Jimmy Blue

We were so close, we could hear the squeak of his fingers on the strings. Jimmy Blue was playing jazz-lite. Caiaphas's fingers stroked the high end keys and the piano made a sound like cocktail glasses clinking. The bass-player clung to the shadows and the long neck of his only friend. These places used to be full of smoke, full of women with a cigarette cocked for a light and an eye cocked for a smart-mouth line. Even the music seemed cleaner now, somehow. Jack and I blew out a sigh at the self-same second: his fingers were tracing the rings on the low table's tired-out top. People think we all chew gum: fact is we just fidget in general. A cigarette is as much about how you hold it as how it sits between your lips. Guys trying to look tough use the prison cup: butt end between forefinger and thumb, lit end concealed by the cupped palm. Shouldn't be called that at all, tell the truth: dough-boys learned it from the Britishers in the First War. Least that's what my Grandfather told me. 'Sides, if you've been in the joint, you want your smokes on display. No point hiding them, from the bulls or from the gang-boys.

'We stayin'?' Jack looked at the tip of his forefinger, sucked I didn't know what off of it.

'I promised Jimmy, you know that.'

The coin I'd been knuckle-rolling fell onto the table, the rattle giving some percussion to Jimmy's trio.

'Guess it'll be another beer, 'at case.'

Jack waved at the waitress. She would have looked better through the smoke too.

On the dais, Jimmy played a tricksy suspended 4th and looked at the other two. Jimmy hit a studied rhythm and Caiaphas picked out the melody from 'Stardust'. The bass-player looked out into the half-empty club with a wry smile.

Jack's mood was no better, 'Who listens a' this shit, anyway?'

I guess his granddad might have, or my father come to that. Jimmy Blue might have played on some demo-version of it, in the sweet bye-and-bye. Who knew?

Maybe I shouldn't have told Jack to go out for a smoke. Maybe I should have gone with him, but I'd promised Jimmy Blue. People think a jail-house promise isn't worth spit, but they're wrong.

The arrangements were nice, just enough to freshen the standards up a bit, not enough to frighten the clientele. All the same, I was glad when the set finished and Jimmy Blue came over to the table. He didn't sit, just gave me the cell-mate's stare he'd given me and later Jack on our first days inside. Jack's had come a year or so after mine. He'd stared Jimmy Blue down and then beat him up. Couldn't punch him, see: a fist-fight is a danged-fool thing for a guitar player to get into. Anyways, Jimmy must have been 60 years old, even back then.

'Kep' yo' promise, knew ya would.'

'A promise is a promise, Jimmy Blue.'

'Jack outside?'

I nodded. Jimmy smiled:

'Guess he's out there, findin' out I keep mine.'

But he'd found out already, for Jimmy was still grinning as the patrolmen came in handguns raised, looking for whoever Jack had run into.