Drumsticks Read Online Free Page B

Omega, an upscale eatery way up on First Avenue, came primarily to eat, not to hear the music. Jeff had told me that from the git. But the clientele was too sophisticated to treat us as mere white noise; there would be plenty of diners who knew the difference between elevator jazz and the real deal.
    In other words, it was unlikely I was going to be discovered and whisked into the recording studio by the kind of scout who haunts the neighborhood basketball courts or the comedy clubs looking for fresh meat. But I did have to have my stuff together to play with the consummate professionals who were to be my fellow musicians.
    Roamer McQueen is the cutest fat guy I ever met. He is a talented bassist and, from what I could gather, the heart and soul of the trio that gigged three days a week at Omega. He was extremely kind to me in those rushed, nerve-wracking days when I was rehearsing with him and Hank Thayer, the elegant pianist at the center of the group. In fact they were both wonderful to me.
    For whatever reason, men seem compelled to come up with pet names for me. Roamer had dubbed me Big Legs. Canny showman that he was, he promised me a juicy solo for every low-cut blouse I wore to the gig. He is a riot.
    I was subbing for sax player Gene Price, the third Musketeer, whose penchant for cheese grits and filterless cigarettes had him in the hospital for bypass surgery.
    If I have to say so myself, I looked incredible in that button-up-the-back number I bought on Prince Street. Before I left the apartment that night, I asked Mama Lou and Dilsey (that is what I named the new doll) to work their special hoodoo to bring me good fortune at the gig. I blew each of them a kiss as I breezed out the door. I hopped right on the First Avenue bus, whistling “Liza” as most of the sentient males checked me out on the long seat at the back. I was riding pretty damn high.
    Yeah. Once again I was making the mistake of not paying attention to another old black female figure in my life. Her name is Ernestine and—being my stern if quixotic conscience—she can be a real pain in the butt. Ernestine doesn’t seem to like it very much when I’m riding high. I’m sure she was trying to warn me, but that night I just wasn’t listening.
    They fed us at the restaurant; that was part of the deal. And the food wasn’t bad. Certainly it was better than the pay. But in any case I was too keyed up to eat.
    Both Aubrey and Justin were working that night and couldn’t make the set, but they had promised to come see me later in the week.
    I’d miss them, sure, but the one I found myself so looking forward to seeing was Ida Williams, the doll lady. It was almost like having your eccentric grandmother out there cheering for you on opening night.
    I had gotten into the habit of dropping off containers of hot tea at her table every time I was in the vicinity of the farmers market. Sometimes Ida looked like the tough old bird and master salesperson I had first encountered, and sometimes she seemed frail as parchment, distracted and rueful. Complicated, in other words. I was hoping that someday soon I could talk my mom into coming into the city so that the three of us could go out to lunch.
    I had been told that Omega did well. No lie, apparently: the ordinarily supercool maître d’ was overwhelmed. People were pouring in. Drinks flowing. A good buzz in the room. Omega was a far cry from some smoky basement club where Monk and Charlie Rouse or Art Tatum or Max Roach was about to make history and ( your favorite junkie horn player’s name here ) was out back scoring a nickel bag. But what the hell? This was still fun. I was still riding high.
    The first set started at nine. Hank had a pretty arrangement of “Stella by Starlight” that was to open the set. The three of us stood schmoozing on the slightly raised platform near the front window of the restaurant.
    In the midst of the throng of customers I