Shadowbahn(33)

? ? ?

Wondering that moment if the old man can speak at all, Jesse sticks out his hand, “Jesse,” and the other, shaking it after a moment’s hesitation, answers simply, “Hello.”

“Mind if I sit?”

“You already have.”

“I’m, uh”—Jesse gestures at his projection on the wall—“somethin’ of a superstar around here, you might say.”

The man in the wheelchair barely glances where Jesse has indicated. “Congratulations,” he answers flatly, one corner of his mouth hardly turned up.





key of J


For a few moments, Jesse tries to place the accent. “Boston,” he finally assesses. “Like to think I got me an ear for such things, being a cosmopolitan sort—say, bet you’re a friend of Edie’s.” Now he can see Candy was right: Up close the man in the wheelchair isn’t really that old. It seems to Jesse that he takes uncommonly long to answer the simplest thing, constantly measuring every response in the same way that he constantly measures the person across the table from him.

? ? ?

It’s not that he’s hostile, exactly. He’s remote, his constant appraisal of Jesse unshaken, mouth verging on a smile that’s slightly mocking even as the target of his mockery is unclear: maybe it’s Jesse or maybe it’s the man himself, or maybe just the situation. “Yes, well, I don’t believe I’ve met her,” he says from the wheelchair with the slightest shake of his head, slight smile never changing, eyes never leaving Jesse, “know a bit of the family, of course. They go back pre-Revolution. Long before my own.”





Jack


Wildly optimistic that this is the beginning of an out-and-out conversation, Jesse nods, but when there’s no more, he answers, “Okay, yes sir, pre-Revolution you say,” and now the white-haired man is back to his coolly observant regard, watching through the thin smoke rising from his fingertips. “Well you would know if you had met Edie, she’s fine, or was.” Jesse nods at the naked woman with the cat-o’-nine-tails snaking past their feet in the dark. “That there’s Mary.”

The man nods. “Those days are over for me,” making the slightest gesture at his chair, but Jesse isn’t really sure which days he means.

? ? ?

Crazy Val has moved to the middle of the room, still watching. She appears more disturbed than ever. “Val there”—Jesse points—“you might want to stay clear of. She got herself this notion to wipe out all the menfolk.”

“How’s that?”

“All the male folk. She’s even written herself a play about it, articles and the like.”

“How’s that supposed to work?”

“How’s what supposed to work?”

“Killing all the men. I mean, after they’re all gone.”

“Yeah, well, you got me there. Not sure Val’s got an answer for that one, or maybe she doesn’t care. I hear you’re in government of some sort.”

“Not anymore.”

“What was it you said your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“No, actually,” says Jesse, “I didn’t think you had.”

“Jack,” he says, and looks at the projection of Jesse with his six-gun. “So what is it you do, then, uh, when you’re not being . . . what did you say?” and for the first time he flashes a smile. “A superstar?” The smile becomes broader. “You’re not in the movies, are you? You’re not a singer by chance.” He adds, “I’ve known some singers.”





magnum


A chill overcomes Jesse. It’s a handsome smile, the other man’s, maybe even dazzling there in the dark, taking the edge off his mockery only slightly. Everything he says is wry, sardonic, dry as sand—but now there’s something else too, something underneath. “Well, sir, I could have been a singer,” Jesse protests, and Jack answers, “Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. Except I gone into the writing game—right at this here moment I have a magnum opus in the pages of Round Midnight magazine.”

“Can’t say I know it.”

? ? ?

“Newly reputable jazz journal,” Jesse explains, “of course I’m not aware if you’re cottoning to jazz—don’t know as how I ascertain much about the subject my own self. In any case I’ve become a man of letters.”

“Last refuge,” Jack nods, “of the socially impotent.”

“Say what?”

“What’s this, uh . . . magnum opus about?”

“Why . . .”

“Jazz?”

“Not exactly, it’s about . . .” Jesse shrugs helplessly. “Why, it’s about . . .”—he throws open his arms—“. . . everything!”





everything


Jack says, “Well of course it is. Everything that every writer writes is about everything. I doubt there’s ever been a single word written by any writer who’s ever lived that wasn’t about everything.” Jesse glares at Jack, assessing whether he can just get up and leave rudely, as is his inclination, or is bound by some social grace to be more polite than either the other man or the conversation warrants. “I used to be a writer myself,” adds Jack.