Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Midvalley's Serenade ❯ Moonlighting ( Chapter 23 )

Moonlighting

As quick as that, Nick was gone. I lost track of time feeling the heaviness of my loss, thinking of all the things I had wanted to share with him before we'd said good-bye. Finally the grumbling of my stomach and the recollection that I had a lot to do, pulled me out of my funk.

I felt a lot better after breakfast and my thoughts began to take on a more positive aspect. I put my separation from Nick into perspective. It was really only temporary. If I missed him so much, there was no doubt in my mind that I could track him down within hours and then what, jump his bones? How pathetically needy was I? On the one hand, I thought with a leer, pretty needy. On the other hand, for God's sake, let the man earn his money and pay off his debt. And then we can really spend some quality time together…

Before my daydreams got completely out of hand, I checked my to-do list for the day. I hadn't wanted to think of it, but attending the funeral and packing to leave was at the top of the list.

I stayed for the funeral of Bernie Welch and Ned Pitts because I think that Nick would have wanted me to. Dominique arrived at the service with her arm around Caine, who was shrouded head to foot in a heavy buckskin cloak, her face mask back in place. The only part of her body not covered was her right eye, which I saw at once was blood-shot and wet from tears. When she saw my eyes on her, she looked away at once.

The grave side service was held at a small cemetery less than a half-ile from the academy. Chapel the Evergreen's conduct of the service was serious, but hardly heart-felt. He sped through the eulogies so fast I barely registered that he was saying them, and then he was done.

I stayed after for a few moments to talk with Berkis and Evans. The two boys had no idea that Zazie had killed their friend, Welch. They were under the impression that his death was an unlucky accident. I said nothing to alter that view. They were more upset over Pitts' death because it seemed to cry out for vengeance and they had been unlucky enough to miss out on administering it. They told me to pass on their thanks to Chapel for making Pitts' murderers pay with their lives.

Caine's posture was dejected. Dominique seemed genuinely concerned for her friend's emotional state. I would have approached and offered my condolences, but every time I made a move of that kind, Caine shrank away. Whatever emotional problems she may have had before the rape, that caused her to cover her body and wear a mask seemed to have intensified in its aftermath. I saw that she now wrapped her arms in gauze tape. Faint blood stains showed through the fabric near her wrists and wondered if she had tried to kill herself. She looked distraught enough to have made the attempt.

When the service was over, I returned to the academy. From there, I called a taxi, took Silvia and the rest of my baggage, walked to the administration building and settled myself on the steps to wait for my ride to the sand steamer depot. It was starting to get hot.

I saw Zazie come out of the student apartments carrying a duffle sack. He looked like he was headed my way. I could tell the exact moment when he noticed me sitting on the steps, because he lurched mid-gait and hesitated. He and I had never been on friendly terms especially since the assembly when I had slapped him for insulting Nick. After that moment of indecision, he kept on walking and took a seat on the steps and waited with me. He didn't acknowledge my presence, but I took the opportunity to observe him closely. He looked miserable. His eyes were red and swollen. I was curious.

He and I shared the cab into Epril Town, but Zazie never said a word to me or looked me in the eye. I think he was ashamed to. Every now and then, he'd forget I was there. He must have had a lot on his mind. He looked out the window of the cab as if the dust clouds the cab kicked up were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen, but I could see his cheek was wet. He wanted to hide the fact he was crying, but I've done the same more than a few times. He wasn't fooling me a bit. I knew all the clues to look for and there was no doubt in my mind that he was crying. Foul-mouthed, tough-talking Zazie the Beast. It made me wonder if, maybe, I had misjudged him. But when we arrived in town and went our separate ways, I thought no more about him.

I had the cabby drop me off at the depot. I booked a second-class berth on the next steamer out, checked my bags then walked up the street to the bank to look over my balance and make a withdrawal. With the money I'd saved from living simply, holding down two jobs, the bonuses and royalties from "Hornfreak Gold", I was sitting on a nest egg of just under 500,000 double dollars. That may sound like a lot, but I planned to buy a house in Mei City and recording equipment. I figured I'd end up spending over half of my savings on that alone. The old technology was rare and outrageously expensive.

It was a little after noon when I got back to the depot. I'd had very little sleep the past week and fatigue was catching up with me. I planned to take a nap in my steamer berth and could hardly wait to crash. I was nodding off as it was. Finally the steamer arrived. I boarded and showed my ticket to the conductor who pointed me in the direction of the second-class berths. I asked for a wake-up call when we got to Mei City, crawled into the bed and was asleep before the steamer even left the station.

I slept like the dead, despite the noise in the corridors. The courtesy wake-up call came fifteen minutes before we reached Mei City, so I tidied myself up and stepped out into the corridor, a little more refreshed just as the steamer was coming to a stop.

By the time I claimed my luggage it was a quarter to five in the afternoon. I took a cab to the Maytime Hotel and registered. The room they gave me was right across the hall from the one that Nick and I had rented just two weeks earlier, I noticed with a twinge of melancholy. After I unpacked and settled in I walked to a real estate office I'd seen on the way in. It was a little late in the day to look at houses for sale, but I left the office with a fairly thick stack of listings and an early appointment with an agent who agreed to show me any properties that caught my interest.

I went back to the hotel café, ordered coffee, a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato soup, then spent the next half-hour poring over the listings while I ate. I was looking for a comfortable house. Nothing too large or extravagant,, but one that might have a large outbuilding that could be converted into a recording studio. I earmarked a dozen that I thought might fill the bill.

With that out of the way, I wondered what to do next. I expected the rest of the band to arrive later that evening. The van Dave was driving was slower than the sand steamer and they probably got a late start.

Sundays, in most towns and cities, there's never much music going on except for hymns the holy rollers sing in church. Everyone else is nursing hangovers, I guess. Even the most beautiful music can feel like salt on a wound when you've got the twirly-whirlies and the headache from hell earned the night before.

One thing I liked though was that I was back in a town where there were a lot more musicians and places to play. Epril Town was too much of a musical backwater for me to even try to set up a studio there. First there's no music store. If I ever had a reed go bad, needed a new mouthpiece or to refit the felt on my stops, I couldn't find the parts I needed in Epril Town but had to send away to Monk's Music. I thought I might drop by the store, even though it's closed on Sunday, just to check out the flyers and see what musicians were expected in town. I was excited to be back in a real city again.

I went to the May Queen club for a drink, though I still hadn't caught up on the sleep I'd missed. Late hours are such a habit with me, it seemed ridiculous to go to bed just because I was tired. Bored was more like it, anyway. I brought Silvia along just in case.

The club manager, a tall, ruddy blond man a little thick through the waist, recognized me the minute I walked in the door.

"Well, well, if it isn't Midvalley the Hornfreak," he said as he walked over to meet me, "the club is privileged tonight."

"Theron Fleming's the name," he said as he gripped my hand. "Funny we've never been formally introduced, but I'm one of your biggest fans."

"Yeah, I seem to recall you like sax music," I said. "I guess that's why you didn't announce us as the Lenny Lennox Five that night of the concert."

"You didn't take offense at that, I hope," Fleming said, the high color on his face going one shade darker. From the look he wore, I knew he'd heard the talk about Skip Walker and had no doubt seen the pictures of Chapel and me in the "Daily Dish" after the Burns execution.

"I'm over it now," I said, just to yank his chain.

He looked about ready to have a heart attack when I said that, so I punched him lightly on the biceps and said, "Just kidding."

He thought that over a second or two and then chuckled low and shook his head.

"What brings you to my club tonight? You're not scheduled to play until Friday night. I see you brought your horn along. Let me buy you a drink and we'll shoot the breeze. What's your pleasure? Bourbon, scotch, brandy?"

"An Irish Coffee, if it's not too much trouble."

"That sounds good. Think I'll join you," he said and called out the order to a bartender who must have just started his shift.

He looked as sleepy as I felt, but yawned and bustled to comply.

We sat down at a small table. The club was empty of customers. Even for a Sunday that was unusual.

"Seems dead in here. Where are all your customers?"

"Up the street at the Bedbug.

"The Bedbug!?" I snorted. "That dive? Whatever for?"

"Hot Lips McCoy just blew into town and he got his start at the Bedbug, so he's doing a freebie for old times sake. Hell, I'd go there myself, but someone's got to watch the club. There have been a few robberies this past month," explained Fleming.

"Hot Lips McCoy," I murmured out loud.

Fleming had definitely gotten my attention. McCoy was one of the best trumpet players ever. I hadn't seen him in years. I first met him when he'd played the White Cat in Epril Town years ago when I was just ten and had been taking sax lessons for a year. The reason I remember him so well was that every time he blew into town for a gig, he'd visit the whorehouse and spend the whole night with my mother. The next morning she would fix him breakfast.

The first time he visited and heard me practicing, he told me he thought I had real talent and would make a "hell of a player" some day. He used to come back maybe once a month for a while. Seems like every time he came, we'd spend some time together after his breakfast, and he'd teach me a little bit more about how to play. It didn't feel like lessons the way he explained things.

That stopped after my mother died and I started at the academy. Still over the years from time to time our paths would cross. I could count on one hand the number of times we jammed together, but each had been memorable.

"You know him?"

"We've met," I gulped the rest of my coffee and Fleming's smile was rueful.

I was curious so I asked, "Has he got any players to back him up or is it a solo gig?"

"That I don't know."

I stood up to go.

"Leaving so soon, Hornfreak?" asked Fleming with a disappointed sigh.

"Maybe I'll be back later. I've really got to check out the action."

"Can't blame you. Hey, since you know him, maybe you could bring him back with you when you're through. I'd love to book him in here."

"Maybe," I said. "Hey, thanks for the drink and the tip about McCoy. I appreciate it."

"Yeah, but you're leaving."

"I'll be back later," I said with a smile and ambled out the door with a tight feeling of anticipation in my gut and Silvia's case in my hand.

I walked up the street to the Bedbug Tavern and heard the strains of a trumpet, playing Silvia's tune. I walked through lime green batwing doors and saw Hot Lips in the key light. He blew into his trumpet with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, while the bass player slapped and fingered the long neck of a string bass and the drummer lightly brushed his snare drum and pedaled his high hat.

The place really was a dive but the lights were so low, only someone who knew the place as well as I did would have noticed the scuffed table tops, the mismatched chairs and the beetles that scurried up the walls from time to time. Customers packed the smoke-filled little tavern while the bar help squeezed through the tiny spaces between tables to get drinks to the thirsty patrons. The postage stamp of a dance floor amazingly held ten couples slow dancing to the throbbing horn solo. They weren't going anywhere and were in no hurry to get there either, comfortable just to be swaying crotch to crotch in rhythmic gridlock.

When the last chords of the song faded, there were moans, cheers and whistles from the audience. Then the house lights went on. Hot Lips set down his horn, wiped his sweaty forehead with a red bandana, exchanged a few words with the bassist and drummer, then stepped over to the bar. I eased past the dancers and bar boys with drink-laden trays and stood next to the trumpeter who took a shot of bourbon from the busy barmaid. He turned to look at who was standing so close to him and got a strange look on his face when he saw it was me.

"What was that look for, Lips" I asked him. I couldn't quite place his reaction.

"Nothing," he said and shrugged. "Hey, Freak. It's been a while."

"It has, at that. You lost a little hair since the last time I saw you, but you haven't lost your lip."

"Not on your life. I hear it around you've been writing new music."

"Some."

"I see you brought your axe along," he nodded when he saw my sax case.

"Been taking good care of her?"

"Always."

McCoy seemed hesitant about something.

"What's the matter, Lips?" I asked him. "I'd like to sit in with you."

"I'd like to hear some of your new stuff…" McCoy trailed off.

I was a little taken aback. I hadn't expected to have to ask him for an invitation and began to feel uneasy.

"There's a rumor going round about you," he said. He swallowed his whiskey with one gulp and winced.

I got a sick feeling and my brain raced when I heard that. Were people saying I'd lost my lip? Was there some talk about my affair with Nick? Or was it just Skip Walker again?

"What's the rumor?" I said grimly, determined to meet the bad news head-on.

"I heard Skip Walker played `Silvia's Tune' so bad you blew him to kingdom come. When I saw you just now, I was afraid I might be next," he said but he didn't really seem afraid.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hey, I didn't do it, Lips. It's true he steamer-wrecked the song but I didn't blow him away."

"Do you swear it, Freak?" he said looking at me carefully as I responded.

"On my mother's grave," I said.

McCoy breathed a sigh of his own that wasn't quite relief but some other emotion I couldn't place.

"And you liked the way we played your song?"

"It was real pretty," I said. "You should know by now I love your playing."

"Glad you liked it," he said. "So you want to join us for the next set?"

"More than anything."

"You're getting quite a reputation." His words seemed to have hidden meanings that I couldn't decipher so I took them at face value, shrugged in response, ordered a shot of whiskey and knocked it back in one swallow. Booze at the Bedbug didn't exactly encourage sipping behavior. It was worse than the swill at the White Cat.

When the break was over, Lips introduced me to Paul, his bass player, to Chris on drums and we wailed on some old-time classics. We played `New Kansas City Blues', `Sand in my shoes', and `My Honey Works in a Donut Shop' and spent so much time jamming and improvising that those three songs took up almost half the set. The audience didn't seem to mind, and eventually got into the groove with us. I think sometimes that fans get way too used to hearing the same song played the same way every time. They don't even realize they're not hearing something fresh. We shook those songs up and played them upside down, inside out and sideways.

That was one of the things that was so great about playing with Hot Lips. He was a virtuoso but not a prima donna. His selflessness in music reminded me of Lenny. I once asked him what he did to make it sound so fresh. And he said, "Freak, you got to get your ego out of the way and let the song play itself through you. You've got to be hollow like your horn and let the power flow through. Just like your horn is an instrument, so are you. You've got to open yourself."

He told me that years ago when I was much younger before my mother died and I didn't know what he meant back then. I get it now, but words can hardly convey that feeling I get when the song comes to life and plays itself through me but even if I can't explain it, I feel it every time. Empty but full at the same time, like when I'm making love with Nick. I closed my eyes and let the music flow.

The shimmering percussion of the drummer, the deep dark velvet notes plucked by the bass player, the sonorous melancholy of McCoy's trumpet, and the lonely longing poured forth from Silvia's golden throat, twisted and curved into arabesques of sound. It felt so good to play that way that I didn't want to stop, but did when the drummer finally put his hand on the cymbal to stop the last vibration.

And when we did the audience got up on their feet for us and pulped their hands. It was glorious.

I didn't feel much need to drink, but I had a couple more belts of bourbon over the course of the rest of the night. When the house lights came on for good at the end of the last set, I finally snapped out of my blissed-out musical trance. I shook hands with the bassist and drummer. I gave Hot Lips a hug. He hugged me back and held on a while, then whispered in my ear, "You play real good, Midvalley. You'd make your mother proud."

I couldn't help tearing up when he said that because that's one of the big regrets of my life, that my mother never got to hear the song I wrote for her. While I waited for my emotions to calm down, I busied myself by packing Silvia carefully into her case. McCoy put his trumpet to bed at the same time. I glanced over at McCoy's trumpet case when I was through fastening Silvia's case clips. I recognized a decal on his case that had been there for years. As a kid I'd always been fascinated by it. It was a picture of an open mouth in profile poised to blow on the mouthpiece of a horn. It was pretty clear from large feathery wings that flanked the face that the mouth belonged to an angel.

"What's that picture, Lips? I've always wondered about it. I don't know much scripture, but I know they say that Gabriel blew a horn."

"Yeah, that's Gabriel, the mouth of Gabriel the Archangel. You know about it?"

" I don't think so. What about `it'?"

"Nothing." I just thought you'd know, being the kind of horn player you are."

"What kind is that?"

"Talented."

"Lots of players are talented," I said.

"Yeah, but there's talent and `talent' if you know what I mean?"

"Oh?" I said without a glimmer of comprehension until I grasped that he might be talking about psionic talent.

"I know you don't use Silvia just to make beautiful music. I saw the pictures of the guards at Burns' house in the Daily Dish with the blood coming out of their ears and eyes and nose and mouth. I know how they got that way."

"So?"

"You're not the only `talented' horn player on the planet. I thought you'd be interested to know that."

"You've seen others?"

"A few," he said.

"What's that got to do with Gabriel the Archangel?" I asked him with my brow furrowed.

"Maybe we'll talk about it later," he said. "I just thought you already knew."

I looked closely at him. Looked him in the eyes. And the intelligence I saw in them was almost as shrewd and calculating as that of Legato Bluesummers. And it dawned on me, McCoy was `talented' too. And he was telling me there were more like me, more like him. The first thing that occurred to me was that Master Knives' should be informed at once.

The second thing that occurred to me was that after I shared that tidbit of information with Master Knives, it wouldn't change a thing for me. I was still on vacation. I was still going to set up a studio and record some of the new songs. I was still going on tour--and as soon as it was humanly possible, I was going to get back together with Nick. I swallowed hard when I visualized all the things we would do when we did. I stopped the daydream when I felt McCoy's eyes appraising me.

"That kind of talent has its uses," I said. "It's how I killed the man who murdered my mother, but I don't feel the need for it at the moment, McCoy. I'm setting up a recording studio this week somewhere in town and I'm looking for some great musicians to back me up on a new mini album. With the equipment and musicians in place, you could record one of your own. I made a lot of money from `Hornfreak Gold'. I would have made a lot more if I'd had my own studio. If the mini album hits big, the double dollars will roll in. You want in on it? You'll get royalties and the opportunity to record your own stuff. I'd love to have you aboard."

Lips gave me a big smile.

"Sure," he said.

"You want to go on tour with the Midvalley Seven?"

"Sure," he said with another big smile.

"You sure are agreeable tonight."

"I sure am."

"Come back with me to the May Queen?"

"Sure."

It was a little after midnight when McCoy said his farewells to the proprietor of the Bedbug, followed me out of the swinging doors and we headed down the street together to the May Queen.