Black Elvis by Geoffrey Becker Page A

gray sweater-vest, and looked more like an elementary school teacher than a jazz cat. "You should turn up," I said. "We can barely hear you."
    "We started louder," he explained. "The restaurant manager came and told us to turn down."
    "Strange gig," I said.
    "You know it, man."
    Our drinks arrived, the manager carrying them on a tray from down the long hall, so I rejoined Lorna. "Thanks," I said, and he nodded, then disappeared. We clinked glasses and listened to the next song. They were good, these guys—as good as you'd hear anyplace. It was pretty much a secret that they were working so hard; over in the restaurant, you probably got the impression of piped-in Muzak, or something.
    The martini was solid—very cold. I was munching on the second olive when a scraggly-looking kid in an army jacket came and sat on the next stool. He waved to Arthur, and Arthur acknowledged him with a big smile, without breaking rhythm or losing his place in what he was doing, which was playing three different things at once: bass line, little two-note chords popping on and off like Christmas lights, and an improvised melody line on top. The guy was some kind of genius, and his fingers were extralong, slender, pale, and tapered. I didn't recognize the song, but that was hardly the point.
    The kid kept looking around. Finally, I leaned over to him and said, "It's not a bar."
    "It's not?"
    I shook my head. "Nope. I know, I know, it looks like one. But it's not. It's a fake bar."
    "But you have drinks," he pointed out.
    "I know," I said, raising mine, then taking a sip. "They made an exception."
    "If it's not a bar," he said, "why did they hire a band to play in it?"
    "Your guess is as good as mine." There was something about his face I liked. He had acne on his cheeks and forehead, and curly brown hair that looked like he never brushed or combed it, but just showered and let it dry however. He reminded me vaguely of me, just a long time ago. I'm forty-eight; he might have been twenty-three. "Are you one of Arthur's students?"
    "Yeah," he said.
    "Me, too."
    The manager came back to check on us. "Anything else?" he asked.
    "I could use another," I said. I looked at Lorna, and she nodded. "And my friend here would like to order, too."
    The manager wasn't sure what to do with this one, I could see. "Did you—"
    "I told him," I said. "He knows it's not a bar."
    "It's just for show," said the manager. "We have other bars. I really don't know why they put this one here."
    "He's here for the music, too," I said. "Maybe you could break the rules for him, also? I'll bet he just wants a beer."
    "Jack Daniels, actually," said the kid.
    "Ice?" asked the manager.
    "Ice," he said.
    "All right," said the manager, then headed off down the hallway again.
    We sat there, just the three of us, listening. The drummer was using brushes, whisking so lightly around the top of his snare that the sound he produced wasn't much more than wind makes shaking leaves from a tree. I felt bad for him—all the drummers I'd ever known liked to make noise. It was why they got into the business in the first place.
    "I'm Andy," said the kid to me.
    "Cleve," I said.
    "Nice," he said, as if I'd just hit a jump shot. "Cleveland?"
    "My dad was a history buff. It's better than Grover ."
    "I guess." He adjusted his balance on the bar seat. They were reasonably comfortable, wooden swivel ones with padding, but they had no backs. "He liked Sesame Street , too, huh?"
    "I doubt he'd ever heard of Sesame Street ."
    The manager reappeared, saving us from the rest of this conversation. He gave us all our drinks and promised to come back and check on us later.
    "That's Lorna," I said.
    He nodded toward her, and she responded with a little smile and wave.
    "Arthur's amazing, huh?" I said. "You been his student long?"
    "Couple years." He was paying close attention to the music. "Nice," he said, appreciating some of Arthur's tricky fingering. He took a sip of his drink.