No Ordinary Love (24 page)

“No,” Trina said, smiling. “They duel with their fingers on the keys.”

“Oh,” Tony said.

She led him inside through a tiled hallway that ended at two doors, one marked T
HE
C
ELLAR
and one marked M
AIN
B
AR
.

“What is ‘all request’?” Tony asked.

“People ask the pianists to play certain songs,” Trina said. “The more you tip them, the more likely they’ll play the song you want to hear.”

“What is ‘no cover’?” Tony asked.

“You don’t have to pay any money to get in,” Trina said. She nodded at the signs above opposite doors. “The Cellar is where the pianos are. They won’t start playing for a little while.”

“We are eating in the main bar,” Tony said.

“Right,” Trina said.

“I have never eaten at a bar.” Tony opened the door for her.

“Thank you,” Trina said.

They walked the length of a long wooden bar and sat at a small circular table looking out onto O’Farrell Street, a series of televisions throughout the bar tuned in to the Lakers-Warriors basketball game.

A server brought them menus. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked.

“Hires Root Beer,” Tony said.

“I’ll have ice water,” Trina said.

The server left.

Tony studied the menu. “Cottage pie.”

Trina closed her menu. “I tried it once. It was too bland for me. I always get the fish and chips.”

Tony closed his menu. “I will get fish and chips, too.”

After the server brought their drinks, Trina felt Tony’s knees on hers.
Thank God for small tables.
“So, how long have you known Angela?”

“I saw her sixteen years ago the first time,” Tony said. “When I met Jasmine.”

Oh yeah. I read about that, but I have to act as if I didn’t.
“Who’s Jasmine?”

“I met her at Angela’s Sweet Treats and Coffee,” Tony said.

“Was she pretty?” Trina asked.

“Yes,” Tony said. “Her lips were plumper than yours. She had a snake tattoo on her left breast. I do not know where it ended.”

“I don’t have any tattoos,” Trina said.

“Jasmine’s eyebrows were furry,” Tony said. “You have thin eyebrows. Her earrings made ding-ding sounds. You do not wear earrings. Her breasts were larger than yours. Her buttocks were larger than yours. She wore underwear.”

“I wear underwear, too,” Trina said.
I have never said that to anyone in my entire life!

“I am glad,” Tony said. “I do not want you to be cold.”

“Do you talk to Angela often?” Trina asked.

“Yes,” Tony said. “She helps me talk.”

“Angela cares a lot about you,” Trina said. “She’s a good friend.”

“She has only been my friend for two weeks,” Tony said.

“You make friends fast,” Trina said.

“No, I do not,” Tony said.

“I think you do,” Trina said. “We’re friends in less than a day, right?”

“Yes,” Tony said. “It has been a good day.”

“Is Angela . . . pretty?” Trina asked.

“Yes,” Tony said. “She looks like you. But she has a bigger stomach. She will have a little boy with her husband, Matthew. He has big hands. Their daughter Angel is a snowflake child. I would like to have a snowflake child like Angel.”

A snowflake child. That sounds so . . . nice.
“So you want a little girl.”

“I want two little girls,” Tony said. “One for each knee. They can play the piano with me.”

And I can see this man teaching them how to play.
“That’s a . . . that’s something I’ve always wanted, too.”

“Yes,” Tony said. “You want children to love.”

I need a man to love first.
She looked at Tony.
I wonder if he’s the one.

When their food arrived, Tony stopped talking and made a plate of fish and chips and a mass of “mushy” peas vanish in less than seven minutes.

Trina tried to engage him with small talk. “Hey,” she said, “the Warriors are beating the Lakers again.”

Tony didn’t look up from his food.

I know men get into zones while they eat, but when Tony eats, he’s gone entirely. Robert was like that, too, and I didn’t like it. At least Tony has a valid excuse.

Tony finished his last bite of fish, downed the rest of his root beer, and looked up at the television. “My brother and Aika watch the Knicks. They always fall apart in the fourth quarter. They are an old team. The Warriors have young players.”

So he
had
heard me. Delayed conversation is better than no conversation at all.
“Yeah,” Trina said. “I hope the Warriors make the finals this year.”

“I think they will,” Tony said.

Should I tell him that his brother is coming to collect him in the morning? I really should.
“Angela told me that Angelo and Aika are flying to San Francisco tomorrow.”

“I know,” Tony said. “Angelo told me this morning. He is worried about me. He will take me back to Brooklyn.”

“Do you want to go back to Brooklyn, Tony?”

“I want to stay with you,” Tony said.

And that warms up parts of me that haven’t even been lukewarm in years.
“They want me to take you back to your hotel tonight.”

“The sheets are itchy,” Tony said. “I like soft sheets.”

“My sheets are soft,” Trina said. “I use fabric softener.”
And I said this because?

“I will stay with you and your soft sheets,” Tony said.

If Tony were any other kind of man, I’d think he was asking to sleep with me.
“So you want to stay with me because I have soft sheets.”

“I want to talk to you,” Tony said. “I have to stay with you to talk to you.”

“You could call me on the phone,” Trina said.

“I do not want to talk to you on the phone,” Tony said. “I like seeing you when we talk.”

But you don’t see me! You haven’t yet looked into my eyes!

Tony pushed his chair away from the table. “I am full. This was good. It was not like pasta. I eat pasta for dinner every night. I like fish and chips and mushy peas.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Trina said.

“I hear the pianos,” Tony said. “They sound like my piano. But they are not my piano.”

“They have the same number of keys,” Trina said.

“Eighty-eight,” Tony said. “I would like to play one of them for you.” He stood.

“Um, not yet,” Trina said.

Tony sat. “I will wait.”

“They have pianists that are paid to play here,” Trina said. “Quite a few different ones, actually, and they’re all very good. We’ll have to see if they could maybe let you play a song during a break or something.”

The piano music stopped for a few seconds.

“They are on a break,” Tony said, and he stood and moved rapidly out of the bar.

“I guess we’re going to the Cellar,” Trina said. She threw two twenties—
my last two twenties!
—on the table, grabbed Tony’s root beer, and hurried to the Cellar.

By the time Trina entered the dimly lit, sparsely crowded room, Tony was already seated at a piano bench in front of one of two baby grand pianos, a large flat-screen TV hanging between them. She put Tony’s root beer next to a tip jar as Tony began playing “She’s Not Here.”

Trina’s heart thudded.
Wow. That’s beautiful.

“He’s making that piano sing,” a man beside her said.

Trina turned to him. “Are you supposed to be playing now?”

“Yeah,” the man said. “I’m the semifamous Tim Conroy. Who’s he?”

Art E.!
“Tony Santangelo,” Trina said. “Do you mind if he plays one song?”

“He’s really good,” Tim said. “He’s playing runs and chords that aren’t in the original song. I like his reinterpretation. It’s really quite intricate.”

Well, it’s because he wrote that song.
“It is.”
Look at Tony’s hands flow over those keys.

My God.

I am really on a date with Art E.

As she watched Tony’s hands, Trina saw more people filing into the Cellar, most of them gravitating toward Tony.

“Who is he?”

“That’s an old Art E. song.”

“I haven’t heard that one in years.”

“I heard Art E. was in Nob Hill yesterday.”

“You saying
this
is the guy? At Johnny Foley’s?”

“Yeah. Probably not, but still . . .”

A group of women at one of the tables started singing, and in moments, many people in the Cellar were singing along.

Tony finished the song.

The audience gave him some nice applause.

Tony looked around.

He’s hearing what might be his first ovation.
She stepped onto the small platform. “They’re clapping for you, Tony.”

“They are clapping for the music,” Tony said. “I must make more.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “Tim Conroy, tonight’s pianist, is waiting.”

Tony stood and pushed back the piano bench. “He will not mind.”

Tony took a deep breath . . . and played some old boogie-woogie with a country twang mixed with a hip-hop beat and hard rock bass.

Oh . . . my . . . goodness! That’s . . . wow! I don’t know what it is, but it is tight! Whoo! That’s
my
date crushing that piano!

The crowd swayed, clapped, and danced, and in only a few minutes, the Cellar became swaying room only.

“That man can jam!” Tim shouted. “It’s like the Grateful Dead, MC Hammer, and Journey had a baby! This is the shit!”

And Tony is completely oblivious to these people packed around him. Look at his eyes! That’s where his eyes focus. They’re focused on the keys. They’re focused on the music. They’re zeroed in on the sound.

Tony flowed from boogie-woogie to lightning-quick jazz, punctuating the song by pounding a fist on the piano bench behind him, alternating chords and runs with rapid rat-a-tat-tats with his hands on the top of the piano.

I am witnessing a legend.

“Dude, he’s killing that piano!”

Literally!
Trina thought.
He’s hitting that piano so hard!

“He’s in the zone!”

“That’s like nothing I have ever heard before!” Tim shouted to Trina. “Who
is
this guy?”

I want to tell them all who he really is, but I don’t know if it’s my place.
“I told you!” Trina shouted. “He’s Tony Santangelo!”

“Where’s he from?” Tim shouted.

“Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, New York, USA!” Trina shouted.

“I gotta record this.” Tim took out his cell phone and began filming. “Go, Tony! Go, man, go!”

Trina saw other cell phones in the air. She felt the floor shaking under her feet. She watched Tony take a swig of his root beer with his right hand while keeping the bass going with his left.

Tony is who he says he is. He is one with that piano. He is becoming his music. Tony
is
music. I have goose bumps on the tip of my nose!

“He’s making that piano talk!” Tim shouted. “That piano is spilling its guts!”

Tony held out his left hand to Trina.

He wants to hold my hand? Now?
Trina took hold of Tony’s hand.

Tony pulled her behind him and to his right. He placed her fingers on a chord. “Play it as fast as you can,” he said.

Trina hit the chord rapidly while Tony added a rolling bass.

Hey, I’m making music!

“Faster,” Tony said.

Trina stood directly over the chord and hammered away.

“Do you hear the bus, Trina?” Tony asked.

“I hear it!” Trina shouted. She heard the wheels, the tires, and the screech of the brakes. She felt the rumble of the engine.

We are on the bus!

Tony lifted her weary hand off the chord a few minutes later. “Rest.”

Trina sat on the bench behind him massaging her wrist while Tony’s fingers continued to fly until a grand finale finish, where Trina swore he played every key in less than ten seconds.

Twice.

The crowd went wild, jumping, shouting, and hooting.

“I will play Naomi’s next song now,” Tony said to Trina. “It is called ‘One Hundred Twenty Pounds of Sexy, Sexy Hate.’ Get ready to dance.”

“I’m already dancing!” Trina shouted.
I’m doing a piano-bench dance. It’s all the rage at Johnny Foley’s.

As Tony played bass runs that made the entire platform shake, the people in the Cellar leaped into the air, drinks spilling, cell phones bouncing, and voices shouting.

I am seeing history,
Trina thought, holding on to the bench.
I am seeing musical history. Tony knows how to work a crowd! And from what I see of his butt, he knows how to work that, too! Whoo! Dance with that piano, Tony! Show me what you got!

A series of lightning-like flashes and some seriously bright lights filled the Cellar.

A TV crew?

Oh no!

Trina looked at Tony, his face serene, his eyes closed, his fingers fused to the keyboard.

Don’t stop playing, Tony!

Whatever you do, don’t stop playing!

24

A
camera crew moved within inches of the platform, and a reporter shouted into Trina’s ear: “Are you with him?”

“Um, yes, I—”

“Is that Art E. for real?”

I’m not sure if I should do this, but . . .
“Yes. But his real name is—”

“What’s he doing in San Francisco?”

“He’s, um, he’s—”

“Are you his girlfriend?”

“Not yet, we just—”

“What’s the name of this song?”

“‘One Hundred Twenty Pounds of Sexy, Sexy Hate,’ and Naomi Stringer—”

“Why is he suddenly surfacing after twenty-four years?”

To meet me.
“You’ll have to ask—”

“Are you two married? Any kids?”

“No, we just—”

“Where are you from?”

“San Fran—”

“Is he going to do a solo album?”

“I don’t—”

“Where has he been hiding?”

“Well, he’s been—”

“Will he attend the Grammy Awards this year?”