Mood Swings. Bill Moody

decision to Brew, and as far as he was concerned, it was the Final Bar or nothing. The Newport people eventually conceded and set about refurbishing the broken down club. Brew had to admit, they had really spent some money. The club was completely transformed, with repainting, new tables and chairs, blow up photos of jazz greats on the walls, and the sawdust floors replaced with new carpeting.

      When Brew and Mary Ann arrived, Rollo, nattily attired in a tuxedo, collecting hefty admission charges and looking as smart as any midtown maitre d’, greeted them at the door.

      “My man, Brew,” he smiled, slapping Brew’s palm. “Tonight’s the night.”

      “Yeah, tonight’s the night,” Brew mumbled as they pushed through the crowd of fans, reporters, and photographers. Manny waved to them from the bar where he was huddled with the Newport people. A Steinway grand had replaced the battered upright piano, and a tuner was making final adjustments as engineers scurried about running cables and testing microphones.

      Brew suddenly felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned to see Razor, resplendent in a yellow velvet suit, sitting with a matching pair of leggy blond girls. Honey hovered nearby. Razor flashed a smile at Mary Ann and nodded to Brew. “I see you been keepin’ cool. This your lady?”

      Brew stepped around Honey, wondering if it were true that dogs can smell fear. “Yeah. Mary Ann, this is Razor.”

      Razor stood and bowed deeply and kissed Mary Ann’s hand, then stepped back. “Say hello to Sandra and Shana.”

      “Hi,” the girls chorused in unison.

      “What are you doing here?” Brew asked Razor.

      “What am I doin’ here? Man, this is my club. Didn’t you know that?” He flashed Brew another big grin. “You play good now.”

      In a daze, Brew found Mary Ann a seat near the bandstand. As the piano tuner finished, a tall man in glasses and a three-piece suit walked to the microphone and introduced himself as Vice President of Newport Records. He called for quiet, perhaps the first time it had ever been necessary at the Final Bar.

      “Ladies and Gentlemen, as you all know, we are recording live here tonight, so we’d appreciate you cooperation. Right now though, let’s give a great big welcome to truly one of the giants of jazz, Mr. Bobo Jones and his quartet.”

      The applause was warm and real as the four musicians took the stand. Bobo, Deacon, and Juice were immaculate in matching tuxes. Brew dressed likewise but at the last minute, elected to opt for a white turtleneck sweater. Bobo bowed shyly as the crowd settled down in anticipation.

      Brew busied himself with changing the reed on his horn and tried to blot out the image of Bobo leaping from the piano, but there was nowhere to go. He rubbed his throat and tried to smile at Mary Ann as the sound check was completed. It was time.