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Number Fourteen: Frank Sinatra
An iconic image from the early ‘50s
has Frank in a short-brimmed fedora, flashing a crafty smile. He’s wearing a
tux, open collar, dangling bowtie, and cradling an old-fashioned squarish
microphone. Seams along either side indicate the use of a pre-fab mold. The
green is shaped like a martini glass, the narrow stem creating a simple
obstacle. The hole is the pimento in the olive.
David sleeps late – the prerogative
of a big-time entertainer – and finds that his household is empty. He puts on
his historian/detective hat and attempts to read the archaeology. From Pablo,
the standard leftover pizza and two library books: Golf Course Design and The
Figure in Sculpture. From Derek, a stack of Aberdeen Daily Worlds and a brand-new leather jacket, hints of a young man
with his own money and a girl to impress. From Elena, one of those infomercial
workout machines where you strap your butt to the seat and swivel around like a
crazed monkey.The fridge contains every fruit and vegetable known to mankind;
the freezer, an army of Weight Watcher dinners. Is this a new pledge to her
husband, or a middle finger to the chubby chaser? He hopes she’s doing it for
herself.
Pouring a cup of coffee, he glances
outside to find a sunny morning and a coating of frost on the lawn. But it’s
not frost. It’s snow. He wanders out to the porch to contemplate whether this
carries a portent for the Billy Saddle Trio.
David arrives at the casino early and
finds that the place is mobbed. He wonders about the ratios: holiday gamblers?
Yoakamheads? Billy Saddle fans? Do they have
fans, or are they more like lookie-loos at a traffic accident? He feels very
appreciative for his role as a bit player – all of the benefits, none of the
hassle – and immediately feels guilty, since he’s the one who talked Billy into
it.
Rounding his way into the fireside
lounge, he spots a small crowd in the lobby, and wanders over to inspect. The
wall contains what looks like an empty fishtank; you can see the cocktail
lounge on the other side. The corners of the tank contain tiny spotlights,
focused on some central object. Jostling his way through the spectators, he
discovers that the object is a baseball.
At the door to Room 57, he’s greeted
by a large native man in a black windbreaker.
“He’s okay,” calls Billy. “That’s our
bass player. David, this is Namraq, our personal security force.”
David’s not sure if it’s kosher to
shake hands with a working bodyguard, so he gives Namraq a nod.
“Nice to meet you.”
Namraq gives a smaller nod in return,
and a neutral intensity that’s probably standard equipment. David slides past
and finds Isaiah and Billy at a table, chewing on chicken.
“Hello, bandmates.”
“Hey,” says Billy. “Would you believe
we get this room every Friday?”
“No shit!”
“Yep. They don’t want me leaving the
joint late at night.”
“Awesome. So… the ball. I mean,
that’s the ball, right?”
“The very one.”
“Wow. Where did you keep it?”
Billy smiles. “A rest stop outside of
Boise. I placed it in a steel box and I buried it in a nearby wood.”
David gives him a blank look, and Billy
busts out laughing.
“God! You’re so easy. Frankie Minor.
A vault in his office. He brought it with him when he came out. Sit down! Have
some chow.”
“Not sure if I should.”
“God! I’m working with tenderfoots.
You mean to say you’ve got butterflies?”
“Like crazy. Not you?”
“Little bit. Isaiah here didn’t sleep
a wink.”
Isaiah gives a bleary smile. “Feel
like shit.”
“Here’s the thing,” says Billy. “You
guys are great performers. Once
you’re on stage, you’ll be fine. But the pre-concert anxiety will eat you up
for a while. As you play more and more substantial gigs you will learn that all
this painting of scenarios is worthless.”
He takes a bite from his drumstick
and chews it down.
“Here’s the other thing. I have so
much faith in you two, you are such deep-down solid musicians, that if you do
commit little fuckups here and there, nobody
will care. And if you happen to commit a big fuckup, do this: exaggerate it. Make it a joke. And then I’ll
make a wisecrack, and the audience will love it. Now eat, damn you. You’re going to need the fuel. I had them make it as
bland as possible.”
“Okay, boss.” David grabs a breast
and forces himself to take a bite. Then he glances at Billy.
“Billy? What happened to your beard?”
Billy and Isaiah work their way into
a good round of chortle and snort.
David and Isaiah assemble their
tuxedos – duly supplied and tailored by their new bosses – and walk to the
service elevator, which delivers them neatly backstage. Charley Nations is
waiting next to the stage entrance.
“Boys! You look fabulous. We sold so
many tickets I decided to hire a warm-up comedian. Local kid – really funny!”
David peers onstage to see Harv
Ketcham, fat kid, pug nose too close to porcine to even be ironic. Harv
graduated from North Beach five years before. David’s astonished to hear the
tail-end of the Billy Saddle-Michael Jackson joke.
“…propensity for grabbing balls when
you really wish they wouldn’t.”
Harv takes a deep bow, as if he has
just delivered an aria.
“You gotta love it, right? Michael’s
dead, I was like, five when Billy snagged that ball -–I still love it. And that word ‘propensity’ – kinda classes up the
joint. Not that this joint needs
classing up. You can smell the money in here. Don’t you love the whole idea of
the American Indian casino? After two centuries, they finally found the white
man’s weakness. I mean come on! If the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock and
found slot machines… I’d be telling these jokes in Chinook.” (?)
Charley laughs and slaps David on the
shoulder.
“So where’s the folk hero? He’s not
freaking out on me, is he?”
“No,” says Isaiah. “That would be our job.”
“Ah! You’ll be fine.”
“Billy’s making some kind of grand
entrance,” says David. “I suspect he might have a jetpack.”
Onstage, Harv is wrapping up. “So you
guys have a great year, okay? Thanks for letting me talk to you.”
The applause is a little unsettling.
It’s huge.
“How many people you got out there?”
Charley smiles. “Five, six hundred.
Who keeps track?”
“Holy shit,” says Isaiah.
Harv trundles in off the stage and
grins. “What a crowd! I haven’t had anything that easy since Doris Letorsky.
Y’see how that works? The easy girl is always named Doris, and the last name is
always Polish or Italian, because ‘Letorsky’ or ‘Giapanelli’ is so much funnier
than ‘Windsor’ or ‘Vandenberg.’ Hey! Mr. Falter. What’s the deal with that D
you gave me junior year?”
“You know very well you got an A,
Harv.”
“Hey! You tryin’ to ruin my street
cred?”
“Whew!” says Isaiah. “This boy is
under the influence of some high-level adrenaline.”
“Nice to see ya, Harv. Now go sit
down before I send you to the principal’s office!”
“Ah,” says Harv. “Just like old
times. Break a leg, guys.”
They watch him as he goes for the
snack table.
“Okay,” says Isaiah. “Any last
words?”
“We need a ritual. Try this.” He
gives him a knuckle-bump, followed by a voodoo finger-wave, a pistol-point and
a New Jersey-ish “Ring-a-ding-ding.”
They repeat it together, with some
success, and then they open the door. Charley slaps David on the butt.
“Kick some ass, boys!”
The crowd is perched upon a hair
trigger; this is not just a night out, it’s a piece of history. When two
tuxedoed figures appear, they burst into hoots and yells, and they don’t even
seem to be disappointed that neither of them is Billy Saddle.
David walks to his waiting bass,
working hard not to trip over his own feet. Isaiah settles into place behind a
magnificent hunk of Steinway. He shakes out his fingers, lowers them to the
keys and spins out a whirlwind intro to “It Was a Very Good Year.” David joins
in on the verse, and they play all the way through before Isaiah chunks a chord
and proceeds to a slow swing of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”
This would be the logical place for
Billy to make his entrance, but nothing’s doing, so they continue into the
chorus. That’s when the spotlights begin to sweep the room in crazy motions.
This makes David all the more nervous, because now he can see the endless rows
of patrons.
The spots came together on a door at
the back of the hall, conjuring a booming emcee voice that sounds vaguely like
Charley Nations.
“La-deeees and Gentlefolks! In
celebration of the just-completed Salmon Hall, the Quinault Casino is proud to
present the long-awaited return of Billy! Saddle!”
This time the applause is like
cannon-fire. David inches closer to his monitor so he can hear what Isaiah’s
playing. The back door bursts open, and out comes Billy, arms held to the sky.
Seconds into his new career, he’s already breaching security, trotting the
center aisle, giving out high fives and handshakes. As he boards the stage,
David can finally make out what he’s wearing: a suit of dark red velvet, black
Italian boots, white pleated shirt, red bowtie, and a scarlet fedora with a
black satin band. And to think that Abbey’s parents thought Billy was gay.
The ruckus is such that Billy turns
and twirls his finger, a signal to return to the beginning of the song. David
imagines that Billy’s heart must be about to levitate right out of his chest,
but his first line is that same controlled, perfect tone. He swings the second
phrase with a smile, sending his voice through the best damn sound system that
David has ever heard. They scoop up to a Broadway ending and the cannons go off
again, followed by a chant of Bil-ly!
Bil-ly! He waves them down and speaks. In the first three words, David
detects the slightest of tremors.
“I want to introduce you to a phrase
that I will be using a lot in the
coming months: I’m sorry.” Laughter. “I’ll tell you what, though. If all these
years of hiding out were the price for a moment like this, then maybe it was worth it.” Uproar. “I’d like to thank
Charley Nations and the Quinault Casino for building this tremendous hall
specifically for my use.” Laughter. “Okay. You’re too smart for me. I tell you
what: I know I’m the guy who screwed up the playoffs lo those many years ago,
but tonight I’m not gonna talk about that, because tonight is New Year’s Eve
and I want to see this dance floor filled up! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you
Isaiah Silverstein on the Steinway!”
Isaiah cranks up a jaunty rendition
of “They All Laughed.” David takes note of the lyrics, a lone man trying to
confound popular opinion and win the girl. Or, get his life back. Halfway
through his solo, Isaiah gives in to his nerves and loses his path, dropping a
series of chords so clunky that he decides to take Billy’s advice and turn it
into a joke. He balls his fists and hammers the keys like a zombie Liberace,
then he lets the dissonance gather in the air, releases the pedal, counts
“One-two!” and returns to the intro. Billy comes in for the reprise and, sure
enough, he’s laughing, the crowds laughing, they’re all laughing. Isaiah ends it with the theme from Beethoven’s Fifth
and jumps to his feet for an exaggerated bow.
Billy does that great Jack Benny
trick of staring as the laughter dies down. Then he decides it’s time to
revisit the evening’s running joke.
“I’m sorry.”
More laughter.
Billy gives a hopeful smile. “Perhaps
now would be a good time to introduce the band.” Laughter. “We picked up our
piano player from the Home for Wayward Basketball Players. We expect the meds
to kick in any second now. Isaiah Silverstein!”
Applause. Laughter.
“We found our bass player at North
Beach High, where he was busted for handing out Che Guevara T-shirts at
freshman orientation. Mr. David Falter!” Applause.
“I’m Billy Saddle, and once again may
I say I am awfully sorry.” Laughter.
“And now I’d like to see what kind of singers we have in our audience.”
Billy perches behind his drums for
the call-and-response of “Minnie the Moocher.” David spots Derek, Jenny and
Abbey at the side of the stage. Derek lifts his camera.
(E)They break at ten-thirty, but it’s
hard to stay off-stage; they’re like ballplayers on hitting streaks who want to
get right back in the box. The audience is like a drug; David can understand
how it drives people to madness. Billy’s about to lead them back onstage when
Charley puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, we’ve got some competitive
swing-dancers here. They asked if you could play some of that new retro stuff
so they could show off.”
“Sure. We’ve got just the thing.”
“You guys know everything.”
“We certainly do.”
They’re surprised to find the party
going on just fine without them: couples slow-dancing to Michael Bublé, folks
filtering in and out of the hall’s special slots room, and a droning chatter
like the inside of a beehive. It takes a few seconds for the trio to get
themselves noticed, but soon a warm applause rolls across the room. Billy heads
for the drums.
“All right! If you’ve got something
you wanted to get done this year, you have precisely one hour in which to do
it!”
A big fat shout.
“I’d like to ask the dancers to clear
the floor for just one song, because it turns out we’ve got some championship
dancers in the place, and we’d like to give them a chance to strut their
stuff.”
Billy starts on the toms and stirs up
a jungle beat a la Gene Krupa on “Sing Sing Sing.” From there he spreads it
around: the hat, the snare, the crash, the ride, then a rising roll on his
cymbals. He opens the hi-hat, works it up loud and clamps it down. The sudden
cut brings a volley of hoots from the audience. Billy flashes a sneaky smile,
checks the floor to see four couples at the ready, and shouts out the count.
“One-two-three-four!”
The Cherry Poppin’ Daddies’ “Zoot
Suit Riot” is a recent addition, so the players have few chances to watch the
dancers. Still, David gets the sense. These twentysomethings have the moves so down that it’s like waking up in the Cotton Club, circa 1943. A couple at
the right is getting gymnastic, the guy throwing the girl around his shoulders
like an old-school jitterbugger.
The amateurs return to the floor at
song’s end, newly inspired, and the trio keeps to the retro thing: the Squirrel
Nut Zippers’ klezmer-style “H-E-L-L,” followed by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy’s “You
and Me and the Bottle Makes Three.” They return to the old stuff with “That’s
All Right with Me,” but Isaiah goes high-speed on them, faster than Sinatra’s,
faster than Connick’s, it’s like a swing tune as played by the Ramones. David is
hanging on by his fingernails. So much more the surprise when Billy points him
out for a solo.
David has never approached Isaiah’s
musicality, has always felt like a drag on the group, but it turns out the
NASCAR-level tempo is exactly what he needs. He enters a tunnel of relaxed
focus where the chord changes, the scales within the chords, the finger
positions and pick movements come together like genomes in a strand of DNA. His
mind is operating in an altered state, just as sharp as conscious thought but perched
within a strata just below, closer to his neurons. The melody appears as a
series of images, this turn thre full stop full chord, long note, short note,
triplet, arpeggio, bent note, slide, low on the G string, trill.
He races on for 32 measures, final
fusillade of funkythump bitchbeat chocolate. Billy takes the baton with a
slow-growth drum solo and Isaiah comps the chords, leaving space for the crowd
to applaud David’s work. He smiles into the spotlight, sweat drenching his
shirt. Hot damn, he thinks. I am an actual moo-sician.
The midnight ritual goes off as
expected, with the bonus of a thousand white balloons, falling from the ceiling
in a slo-no blizzard. At one o’clock, Billy leaves his drums and heads for the
mic stand, looking ragged and happy.
“If you have enjoyed yourself
tonight, I want to let you in on something. In their great wisdom, the folks at
this casino have hired this very trio to play in this gorgeous hall every
single Friday this year.”
Applause.
“Before we play our final song, I
want to thank my comrades-in-arms. On piano, Isaiah Silverstein!” Applause. “On
bass guitar, The Professor, David Falter.” Applause. “And I… I am your humble
servant, Billy Saddle, the man who could not resist the siren call of Mr.
Spalding, and for that I am very, very
sorry.” Applause. Laughter.
“I want the dance floor filled up
with couples, because this is the
most romantic song I know. A long time ago, I used to use it as my signoff, and
I guess I’ve been waiting for the right time to bring it back. Happy New Year,
you wonderful people. And that is all.”
“That’s All” is the song, and indeed
it is romantic. Billy sings all of his songs with feeling, funneling it through
his limbs like a method actor, but David can tell when it’s personal, when
there’s no need to construct the emotion. He finishes, accepts a final ovation,
and leads his troops offstage. They’re greeted by Charley Nations, who hands
each of them a glass of champagne.
“To the best damn jazz band I ever
heard, and the most brilliant damn promoter in Washington state.”
“To Sports Illustrated!” says Isaiah.
“Sports Illustrated!”
“Now,” says Charley. “Billy, we’ve
got a little table next to the stage where you can greet your fans. Here’s a
couple of pens. We’ve got Namraq there if anybody gets aggressive.”
Being the historian/detective, David
can’t resist eavesdropping. These little chats seem to carry a common thread:
the feelings of the speaker at the moment of the Grand Fool Double.
“Well I just felt so bad, I said well come on, who among us could resist a genuine
major league baseball?”
“I gotta admit, at the time I had to
kick my kids out of the room so I could indulge in a good long round of
cussing. But then, when I heard about the death threats, I said Come on,
people, it’s a game.”
“I just came here so I could tell
people I met you. But damn! You guys are awesome. I’m comin’ back, and I’m
bringin’ friends.”
“Okay, let me hear you say it again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“On behalf of America, I forgive you.
Now wasn’t that easy?”
“I was tellin’ my friend, now, that’s
just ridiculous, right? It’s that screwy-ass stadium. They got no business
stickin’ a set of bleachers into the field like that. Billy? Mr. Saddle?”
Billy’s eyes are locked on the middle
distance, and David is certain that he’s seen this expression before. It was
Jimmy Stewart, spotting Donna Reed at the high school dance. Billy puts a hand
on Namraq’s shoulder, ducks under the velvet rope and crosses the floor, drawn
on a tether to a beautiful dark-haired woman who appears to be simultaneously
smiling and crying.
She holds out her hands. Billy takes
them, spins her once and pulls her into an embrace. She tucks her head over his
shoulder, and when she opens her eyes, David can see that they are dark,
almond-shaped, and just the slightest bit asymmetrical.
It’s Joyce.
Photo: the author as Sinatra on a Carnival Cruise.
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