The Devil's Interval (37 page)

“Nope.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Isabella started tapping her pencil again, and then launched into an update on the appeals process, and the progress on the habeas brief.

“Tick-tock,” said Travis.

“I know, I know,” said Isabella. “Try not to worry.”

“I'm going to see your mother again,” I offered.

Travis looked interested. “Oh, yeah? You two hitting it off?”

I thought about the scene in the dressing room at the boutique.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I'm seeing her because I was invited to the rent party at The Devil's Interval next week.”

“Oh, yeah. The rent party. I just love the idea of my mom collecting charity,” he said bitterly. “Of course, charity from strangers may be better than my mom's live-in sugar daddy.”

“He's kept that place going,” I pointed out.

Travis frowned. “I know and I should be grateful. And I don't think he's a bad guy. Just not the kind of man I want to see my mother hang out with.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. “But you know something? Worse than me being here in this hellhole, I hate the thought of my mom losing The Devil's Interval. She loves that place, and we…” he broke off. “Forget it. It is what it is.”

“I'm actually looking forward to the party,” I offered tentatively. “It doesn't seem like charity. It seems like a creative fundraiser—and boy, I've been to my share of not-so-creative fundraisers in this town.”

“Oh, it should be an interesting scene,” said Travis. “And good music. You can count on that. One of my mom's ‘discoveries,' Karen Blixt, is singing. She's got this sexy, throaty alto and she used to sing church music, so she's got a lot of soul that she's putting into that music. And great sidemen.” He was warming to the topic. “She's such a good musician, that all the great local guys like playing with her.”

“You ever play with her?” I asked.

“No, but my mom did. And maybe she will at the party. She's still playing left-handed, but my mother left-handed can play rings around the average two-handed piano man.”

We spent the last minutes of our visit going over Carol Ann's recounting of the evening in minute-by-minute detail.

“I know that girl,” said Travis. “Once in a while, I'd drop stuff off at A Mother's Place, and she was always the one who helped me unload. She hero-worshipped Grace. And Grace got her her first job at that fancy spa where she works.”

“Ever meet her husband?” I asked.

Travis frowned. “I don't remember meeting him. Grace said she thought he was a good guy. He'd gotten himself an education, and I think he was going to law school or something.”

“He's almost done,” I volunteered.

“That's great,” said Travis. “His life is just starting.”

T
he music critic from the
Chron
, Jon Noble, sat at the front door, perched on a high stool and harassing people as they walked into The Devil's Interval. “No cover,” he said, “but we're looking for $50,000 tonight, and I'm not afraid to shake people down.”

Puck greeted him, “My man! How they hangin'?” They went through one of those elaborate fist-touching, arm-punching rituals men engage in. Michael had sent his regrets, so Puck was my date.

“Who's the squeeze?” asked Noble, glancing my way.

“My boss,” said Puck. “And she's not as cute as she looks.”

“I look
cute
?” I asked in amazement. “How cool is that? You just earned a raise.”

People were gathering at the door behind us. “Get on in there,” said Noble. “There's chow and liquor and some damn fine music. I've got to bleed these folks dry as they come in. That's my job and I'm happy to do it.”

Puck and I wandered into the bar. It was wall-to-wall people—hard to imagine where Noble was going to send anyone else he shook down at the door. A fortyish singer, in loose black silk pants and shirt, with long, sparkly earrings, was on the small raised stage, holding the mike and swinging the heck out of “My Favorite Things.”

She had a good haircut, a kind of hipped-up version of a Dorothy Hamill bob, and it moved with the music. “And to think I always thought that song was the most saccharine of the whole
sound track,” I shout-whispered into Puck's ear.

He grinned. “I know. Karen Blixt, she's great. And you got it, babe. I always thought
The Sound of Music
made you root for the Germans, just to get the damn kids off the screen. In their friggin' window-curtain dirndls.”

We listened for a moment. The singer was exactly as Travis had promised. Easy, low alto, wrapping around the notes like just-warmed caramel. And she was generous, stepping back to give her sidemen plenty of solo time. When the song finished, she beckoned to Ivory, pouring behind the bar.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Ivory Gifford!” The applause started, then people began chanting, “Ivory, Ivory, Ivory.” From where we stood, I could see Ivory shaking her head, laughing, waving a bar towel at the room. Suddenly, Gus loomed behind her, pulling her to his side. She stood there for a minute, then glanced up at the singer. Karen put the mike down at her side, and waved at Ivory. Gus leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Ivory straightened, shook herself free, tossed the towel on the bar, and began making her way to the tiny stage. The bass player reached down and gave her a hand up. She came to the mike stand, gave Karen a hug, and then took the mike from Karen's outstretched hand. She was wearing the plum dress, and looked like a million bucks.

“Hello, everyone,” she said softly into the mike.

Across the crowded bar, people shouted back at her. “Hey, Ivory.”

“I can't tell you what it means to me and,” she hesitated, “to my son, to see you all here this evening.” She gave a nervous laugh. “You know that song Karen just sang, the one we all hear with new ears, because of the way she delivers it? Well, this joint is just like that song. It's one of my favorite things, because it's the place Travis and I created together. It's the place that keeps me going, because I've got a job to do every day. And all of you…” she gestured around the room. “You're my favorites, too. Most of us got to know each other because we all love jazz, but along the
way, we became friends as well. I know I haven't been the easiest friend to have these last few years, between the stroke and the—” She paused for a moment, and then spoke in a loud, clear voice. “The miscarriage of justice with Trav.” A murmur of protest came up from the group. Ivory put up her hand. “It's okay. I think I still remember how to have fun—and that's why we're here tonight.” Ivory was gathering strength as she went along, transforming herself before our eyes into a public person, a performer. “We're here to have some fun, make some music, and what else?” She put her hand on her hip, turned to the side, so the plum skirt swirled around her, cupped her ear, and leaned toward the crowd. I saw the spark of who Ivory must have been before her troubles—sexy, fun-loving, and comfortable in front of a crowd.

“Come on,” she said, “tell me why we're here tonight?”

“To make some money, honey!” shouted a guy from the back of the room.

“You bet your sweet ass,” she shot back. “And the fine members of the fish-wrap trade have volunteered to pick your pockets. Give us a wave, guys,” she gestured to the front door. Puck's pal, Jon Noble, and his beat-up-looking colleagues stood up, looking like a rag-tag group of cheerleaders from a twelve-step program.

“Think of those guys as The Devil's Interval kissing booth,” she said. “Drop some green stuff, or a big fat check in the hat, and I'm sure you'll be well-compensated.”

A wave of derisory hoots and “ewwws” came up from the crowd. “Hey, Jon,” called the guy from the back of the room, “I'll pay big bucks for you
not
to kiss me.”

“You don't know what you're missing,” Noble shouted back.

Ivory held up her hand, and leaned into the microphone.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “I've got to be serious for one minute. Thanks to all of you. From me and from Travis. We've got a great attorney,” she paused and scanned the room. “Where are you, Isabella?”

Isabella stood on tiptoes and waved. Ivory gave her a crooked smile. “We've got some well-placed friends helping us.” Her eyes
met mine briefly, and I gave her a tiny nod. “And we've got a whole roomful of the coolest, most generous folks in town.” She leaned in close to the mike again and lowered her voice to a throaty, come-hither whisper. “Remember, I said…‘most generous folks in town.'”

“It's a shakedown,” shouted the obnoxious guy in the back.

“Oh, you are so right,” said Ivory. “As the late great Otis Redding said, ‘Ain't too proud to beg.'” She stepped back for a moment, wavering. “It's important to me that Travis have a place to come home to. I want the piano tuned up and ready to go, I want the beer cold and the jazz hot, and folks like you in the room, the day that Travis comes home.”

Once again, the room had grown very quiet, very still. Puck leaned close to me. “That woman is banking on a miracle,” he said.

“Amen, sister,” called the guy with the sax, leaning against the piano.

Ivory gestured to Karen to come join her at the mike. “So, what do you say we get Karen and the guys to give us another tune?”

Karen put her arm around Ivory, and took over the mike. “How's about, ‘Come on baby, let the good times roll,' with Miss Ivory Gifford at the keyboard?”

Folks began hooting and applauding. The hoots turned into a repeat chant of “Ivory, Ivory, Ivory,” with some good-natured floor-pounding and rhythmic clapping. Ivory gave Karen a look of mock exasperation, and walked over to the piano.

With one graceful slide, she was on the bench, left hand on the keys, right hand in her lap. I could see her lean forward, breathe into the keyboard, precisely the same way I'd seen Glenn Gould or Horowitz, in old documentaries. I'd watched Eubie Blake, long about his eighty-fifth birthday, do the same thing, just before he ripped into “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho.” Breathing into the keyboard, being one with the music. Playing a mean piano is playing a mean piano, didn't matter the genre.

Ivory gave the bass player a nod and then did a chord progression, up from the bass to the first note of the tune. Then
the clarinet, then the bass player, and then Karen leaned into the microphone, and pretty soon there were good times rolling all over The Devil's Interval.

I felt a light hand on my shoulder, and turned around. John Moon was standing there, a bottle of Singha in hand and an unexpectedly blissful look on his face.

“Hey,” I greeted him. “Pretty good tunes, huh?”

He shook his head, “Not pretty good. The best.” He looked around, “Michael here?”

“No,” I said. “He's in charge of the home front. I came with Puck.”

He raised his eyebrows and sipped his beer. “How are things?”

I scowled at him. “Who knows? And, as you keep reminding me, that's what we have a shrink for.”

Moon gave me a mild, vaguely remonstrative look. “Okay, Maggie, just asking. Being polite and concerned. You remember those fine character attributes, don't you?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Come on, I'll buy you another beer.”

As the evening wore on, the crowd grew louder, happier, and the music just kept getting better. When I finally retrieved Puck from his scuzzy press buddies at the door, he shouted in my ear that they'd cleared about $30,000, with pledges of another $22,000 coming in. We left at one o'clock, and the joint was still cooking.

I crept into bed, after showering off a layer of beer fumes, perspiration, and smeared makeup and checking on the boys. Michael turned over, too lost in sleep to remember he didn't like or respect his wife all that much, and threw his arm over me. I settled in, under the comforting feel of that unconscious embrace, and drifted off. When the phone rang, I woke up with a start, his arm still over me. It was dark out, and the bedside digital clock radio rolled from 4:29 to 4:30 as I answered, too groggy to properly panic.

“Maggie,” I heard John Moon's voice in my ear. There was a terrible racket in the background. Sirens, people shouting, and street noise.

“John? What's going on?” I sat up and clicked on the light, not too gently moving Michael's arm off me. He moaned and put his head under the pillow.

“I'm at The Devil's Interval,” said Moon. “Or what used to be.” He turned away from the phone and I heard him shout. “Hold on, I'll be there in a minute.”

“Got to go, Maggie. The arson squad is here.”

I clutched the phone. “What are you talking about?” I said. “Wait, John, don't go, tell me.”

“It's Ivory's club,” he said. “A fire started about half an hour ago, and it's already three-alarm.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Is anybody hurt?”