it. One was the driver. I couldn’t tell if the person in back was a man or a woman. Didn’t know what he or she wanted. Sure as hell didn’t feel like finding out just now, either.

I floored it. Took the first right turn on two wheels, then took a left, then a right. I kept checking the rearview mirror but I really didn’t need to. I’d lost the taxi in two blocks. No way it could stay with the souped-up mini. By the time I reached the A-23 I was the only one on the road. Just me and the fog.

It was the eleventh consecutive gloomy day since I’d arrived in England, and it suited me just fine.

A click woke me.

It was the sound of the door to my suite being closed. From the inside. The floor creaked in the sitting room. Someone was moving around in there in the darkness. Lulu growled softly from her perch atop my head. I muzzled her.

A match was struck. I could see its wavering yellow glow through the open bedroom door. And hear a shuffling sound—the papers on my desk were being examined. The match went out. More footsteps in the darkness. Closer. Lulu tensed. Another match was struck. The things on my dressing table were being pored over now—the contents of my wallet, my money clip.

I turned on my bedside lamp. “Can I help?”

Violet stood at my dressing table. She wore a black Chicago Bears T-shirt and absolutely nothing else. Her breasts strained against the T-shirt.

“A match,” she said, with admirable calm. She showed me the unlit cigarette that was between her fingers. In her other hand was a book of matches. “I was looking for a match, you see. Couldn’t find one anywhere. Very sorry if I woke you.”

“That’s okay. Only, you didn’t find those matches in here. I don’t smoke.”

“They were over by the fireplace.”

“And you’re not,” I pointed out.

“I wasn’t stealing!”

“I didn’t say you were. Want to tell me what you were doing in my things?”

She lit her cigarette, came over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Lulu sniffed disagreeably at her, jumped down and waddled into the sitting room.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Violet said, watching her go.

“Nothing personal. She just gets possessive.”

“I couldn’t sleep, y’know? And I was a bit curious about you.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

“May I have a drink?”

“Help yourself.”

“You?”

“Had plenty tonight, thanks.”

I watched her pad into the sitting room in her nondecent T-shirt. I watched her come back, too, stirring a whiskey and soda with her index finger, which she sucked on when she was finished using it. She sat back down on the bed and took a sip of her drink. She took another sip. Then she leaned back on her elbows, crossed her bare, impossibly long legs and admired her naked foot. It was a lovely foot, slender and high-arched. She began to swing it up and down, up and …

“What would you like to know about me?” I asked.

“Whether you like me,” she replied, looking me straight in the eye.

“You’re right out of my moistest fantasies. Such as they are.”

She tasted the whiskey on her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I could get in there with you.”

“Are you always this shy?”

“Tris wouldn’t mind y’know. Really.”

“I’m married,” I said. “Somewhat.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “We wouldn’t have to do anything, actually, except sleep. It’s so much nicer sleeping with someone else, isn’t it?”

She wasn’t wrong. Or difficult or demanding. Or Merilee. Always, it came back to Merilee.

“Thanks, anyway. Why don’t you sleep with Tris? He should be turning in soon—it’s nearly dawn.”

Her eyes widened. “There’s a naughty name for that, isn’t there?”

“Statutory rape?”

“Incest, silly. You did know he’s m’daddy, didn’t you?”

(Tape #4 with Tristam Scarr. Recorded in his chamber Nov. 24. Wears same clothes as three days before. Does not appear to have bathed, shaved or slept since then. Room is considerably darker than before. Has turned off several lamps. Wears dark glasses.)

H
OAG
: I MET YOUR
daughter, Violet. She’s lovely.

Scarr:
Careful of her, mate.

Hoag:
Oh?

Scarr:
She likes to nick things. What they call a … a …

Hoag:
Thief?

Scarr:
Kleptomaniac. Don’t doubt she’s a nymphomaniac as well. And an overall maniac. Just like her jolly old mum.

Hoag:
Who is … ?

Scarr:
Tulip.

Hoag:
Ah. The floral motif should have been a giveaway.

Scarr:
They haven’t gotten along, she and Tu, since Tu found his holiness. Tries to impose her beliefs on the girl. And raises bloody hell over her things being mussed with. So I let Vi crash here, if she’s into it.

Hoag:
She seems very mature for her age.

Scarr:
She’s fifteen, if that’s what you’re wondering. Why, did you climb into her nickers? It’s cool with me if you did. I can’t exactly tell her not to do the things I did, can I? It’d be bleedin’ bullshit.
(pause)
Did you?

Hoag:
I’ve spoken with Jack a couple of times. I wouldn’t exactly say he’s hostile, but, well, he
is
hostile.

Scarr:
He’s fucking jealous is all.

Hoag:
I wondered if it was something else. Something he didn’t want coming out.

Scarr:
Such as?

Hoag:
I was hoping you’d tell me.

Scarr:
I’m not tracking, Hogarth.

Hoag:
The man’s dead set against talking to me.

Scarr:
So leave him be.

Hoag:
Can’t. He’s too valuable a source.

Scarr:
I see. I’ll have a word with him then.

Hoag:
Thank you. I’m interested in what the music scene was like here in ’62, when the Rough Boys were first getting gigs.

Scarr:
Uh-huh. There was a small R and B thing happening in and around London. Like a cult thing, really.
(pause)
Did you fuck her? It’s okay, mate. I mean it.

Hoag:
It didn’t come up.

Scarr: (silence, then laughs)
There’s a good one. Bloody good.

Hoag:
Now can we … ?

Scarr:
Right. We talked about how Lonnie Donegan, of skiffle fame, had played in Chris Barber’s jazz band back in the fifties. So had Alexis Korner and Cyril Davies, until they split to form Blues Incorporated, which I reckon you could call Britain’s very first blues band. Charlie Watts of the Stones-to-be was on drums. Jack Bruce of Cream-to-be played bass. Blues Incorporated tried playing the trad jazz clubs around London, only the serious jazz fans—the bleedin’ intellects—thought they were too scruff. So they started up their own club in a basement under a teashop in Ealing—the Ealing Club. Those of us who were into R and B took to hanging out there when we weren’t playing a gig. Me and Rory, Michael Jagger, Keith, Brian, John Mayall, Long John Baldry … We were all mates then, before there was competition and egos and the like. We’d rap about music and gigs, and anybody could have a blow up on stage. Got up there m’self one night, roaring drunk I was, and sang “Ooh-ee Baby,” the Albert King song, with Blues Incorporated. Cyril backed me up on harp. Played it like a monster. Right then I decided to learn harp m’self.
(yawns)
All of which meant the Rough Boys started sounding bluesier. We added “Please, Please, Please,” a James Brown song, and “Spoonful,” the Howlin’ Wolf song, which Cream did years later. After Blues Incorporated split up, Cyril formed a new band, the All Stars, and they got a gig at the Island. That’s Eel Pie Island, which was an old twenties dance hall out on this island in the middle of the Thames at Twickenham. Cyril put in the word for us and got us a gig there as well. There was a small blues circuit then—the Railway Hotel in Harrow, St. Mary’s Parish Hall in Richmond, Studio Fifty-One in London. We played all of ’em. Met people. Talked ourselves up. Only, we kept playin’ the weddings and church dances as well, which was a mistake. Couldn’t get known for anything that way. I thought we should be a blues band. The Beatles were already rockin’, y’know? Rory and the others, they still liked playing “Blue Suede Shoes.” While we were busy arguing over it, Decca went and signed up the Stones to a recording contract. Pissed me off.
(yawns)
They were playin’ at Crawdaddy then. Turnin’ it into a big R and B club. We followed ’em in there after they signed with Decca. We were always followin’ ’em. Played the Marquee after ’em as well. Only now—now the knock against us was we was too much like the bleedin’ Stones. We sounded different, but the people makin’ decisions, the record people, they went by categories. Rory fought the categories. He believed in the power of the music.
(yawns)
I…