Summary
It takes a night out with Malcolm and his jazzmen for Angela to live again.
Back in the car park, Angela glanced at her weathered SandY 590 watch with the matching military green wristband and saw it approaching four in the afternoon. She was now very late to “the thing.” Leaving it inside out, she pulled her sweatshirt back on and used her rearview mirror to freshen up—travel wipes, the ritual flip of her ash-blonde hairstyle, and such—before exiting.
The scene on arrival had the spirit of a colony of ants clearing roadkill. Easily, three hundred souls worked at pulling apart temporary structures, keeping children safe with play, or having whatever private conversation.
Angela found Mike a few paces away from the remains of the main stage. Around him were a semi-circle of equally dressed guys—old-man blue jeans, Leatherman in belt clips, and worn-thin t-shirts. Mike was an angry mess, calling his subordinates all kinds of nasty names, infrequently pointing to a solitary soul in a relaxed tuxedo ensemble.
One in his crew held fast to a defense. “You can’t blame us, Mike, for the way that car was pumping out scary black smoke?”
“But now we’ve got some blind nigga’ player without a ride!”
Mike’s words had visibly disturbed Angela. A crimson hue filled the whiteness in her face. Just as one of Mike’s boys pointed her out, she turned and walked away.
The player in question stood about a frisbee’s throw from that argument. With dark skin the same color as good, fertile earth, he held his head high like a prince in waiting. A drawstring knapsack colored in regal reds, golds, and greens sat before his feet. And, upon his head, a crown of natty dreadlocks.
Angela, as she approached him, slid her sunglasses up, tucking them high into her hair. The hardness in her brown eyes softened with familiarity. And, once near enough, she asked, “What’s all the drama, jazzman?”
A pair of wayfarer sunglasses concealed his attention. And without turning his head, his six-foot frame of street muscle answered after a delay. “Guessing some Sieg Heil security nut dismissed my ride. Now, they’re in a flap.”
“Maybe I could help? Where do you need t’go?”
“Doll, only if you have the time? My man Reggie’s waiting near St Edward in Deep Ellum.”
Angela’s five-foot-two frame took his hand to her elbow, supporting his sight impairment with discretion. “Promise t’not call me ‘Doll,’ and I’ll make the time. It’s a drive downtown, so make sure you have all yer bits.”
“Just me and my blackwood. I’m Malcolm, by the way. What should I call you?”
Her countenance lit up, eyeing his clarinet case poking out of his knapsack, and she rejoined simply with, “Claire.”
The ride started in small talk territory after Malcolm bent himself in half to sit in the front seat. He shared his gratitude for riding in such a clean-smelling car. ‘Claire’ shared a warning against her glove box that a jack-in-the-box worth of junk awaited him. Then, she asked how he wound up at the venue. As a contract player for hire through BMG, they have him all over the map. Tomorrow, for instance, was an early flight to Tokyo, pending a ride to the airport. On the first conversational low, she hit a radio preset for KNTU, where the DJ introduced Sidney Bechet’s “Si tu vois ma mère.”
