It was past midnight. Mac and Louie both hid their shoes from the drizzle under Ragmans’ little awning and pretended not to be all that cold in the biting November air. Their horn cases leaned against the wall, getting a little wetter each time the rain decided to team up with the wind and blow sideways.
“The apostrophe’s in the wrong spot,” said Mac.
Louie looked around. “What now?”
“Up there, on the big sign off the side of the place. It should be, ‘Ragman,’ then an apostrophe, then the S.”
“Oh yeah. That it is,” said Louie. “I noticed too, earlier.”
“Did you now?”
Louie nodded. “Sticks out like a sore thumb.”
Mac chuckled. “You’d think a joint with a neon sign up all night buzzing like that could afford a proofreader.”
“Mm.”
Louie’s shoes were much newer than Mac’s. Both black leather. But Louie’s looked scuffed already and the heel had glue all around the edges. The rain came sideways.
Mac fished around in his jacket pocket. “Cigarette?”
“No, thanks.”
“Don’t smoke?”
“They say it’s bad for your embouchure. It dries out the lips. Need those,” replied Louie.
Mac lit up. “Ah.”
A taxicab, angular and dirty yellow, splashed a deep puddle across the street. A woman with an umbrella and a now very wet dress screamed at the car but it just took a sharp left turn and vanished.
“You hear Mike on that last chorus?” Louie asked. “Whole room went quiet. Double-high G.”
“He’s always pulling tricks like that,” said Mac, exhaling some smoke. “Then there’s us mortals.”
Louie laughed. “You played clean tonight though. You were good. Reminds me of when I played with Hub, back before he was as big as he is now.”
“Hubbie, huh?” Mac asked, after blowing out some more smoke.
“Oh yeah.”
“Where’d you play?”
“Oh. Just a little club. Back when he was still doing the smaller Harlem spots.”
The crackle of thunder sounded like bass drums in the distance, and water flowed in rivers on the edges of the street. Louie ground his gluey heel on the wet pavement.
“Feel good for the guy though,” said Louie, “You know he’s playing with Billy now?”
“Billy?”
“Billy Joel.”
“Oh, that’s something.”
“Sure is,” said Louie. “I should catch up with him.”
“No, you’re right, you gotta keep in touch.” Mac nodded. “I used to sub in for the Hampton Band. I played just left of Brownie one time. Great guy. He remembers me, he liked me.”
Louie snorted. “Oh yeah? You send him a Christmas card?”
Mac didn’t reply. Instead he just took another drag, smoldering, then let some hot dry ash float down to the cold pavement. Louie watched as Mac’s cigarette glowed a hellish red between his valve fingers. The rain was flooding the street. And there was more thunder, like drums.
“Honestly, I kinda hate the guy though,” said Louie.
“Mikey?”
“Yeah Mike. Thinks he’s Gabriel up there with his damned horn.”
Mac watched a soggy bag of bread rolls float down the road, breaking apart in the water.
“Fucker,” muttered Louie.
“Yeah. Fuck Mikey,” said Mac, loudly, his words ricocheting through the deserted street.
Louie smiled. “You’re a good guy, Mac. We should get a drink, sometime.”
Mac shrugged. “Why not.”
Then the grimy steel doors of Ragmans’ swung open. The pavement was divided, light from dark, the open doors casting a thin golden sliver out into the street. For a moment, modal piano, hushed conversation, and the clink of glasses gently wafted outside. Mike stepped out, with a cigarette already in his right hand. He stood a beat, eyes sliding over the pair of sidemen. He shut the light and soft sound behind him.
“Great stuff as always, Mike,” said Louie, “Really incredible playing.”
“You’re one of a kind,” added Mac.
Mike nodded for a moment. “Anyone spare a light?”
Mac lit his cigarette with a Zippo while Louie blocked the wind with his hands. Once it caught, Mike breathed in deeply with his eyes closed, then blew out a big cloud out towards the street. It was quickly shredded by the rain, like buckshot.
Mike looked over Louie and Mac, into the clouds which paced above. “I miss being in the house band at the Vanguard,” he said, examining the sky. “That was a tight group.”
“We’re not so bad though, are we?” Mac asked, smiling.
Mike brought his eyes down just a few inches and examined his second and third horns.
Mac’s fat, old, and has got skin like bad leather. He looks stupid when he holds a horn. Or maybe he just looks stupid generally. The other one can’t swing for shit. Just the sight of him trying to string together notes of his own makes you sick. And don’t even talk about the God-damned sound.
“Oh, not bad at all, gentlemen,” he said, the words rolling out of his mouth like marbles.
Mike flicked his cigarette butt, only one-fourth smoked, into a puddle. It sponged up water and turned a splotchy grey. He opened the metal doors, bathed in radiant light, and vanished. Mac chuckled to himself.
For a few minutes Mac and Louie stood and listened to the rolling percussion of the rain, leaning up against the wall, under little awning outside Ragmans’, pretending not to be cold.
Louie broke the silence. “Spare a cigarette?”
“You smoke now?”
“Maybe I do.”
Mac fished one out and passed it to Louie. Louie cupped his hands around the tip, same as before, and Mac lit it. Louie took a long draw, breathed it out, and stifled a cough.
“Thanks Mac.” he wheezed.
“No problem.”
“You know what?” Louie asked, pausing, looking at Mac, who was staring off at the stewing grey clouds.
“You know, Mac, I didn’t really play with Hubbie. But we were on the same bill, at least, one night.”
“Well, not really that, even. He was on the bill the night after me, same place I was, when I subbed for some band’s horn. But I got to see him backstage. He was busy though. We didn’t talk too much. Well, we didn’t talk.”
Mac brought down his eyes just a few inches and examined his third horn.
Doesn’t understand much. Not much at all. Can’t really play. Besides, “Louie” is already taken. That’s funny. Kinda ties the whole picture of the kid together.
Mac dropped his cigarette butt, burnt out, into the same puddle. It filled with water and sank. He grabbed his case. “Goodnight, Louie.”
He walked off into the rain.
So Louie sat alone under the Ragmans’ awning, holding a cigarette uncomfortably in his left hand. He took another hit, more conservative than the last, and blew out a little cloud, which hung in the air around him. He still coughed. But one breath at a time, Louie smoked that cigarette, stifling the irritation in his lungs, even though there wasn’t anyone anywhere around to see if and when he coughed. And then, once it burned out, he tossed it into the puddle with the other two, where the three butts gorged themselves on water, until they were so soggy that the paper disintegrated, sloughing into the concrete.
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