was,
and she helped herself before she hit on me to see my father.”
Chick raised a brow. “Bit hard on her, surely? She’s a real
fan of the band.”
“Not good for the public image to throw women out of your
hotel room? Good luck with fixing that.” He turned his attention back to his
pad. He was nearly done with this lyric. He’d written two songs tonight, and he
thought they might be bloody good. At least some good had come of his encounter
and the reminder of his past. Not that either tune would work as his “In My
Life”. Nothing did. He idolized that song. The first few notes drifted through
his mind, and for fuck’s sake, he nearly welled up at the remembrance of the
beginning lines.
He had nobody, nothing, and he was better off that way.
“Go see your father, Zazz.”
Unlike most managers, Chick was definitely not hands-off
where his clients’ private lives were concerned. “Fuck off, Chick.” Knowing
Chick wouldn’t stop until he had finished what he had to say, Zazz put down the
pad and lifted the coffee mug to his lips.
“Get it over with.”
“And find him in another pool of vomit or worse?” Zazz hit
on the thing to get Chick to leave him alone. “How did finding Matt and Jace
near death affect you?”
Nobody else in the band, not even Matt and Jace, knew that
Chick had found them and got the emergency services to them in time. In the
course of one drunken, maudlin night, he’d spilled it to Zazz, then forced him
to swear not to tell anyone else. The experience had shaken Chick, made him
more determined to ensure nobody died on his watch. That included interference
in the band’s private life, if he deemed it necessary. Zazz realized it must be
his turn.
“You know how. Not good. All that beauty and youth
destroyed. They weren’t joining the twenty-seven club if I could help it. Your
father survived.”
“Better if he hadn’t.” Zazz had thought that over plenty of
times. “He lost his talent, lost his fame, his way of earning a living. Came
here, everybody forgot him. That didn’t matter to him. He kept trying, but he
always said he was better when he was high.”
Chick’s voice took on a dreamy tone. “He was one of the best
horn players I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Zazz frowned. “How old are you exactly?”
Chick gave a laugh. “Not that old, but I have all his
recordings. There aren’t many. A few live Birdland sessions, some backing
sessions and the two solo albums. Nobody forgot him, Zazz, not the true
believers.”
“He’s fucking awful these days. At least he was when I
left.” Zazz shuddered, remembering drunken noodlings and broken scales.
Chick finished his coffee and got to his feet, heading to
the machine instead of the door. He hadn’t finished yet. “I’d still like the
chance to tell him what pleasure he’s given me over the years.”
“Why should he care? He worked for the shit he pumped into
his arm. There’s an old Frank Sinatra movie—”
“ The Man With The Golden Arm ,” Chick said reverently.
“Good movie. Yeah, he could have lived better. But he never abandoned you.”
Appeals to Zazz’s better nature wouldn’t work. “Sure he did.
He didn’t remember that I was still with him, sometimes. I’m an American
according to my birth certificate, but with a British father. She put his name
down and he said it was more trouble to get his name removed than he could
spare. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a Londoner who made it big in the US first.
You are what you make yourself.”
“Are you sure he’s not your father?” Chick asked.
For answer, Zazz shrugged. “If he wasn’t, some other lowlife
was. My ma was a streetwalker. Sold her pussy, mouth and arsehole for the drugs
she needed. She died just after I was born. I was born addicted and he took me
to the hospital, got me put in an incubator. I might have died.” He paused. “It
might have been better if I had.”
Chick returned to his chair with a brimming mug of
and she helped herself before she hit on me to see my father.”
Chick raised a brow. “Bit hard on her, surely? She’s a real
fan of the band.”
“Not good for the public image to throw women out of your
hotel room? Good luck with fixing that.” He turned his attention back to his
pad. He was nearly done with this lyric. He’d written two songs tonight, and he
thought they might be bloody good. At least some good had come of his encounter
and the reminder of his past. Not that either tune would work as his “In My
Life”. Nothing did. He idolized that song. The first few notes drifted through
his mind, and for fuck’s sake, he nearly welled up at the remembrance of the
beginning lines.
He had nobody, nothing, and he was better off that way.
“Go see your father, Zazz.”
Unlike most managers, Chick was definitely not hands-off
where his clients’ private lives were concerned. “Fuck off, Chick.” Knowing
Chick wouldn’t stop until he had finished what he had to say, Zazz put down the
pad and lifted the coffee mug to his lips.
“Get it over with.”
“And find him in another pool of vomit or worse?” Zazz hit
on the thing to get Chick to leave him alone. “How did finding Matt and Jace
near death affect you?”
Nobody else in the band, not even Matt and Jace, knew that
Chick had found them and got the emergency services to them in time. In the
course of one drunken, maudlin night, he’d spilled it to Zazz, then forced him
to swear not to tell anyone else. The experience had shaken Chick, made him
more determined to ensure nobody died on his watch. That included interference
in the band’s private life, if he deemed it necessary. Zazz realized it must be
his turn.
“You know how. Not good. All that beauty and youth
destroyed. They weren’t joining the twenty-seven club if I could help it. Your
father survived.”
“Better if he hadn’t.” Zazz had thought that over plenty of
times. “He lost his talent, lost his fame, his way of earning a living. Came
here, everybody forgot him. That didn’t matter to him. He kept trying, but he
always said he was better when he was high.”
Chick’s voice took on a dreamy tone. “He was one of the best
horn players I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Zazz frowned. “How old are you exactly?”
Chick gave a laugh. “Not that old, but I have all his
recordings. There aren’t many. A few live Birdland sessions, some backing
sessions and the two solo albums. Nobody forgot him, Zazz, not the true
believers.”
“He’s fucking awful these days. At least he was when I
left.” Zazz shuddered, remembering drunken noodlings and broken scales.
Chick finished his coffee and got to his feet, heading to
the machine instead of the door. He hadn’t finished yet. “I’d still like the
chance to tell him what pleasure he’s given me over the years.”
“Why should he care? He worked for the shit he pumped into
his arm. There’s an old Frank Sinatra movie—”
“ The Man With The Golden Arm ,” Chick said reverently.
“Good movie. Yeah, he could have lived better. But he never abandoned you.”
Appeals to Zazz’s better nature wouldn’t work. “Sure he did.
He didn’t remember that I was still with him, sometimes. I’m an American
according to my birth certificate, but with a British father. She put his name
down and he said it was more trouble to get his name removed than he could
spare. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a Londoner who made it big in the US first.
You are what you make yourself.”
“Are you sure he’s not your father?” Chick asked.
For answer, Zazz shrugged. “If he wasn’t, some other lowlife
was. My ma was a streetwalker. Sold her pussy, mouth and arsehole for the drugs
she needed. She died just after I was born. I was born addicted and he took me
to the hospital, got me put in an incubator. I might have died.” He paused. “It
might have been better if I had.”
Chick returned to his chair with a brimming mug of
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