Do or Die: A Mali Anderson Mystery

1 Dad could have taken the limo home as he sometimes does after a gig but since I was with him, he wanted to walk. And since he was so angry, he needed to talk. The air at 4 a.m. held a close, almost sweet smell, not like the salty mist that had bathed us yesterday when we'd leaned over the port-side railing of the QE2. I usually noticed this sweet fragrance after a heavy downpour but it had not rained, at least not since we'd returned to New York. Late yesterday afternoon we'd stepped from the gangway of a jazz cruise and Dad, after jamming on board and at the Newport Jazz Festival for the last seven days, had grabbed a few hours sleep, then showered, dressed, and left for his regular gig at the Club Harlem. Music is my father's life but I don't want it to be the death of him. He's in his sixties and I see small nicks of fatigue cutting into the smoothness of his dark handsome face. Lines that weren't there yesterday seemed to have incubated overnight around the edge of his smile. I once suggested (and only once) that he try to slow down, and he huffed and puffed and nearly blew me through the wall. "Slow down? Hell no. Lionel Hampton's old as water and still moving. Cecil Payne's still blowing baritone and Max Roach's still on the skins. Give me a break, Mali!" Which I did. And said nothing when he left for the gig, but an hour later, I showed up at the club just to keep an eye on him. At the first hint of exhaustion, I had intended to drag him off stage, even if he killed me when we got home, but he and his guys sailed through both sets, smiled through the applause, and afterward moved easily through the crowd. "Good show, Anderson," someone called. "You keepin' it real." "Thanks, man." "Glad you guys are back, Jeffrey. Now we can hear what jazz is all about." Dad smiled at this, genuinely pleased. I followed in his wake as he pushed his bass toward the door. Outside the club, the lights lining the canopy dimmed and then went out, bathing the corner of Lenox Avenue and 133rd Street in a mottled gray. The crowd, reluctant to give up the night, hung tight, looking for other places to greet the dawn. There was more handshaking. And some questions. "Your man Hendrix was a no-show. So was his daughter. What's up with that? Too much QE2?" "Tired, I guess," my father replied. "Ozzie went to cop some zee's and probably overslept. You know how that is." His voice was steady but I watched the knot of annoyance taking shape in his lower jaw and I stepped up quickly. "It was a great trip." I smiled. "Now Dad's gonna lay low for a few days." "I hear what you sayin'. Gotta git your moves back. Check you on the weekend and hopefully your piano man, too." Dad smiled wider, a genial, professional, crowd-pleasing beam, but inside, I knew he was steaming. Ozzie Hendrix, whom Dad had known for nearly forty years, through the blues, bop, and jazz scenes, was the pianist. He and Dad had crisscrossed at cabarets in the Village, studio sessions, Fifty-second Street clubs, one-night stands, and every after-hours joint that had room for a combo. A few years ago, they hooked up seriously when Dad put the ensemble together for the club. Ozzie had amazing technical skill and his fingers on the keys transported a listener to the very soul and center of his music. Dad with his bass set the rhythm and kept the pace, but it was Ozzie with his artistry, his virtuoso technique, who usually brought the crowd to its feet. We turned off Malcolm X Boulevard and into the quiet of 133rd Street, heading toward Powell Boulevard. We walked slow. Dad talked fast. I tried not to interrupt, preferring to concentrate instead on the delicate 4 a.m. stillness and the wheel of his bass as it rolled over the sidewalEdwards, Grace F. is the author of 'Do or Die: A Mali Anderson Mystery' with ISBN 9780385492485 and ISBN 0385492480.