Razor turned to him, puzzled. “Man, you is one dumb honky. Don’t you see, man? To Bobo, you is Lee Evans all over again. Must be how you blow.”
“But I’m not,” Brew protested, feeling panic rise in him. “Somebody’s got to tell him I’m not Lee Evans.”
Razor’s eyes narrowed; his voice lowered menacingly. “Ain’t nobody got to tell nobody shit. Bobo was sick for a long time. If he’s playin’ again cause of you, that’s enough. You,” he pointed a finger at Brew, “jus’ be cool and blow your horn.” There was no mistake. It was an order.
“But…”
“But nothin’. If there’s anything else goin’ down, I’ll hear about it. Who do you think took care of Bobo? You know my name, man? Jones. Razor Jones.” He smiled at Brew suddenly, seeing that Brew failed to make the connection. “Bobo’s my brother.”
Razor started the car and whistled for Honey. Brew got out slowly and stood at the curb like a survivor of the holocaust. The huge Doberman galloped back obediently, sniffed at Brew, and jumped in next to Razor.
“Bye,” Razor called, flashing Brew a toothy smile. Brew could swear Honey sneered at him as the car pulled away.
• • •
The Final Bar was now the in place in the Village. Manny had seen to that, forgiving Brew for all his past sins and recognizing Bobo’s return, if artfully managed, would insure all their futures. If anything, Manny was pragmatic. He was on the phone daily, negotiating with record companies and spreading the word that a great event in jazz was about to take place.
Driven by the memory of Razor’s menacing smile, Brew played like a man possessed, astonishing musicians who came in to hear for themselves. He was getting calls from people he’d never heard of, offering record dates, road tours, even to form his own group. But of course, Brew wasn’t going anywhere. He was miserable.
“You were great, kid,” Manny said, looking around the club. It was packed every night now, and Rollo had hired extra help to handle the increase in business. “Listen, wait till you hear the deal I’ve made with Newport records. A live session, right here. The return of Bobo Jones. Of course, I insisted on top billing for you, too.” Manny was beaming. “How about that, eh?”
“I think I’ll go to Paris,” Brew said, staring vacantly.
“Paris?” Manny turned to Mary Ann. “What’s he talking about?”
Mary Ann shrugged. “He’s got this crazy idea about Bobo.
“What idea, Brew? Talk to me.”
“I mean,” Brew said evenly, “there isn’t going to be any recording session, not with me anyway.”
Manny’s face fell. “No recording? Whatta you mean? An album with Bobo will make you. At the risk of sounding like an agent, this is your big break.”
“Manny, you don’t understand. Bob thinks I’m Lee Evans. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see,” Manny said glaring at Brew. “I don’t care if he thinks you’re Jesus Christ with a saxophone. We’re talking major bucks here. Big. You blow this one and you might as well sell your horn.” Manny turned back to Mary Ann. “For God’s sake, talk some sense into him.”
Mary Ann shrugged. “He’s afraid Bobo will flip out again, and he’s worried about Bobo’s brother.”
“Yeah, Manny, you would be too if you saw him. He’s got the biggest razor I’ve ever seen. And if that isn’t enough, he’s got a killer dog that would just love to tear me to pieces.”
“What did you do to him? You’re not up to your old tricks again are you?”
No, no, nothing. He just told me, ordered me, to keep playing with Bobo.
“So, what’s the problem?”
Brew sighed. “For one thing, I don’t like being a ghost. And what if Bobo attacks me like the last time. He almost killed that guy. Bobo needs to be told, but no one will do it, and I can’t do it. So, it’s Bobo, Razor, or Paris. I’ll take Paris. I heard there’s a good jazz scene there.”
Manny stared dumbly at Mary Ann. “Is he serious? C’mon, Brew, that’s ridiculous. Look, Newport wants to set this up for next Monday night, and I’m warning you, screw this up, and I will personally see that you never work again.” He laughed and slapped Brew on the back. “Trust me, Brew. It’ll be fine.”
• • •
But Brew didn’t trust anyone, and no one could convince him. Even Mary Ann couldn’t get through to him. Finally, he decided to get some expert advice. He checked with Bellevue but was told that the case couldn’t be discussed unless he was a relative. He even tracked down the saxophonist Bobo had attacked, but as soon as he mentioned Bobo’s name, the guy slammed down the phone.
In desperation, Brew remembered a guy he’d met at one of the clubs. A jazz buff, Ted Fisher was doing his internship in psychiatry at Columbia Medical School. Musicians called him Doctor Deep. Brew telephoned him, explained what he wanted, and they agreed to meet at Chubby’s
“What is this, a gay bar?” Ted Fisher asked, looking around the crowded bar.
“No, Ted, there just aren’t a lot of lady musicians. Now look I—”
“Hey, isn’t that Gerry Mulligan over there at the bar?”
“Ted, c’mon. This is serious.”
“Sorry, Brew. Well, from what you’ve told me already, as I understand it, your concern is that Bobo thinks you’re his former saxophonist, right?”
Brew looked desperate. “I don’t think it, I know it. Look, Bobo attacked the substitute horn player. What I want to know is what happens if the same conditions are repeated. Bobo is convinced I’m Lee Evans now, but what if the live recording session triggers his memory and brings it all back and he suddenly realizes I’m not? Could he flip out again and go for me?” Brew sat back and rubbed his throat.
“Hummm,” Ted murmured and gazed at the ceiling. “No, I wouldn’t think so. Bobo’s fixation, brought about by the loss of a close friend, whom he’d actually, though inadvertently, assumed a father figure role for, is understandable and quite plausible. As for a repeated occurrence, even in simulated identical circumstances, well-delayed shock would account for the first instance, but no, I don’t think it’s within the realm of possibility.” Ted smiled at Brew reassuringly and lit his pipe.
“Could you put that in a little plainer terms?”
“No, I don’t think it would happen again.”
“You’re sure?” Brew was already feeling better.
“Yes, absolutely. Unless…”
Brew’s head snapped up. “Unless what?”
“Unless this Bobo fellow suddenly decided he…he didn’t like the way you played. Brew? You okay? You look a little pale.”
Brew leaned forward on the table and covered his face with his hands. “Thanks, Ted,” he whispered.
Ted smiled. “Anytime, Brew. Don’t mention it. Hey, do you think Gerry Mulligan would mind if I asked him for his autograph?”
• • •
In the end, Brew finally decided to do the session. It wasn’t Manny’s threats or insistence. They had paled in comparison to Razor. It wasn’t even Mary Ann’s reasoning. She was convinced Bobo was totally insane. No, in the end, it was the dreams that did it. Always the dreams.
A giant Doberman, wearing sunglasses and carrying a straight razor in its mouth was chasing Brew through Central Park. In the distance, Razor stood holding Brew’s horn and laughing. Brew