like that, Dr. Frasier. That’s up to you.”
“You can spread the word among your people that he shouldn’t be wandering around by himself, can’t you?”
Gillette shrugged. “I suppose I can do that.”
We had reached the club. A black doorman who also looked like he’d been there since the Truman administration gave us a toothless grin and said, “How you folks doin’ this fine night? Come to listen to some good hot jazz, have you?”
“Have you seen an old man?” Frasier asked sharply.
“Besides in the mirror, you mean? I’ve seen lots o’ elderly gentlemen come an’ go through this here door, sir. Just ‘cause a man gettin’ on up in years don’t mean he stops lovin’ that hot music.”
“Oh, just step aside,” Frasier snapped. He caught hold of the door’s handle and pulled it open, jerking it out of the old man’s hand.
“Hey!” Gillette said, beating me to it. “There’s no need to act like that.”
Frasier wasn’t listening, though. He stalked into the club with the rest of us trailing behind him. As I passed the doorman, I said, “Sorry.”
“Don’t you worry your head ‘bout it, miss,” he said. “One thing ain’t never been in short supply in the Quarter is jackasses.” He grinned. “They used to pull wagons ‘long these very streets. Now they go inside.”
I couldn’t help but grin back at him. Then I followed the others into the club.
Packed into its narrow, dimly lit confines were a bar along the left-hand wall, shadowy booths on the right-hand wall, and a few tables in between. At the back of the room was a postage-stamp-size bandstand where a man was playing a trumpet, backed up by a piano and bass in a classic trio. The music was hot, all right, fast and sweaty, the sort where the notes reached right inside your guts and jangled them all around. Just listening to it made your feet want to move.
Or in the case of Howard Burleson, instead of tapping his feet, he patted the table as he sat in one of the booths. There was a glass of clear liquid in front of him, but I would have bet it wasn’t water. His hat sat on the table beside the glass. His bald head gleamed, even in this place, where there wasn’t much light.
“Thank God!” Frasier exclaimed, loud enough so that some of the club’s patrons turned to glance at him disapprovingly. The place was almost but not quite full.
“He’s still here,” Gillette said, sounding very relieved. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’ll get back to the hotel.”
Frasier ignored him and headed for the booth where Burleson sat. Gillette nodded to the rest of us and went back out the door.
A waitress started to ask Frasier if he wanted a drink, but he waved her away. The rest of us followed him over to the booth where Burleson sat. Along the way, Will caught the waitress’s eye, made a little motion with his hand, and shook his head.
As Frasier came to a stop beside the booth, he said, “Howard, what are you doing here?”
Burleson evidently hadn’t noticed us until now. He looked up with a dreamy smile on his weathered face and said, “There you are, Michael. I came to listen to some music. You and your friends should sit down. Those boys are really good.”
“We don’t have time for music,” Frasier said. “We need to get back to the hotel. Come on, Howard.”
Burleson kept patting the table softly in time with the music. “Not just yet, not just yet. I’m havin’ a good time. So many memories in this place. So many wonderful memories. Tom and I used to come here, you know.”
I glanced at Tamara Paige, thinking that she might make some disparaging comment, but for once she kept her mouth shut about the subject of Howard Burleson and Tennessee Williams. Maybe she felt a little sorry for the old man. Her face seemed a little softer than it had been earlier.
Frasier insisted, “You can tell everybody all about that tomorrow, Howard. Right now, we need to go back to the hotel.” He reached out and
“You can spread the word among your people that he shouldn’t be wandering around by himself, can’t you?”
Gillette shrugged. “I suppose I can do that.”
We had reached the club. A black doorman who also looked like he’d been there since the Truman administration gave us a toothless grin and said, “How you folks doin’ this fine night? Come to listen to some good hot jazz, have you?”
“Have you seen an old man?” Frasier asked sharply.
“Besides in the mirror, you mean? I’ve seen lots o’ elderly gentlemen come an’ go through this here door, sir. Just ‘cause a man gettin’ on up in years don’t mean he stops lovin’ that hot music.”
“Oh, just step aside,” Frasier snapped. He caught hold of the door’s handle and pulled it open, jerking it out of the old man’s hand.
“Hey!” Gillette said, beating me to it. “There’s no need to act like that.”
Frasier wasn’t listening, though. He stalked into the club with the rest of us trailing behind him. As I passed the doorman, I said, “Sorry.”
“Don’t you worry your head ‘bout it, miss,” he said. “One thing ain’t never been in short supply in the Quarter is jackasses.” He grinned. “They used to pull wagons ‘long these very streets. Now they go inside.”
I couldn’t help but grin back at him. Then I followed the others into the club.
Packed into its narrow, dimly lit confines were a bar along the left-hand wall, shadowy booths on the right-hand wall, and a few tables in between. At the back of the room was a postage-stamp-size bandstand where a man was playing a trumpet, backed up by a piano and bass in a classic trio. The music was hot, all right, fast and sweaty, the sort where the notes reached right inside your guts and jangled them all around. Just listening to it made your feet want to move.
Or in the case of Howard Burleson, instead of tapping his feet, he patted the table as he sat in one of the booths. There was a glass of clear liquid in front of him, but I would have bet it wasn’t water. His hat sat on the table beside the glass. His bald head gleamed, even in this place, where there wasn’t much light.
“Thank God!” Frasier exclaimed, loud enough so that some of the club’s patrons turned to glance at him disapprovingly. The place was almost but not quite full.
“He’s still here,” Gillette said, sounding very relieved. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’ll get back to the hotel.”
Frasier ignored him and headed for the booth where Burleson sat. Gillette nodded to the rest of us and went back out the door.
A waitress started to ask Frasier if he wanted a drink, but he waved her away. The rest of us followed him over to the booth where Burleson sat. Along the way, Will caught the waitress’s eye, made a little motion with his hand, and shook his head.
As Frasier came to a stop beside the booth, he said, “Howard, what are you doing here?”
Burleson evidently hadn’t noticed us until now. He looked up with a dreamy smile on his weathered face and said, “There you are, Michael. I came to listen to some music. You and your friends should sit down. Those boys are really good.”
“We don’t have time for music,” Frasier said. “We need to get back to the hotel. Come on, Howard.”
Burleson kept patting the table softly in time with the music. “Not just yet, not just yet. I’m havin’ a good time. So many memories in this place. So many wonderful memories. Tom and I used to come here, you know.”
I glanced at Tamara Paige, thinking that she might make some disparaging comment, but for once she kept her mouth shut about the subject of Howard Burleson and Tennessee Williams. Maybe she felt a little sorry for the old man. Her face seemed a little softer than it had been earlier.
Frasier insisted, “You can tell everybody all about that tomorrow, Howard. Right now, we need to go back to the hotel.” He reached out and
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