Mood Swings. Bill Moody

as his own playing reached new heights. His potential was at last being realized. He was loose, making it with a good gig, a good woman. Life had never been sweeter. Naturally, that’s when the trouble began.

      He and Mary Ann were curled up watching a late movie when Brew heard the buzzer. Opening the door, Brew found Bobo standing in the hall, half hidden in a topcoat several sizes too big, and holding a stack of records under his arm.

      “Got something for you to hear, man,” Bobo rasped, walking right past Brew to look for the stereo.

      “Hey Bobo, you know what time it is?”

      “Yeah, it’s twenty after four.” Bobo was crouched in front of the stereo, looking through the records.

      Brew nodded and shut the door. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He went into the bedroom. Mary Ann was sitting up in bed.

      “Who is it?”

      “Bobo,” Brew said, grabbing his robe. “He’s got some music he wants me to hear. I gotta humor him I guess.”

      “Does he know what time it is?”

      “Yeah, twenty after four.”

      Mary Ann looked at him quizzically. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said, slipping out of bed.

      Brew sighed and went back to the living room. Bobo had one of the records on the turntable and was kneeling with his head up against the speaker. Brew recognized it as one of his early recordings with a tenor player named Lee Evans, a name only vaguely familiar to Brew.

      Brew studiously avoided the trap of listening to other tenor players, except maybe John Coltrane. No tenor player could avoid Coltrane, but Brew’s style and sound were forged largely on his own. A mixture of hard brittle fluidness on up tempos balanced by an effortless shifting of gears for lyrical ballads — a cross between Sonny Rollins and Stan Getz. Still, there was something familiar about this record, something he couldn’t quite place.

      “I want to do this tune tonight,” Bobo said, turning his eyes to Brew. It was the first time Bobo had made any direct reference to the music since they’d started playing together.

      Brew nodded, absorbed in the music. What was it? He focused on the tenor player and only vaguely remembered coming in with coffee. Much later, the record was still playing and Mary Ann was curled up in a ball on the couch. Early morning sun streamed in the window. Bobo was gone.

      “You know it’s funny,” Brew told Mary Ann later. “I kind of sound like that tenor player Lee Evans.”

      “What happened to him?”

      “I don’t know. He played with Bobo quite a while, but I think he was killed in a car accident. I’ll ask Rollo. Maybe he knows.”

      But if Rollo knew, he wasn’t saying. Neither were Juice or Deacon. Brew avoided asking Bobo, sensing it was somehow a taboo subject, but it was clear they all knew something he didn’t. It became an obsession for Brew to find out what.

      He nearly wore out the records Bobo had left, and unconsciously, more and more of Lee Evans’ style crept into his own playing. It seemed to please Bobo and brought approving nods from Juice and Deacon. As far as Brew could remember, he had never heard of Lee Evans until the night Bobo had brought him the records. Finally, he could stand it no longer and pressed Rollo. He had to know.

      “Man, why you wanna mess things up for now?” Rollo asked, avoiding Brew’s eyes. “Bobo’s playin’, the club’s busy, and you gettin’ famous.”

      “C’mon, Rollo. I only asked about Lee Evans. What’s the big secret?” Brew was puzzled by the normally docile Rollo’s outburst and intrigued even more. However tenuous Bobo’s return to reality, Brew couldn’t see the connection. Not yet.

      “Aw shit,” Rollo said, slamming down a bar rag. “You best see Razor.”

      “Who the hell is Razor?”

      “One of the players, man. Got hisself some ladies, and he’s…well, you talk to him if you want.

      “I want,” Brew said, more puzzled than ever.

      Mary Ann was not so sure. “You may not like what you find,” she warned. Her words were like a prophecy.

      • • •

      Brew found Razor off 10th Avenue.

      A massive maroon Buick idled at the curb. Nearby, Razor, in an ankle length fur coat and matching hat, peered at one of his “ladies” from behind dark glasses. But what really got Brew’s attention was the dog. Sitting majestically at Razor’s heel, sinewy neck encased in a silver stud collar, was the biggest, most vicious looking Doberman Brew had ever seen. About then, Brew wanted to forget the whole thing, but he was frozen to the spot as Razor’s dog — he hoped it was Razor’s dog — bared his teeth, growled throatily, and locked his dark eyes on Brew.

      Razor’s lady, in white plastic boots, miniskirt, and a pink ski jacket, cowered against a building. Tears streamed down her face, smearing garish makeup. Her eyes were riveted on the black man as he fondled a pearl-handled straight razor.

      “Lookee here, mama, you makin’ ole Razor mad with all this talk about you leavin’, and you know what happens when Razor get mad, right?”

      The girl nodded slowly as he opened and closed the razor several times before finally dropping it in his pocket. “All right then,” Razor said. “Git on outta here.” The girl glanced briefly at Brew and then scurried away.

      “Whatcha you look at, honky?” Razor asked, turning his attention to Brew. Several people passed by them, looking straight ahead as if they didn’t exist.

      Brew’s throat was dry. He could hardly get the words out. “Ah, I’m Brew Daniels. I play with Bobo at the Final Bar. Rollo said—”

      Bobo? Shee-it.” Razor slapped his leg and laughed, throwing his head back. “Yeah, I hear that sucker’s playing again.” He took off his glasses and studied Brew closely. “And you the cat that jarred them old bones? Man, you don’t even look like a musician.”

      The Doberman cocked his head and looked at Razor as if that might be a signal to eat Brew. “Be cool, Honey,” Razor said, stroking the big dog’s sleek head. “Well you must play, man. C’mon, it’s gettin’ cold talkin’ to these bitches out here. I know what you want.” He opened the door of the Buick. “C’mon, honey, we goin’ for a ride.”

      Brew sat rigidly in he front seat trying to decide who scared him more, Razor or the dog. He could feel Honey’s warm breath on the back of his neck. “Nice dog you have, Mr. Razor.” Honey only growled. Razor didn’t speak until they pulled up near Riverside Park.

      He threw open the door, and Honey scrambled out. “Go on, Honey, git one of them suckers.” Honey barked and bounded away in pursuit of a pair of unsuspecting Cocker Spaniels.

      Razor took out cigarettes from a platinum case, lit two with a gold lighter, and handed one to Brew. “It was about three years ago,” Razor began. “Bobo was hot, and he had this bad-assed tenor player called Lee Evans. They was really tight. Lee was just a kid, but Bobo took care of him like he was his daddy. Anyway, they was giggin’ in Detroit or someplace, just before they was spozed to open here. But Lee, man, he had him some action that he wanted to check out on the way, so he drove on alone. He got loaded at this chick’s pad, then tried to drive all night to make the gig.” Razor took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Went to sleep. His car went right off the pike into a gas station. Boom! That was it.”

      Razor fell silent. Brew swallowed as the pieces began to fall into place.

      “Well, they didn’t tell Bobo what happened till an hour before the gig, and them jive-ass dumb record dudes said, seein’ how they’d already given Bobo front money, he had to do the session. They got another dude on tenor. He was bad, but he wasn’t Lee Evans. At first, Bobo was cool, like he didn’t know what was happening. Then, all of a sudden, he jumped