Authors: J.J. Murray
Trina grabbed Aika’s hand. “No way. You’re forty-two?”
Aika nodded.
She has no wrinkles! How can a forty-two-year-old woman have no wrinkles and firm buttocks?
“I hate you,” Trina said. “I thought you were younger than I am.”
Aika squeezed Trina’s hand. “You’re good for my ego.”
“And you’re bad for mine,” Trina said. “What’s your secret?”
Aika leaned in. “Lots of good, hot, continuous sex.”
Trina laughed. “There has to be more to it than that. Your skin is flawless. I’ll bet you get carded every time.”
Aika smiled. “I don’t exercise, I don’t use my treadmill, and I really don’t watch what I eat. It’s the sex. That’s the only workout I get. Would you believe I used to be fatter?”
“No.” Trina saw Angelo and Tony getting up. “I guess we’re going.” She stood, walked over to Tony, and hugged him. “Is your hand tired?”
“Yes,” Tony said.
Aika hugged and kissed Angelo. “Get any phone numbers?”
“No,” Angelo said.
Tony held out his hand, and Trina took it. “I did not get any phone numbers either.”
She kissed his cheek. “Good.”
“Why would they give me phone numbers, Trina?” Tony asked.
“So they could hook up with you later,” Trina said.
“We would go fishing,” Tony said.
Trina laughed. “Something like that.” She rubbed Tony’s hand. “Where to?”
“Johnny Foley’s,” Tony said.
“Again?” Angelo sighed. “Come on. There are hundreds of other places we could eat.”
“I have two new songs to play,” Tony said.
“It’s only three-thirty, Tony,” Angelo said. “They don’t open the doors to that cellar place for five more hours. Why don’t you come to our hotel so you can see the view from our room?”
“Okay,” Tony said.
The view, right,
Trina thought.
Jerk. Let’s go see where you could stay instead of Trina’s hole-in-the-wall.
The rain turned to a fine, foggy mist as they walked from the museum to the Mark Hopkins, a San Francisco landmark a few blocks from Huntington Park and Saint Francis. Trina walked under sparkling chandeliers and around luxurious furnishings on the way to the elevators. When they got off on the fifteenth floor, she entered a spacious suite that was more an apartment than a hotel room. She washed her hands in a bathroom that was bigger than her bedroom and featured a bidet, a fancy toilet, and a tub big enough for two. She walked by a wide-screen TV on the wall, an executive-sized desk, and a fireplace to a glassed-in room with wicker chairs overlooking the city.
“Would you look at that view,” Angelo said.
I’ve seen it,
Trina said.
I live here. I can get as good a view from the top floor of Saint Francis.
“I only see fog,” Tony said.
“Wait until you see the view at night,” Angelo said.
“I will only see more fog,” Tony said.
Angelo put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “They have a full-size grand piano in one of the ballrooms.”
In
one
of the ballrooms,
Trina thought.
Whoop-de-do.
“You could practice there,” Angelo said.
“It is not my piano,” Tony said.
“You play the pianos at Johnny Foley’s,” Angelo said.
“Because I play for Trina on them,” Tony said.
Give up, Angelo,
Trina thought.
“We could eat at Top of the Mark, my treat,” Angelo said. “It’s on the top floor. You can see the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and the Bay Bridge from up there.”
“I will only see fog tonight,” Tony said.
“Okay, okay,” Angelo said. “We’ll eat at Johnny Foley’s.”
They ate more fish and chips and drank a pitcher of root beer at Johnny Foley’s, and a huge crowd greeted Tony as he entered.
Tim vacated his piano and started the applause.
Tony sat, adjusted the microphone, and said, “This is called ‘Dream Song.’” He smiled at Trina, who found enough room to stand sideways in the front row next to Aika and Angelo.
“Dream Song” oozed sex, and the crowd added ooh’s and aah’s. The first melody was slow and sure, the second melody faster, almost scampering. The third melody had a definite far eastern, Indian sound.
Wow,
Trina thought.
He has just played Angela the sure one, Aika the rabbit, and Naini the exotic Hindu goddess. I can’t wait for my melody.
The fourth melody had a little grind to it, and Trina thought she heard the sultry whine of saxophones.
Oh yes, Tony. Play me. Play me seductively.
“Tony must have had
some
dream,” Aika whispered in Trina’s ear.
You don’t know the half of it,
Trina thought.
But my melody is the best. Look at all the people slow dancing around us. I’m sure a whole bunch of babies will be conceived to this song.
Tim stuck his head between Aika and Trina. “He is fusing
four
different melodies into one continuous whole. Two is hard enough. Three is difficult. Four is next to impossible. How does he come up with these songs?”
“He dreams them,” Trina said. “And then he plays them when he wakes up.”
“I don’t know anything about what he’s got, but I wish I had it,” Tim said. “That’s the hand of God or something.”
Or the voices of the angels.
“I have a suggestion for you, Tim.”
“I’m all ears,” Tim said.
“Drink more root beer.” She smiled. “You just need more sugar.”
After some nice applause, Tony pushed back the bench.
The crowd cheered.
Tony smiled. “You like when I do not sit down.”
The crowd cheered louder.
Tony leaned into the microphone. “This is called ‘Colorful Life.’ It will be loud.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Get ready to rumble.”
Playing the bass with both hands, Tony created quite a rumble. He kept the bass rolling with only his left before adding staccato bursts with his fists on top of the piano.
That sounds like gunfire,
Trina thought.
This is
real
gangster music.
Tony followed the gunfire with the distinctive wail of an ambulance. He took a breath and played a tune right out of the circus before playing a “conversation” between two loud women.
The ambulance returned.
The crowd laughed.
Tony stopped and looked at the audience. He blinked several times.
The ambulance returned.
The rest of the song took off at breakneck speed, ending with a terrible crash—
And the ambulance.
I think we’ve all just heard a musical drive-by,
Trina thought.
A drunk took the opportunity during the applause to put a dollar in Tony’s tip jar. “Play some Journey, dude!” he shouted.
Angelo reached out and grabbed the man by the shoulders. “He plays what he plays, pal.”
“And I came here to hear some Journey!” the drunk yelled.
“Do you see Steve Perry up there?” Angelo asked.
“No,” the drunk said, twisting away from Angelo’s grasp. “But this is a piano bar. The pianist is supposed to take requests. Journey! Journey! Journey!”
In a moment, many in the crowd were chanting, “Journey! Journey!”
This could get ugly,
Trina said.
This is a Journey town.
“Just keep playing what you want to play, Tony,” Angelo said. “Don’t listen to them.”
A few more drunk and boisterous men broke through the front row. “Journey! Journey! Journey!”
Trina crawled through them to Tony. “Do you know ‘Don’t Stop Believing’? That has a nice piano part in it.”
Tony nodded. “I have heard that one.” He picked up the microphone. “This is called . . .” He drummed on the top of the piano. “ ‘Don’t Stop Believing.’”
The crowd roared.
Then Tony Santangelo from Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, New York, USA, played the living
hell
out of that classic Journey song as the crowd sang along. In yet another YouTube video gone viral, Tony ended the song by doing an incredible “drum solo” on the piano and the piano bench as the crowd sang the chorus a cappella for five consecutive minutes.
When he finished, the crowd gave him a three-minute ovation.
“Take a bow, Tony,” Trina said.
Tony bowed.
Two minutes of furious noise later, Tony had drunk three glasses of root beer without a pause.
As Trina mopped Tony’s face with some napkins at the main bar, Mr. Kelly approached. “Tony,” Mr. Kelly said, “are you going to be here tomorrow night?”
“Why do you want to know?” Angelo asked.
“If we
know
Tony’s coming,” Mr. Kelly said, “we can promote him better.”
“And increase your weekend cover charge from ten to twenty,” Trina said.
“We always have a ten-dollar cover on Fridays and Saturdays,” Mr. Kelly said. “I was thinking fifteen. We’ll pay Tony for his time, of course.”
“Tony has played here three nights in a row,” Trina said. “And
now
you want to pay him?”
“I will play for free,” Tony said, sipping his fourth root beer.
“No, you won’t,” Angelo said.
“What if we give him thirty percent of the gate?” Mr. Kelly asked.
Angelo scowled. “Tony is a living legend. Thirty percent? Are you crazy?”
“I will play for free,” Tony said.
“You’re not playing for free,” Angelo said. “You shouldn’t even be playing in this place anyway. You should be at the Hollywood Bowl or at Carnegie Hall.”
Tony shook his head. “I will play for free.”
Trina rubbed Tony’s shoulders. “Are you sure?”
“I am sure,” Tony said. “Music should be free.”
“But Mr. Kelly plans to charge people to hear you play tomorrow night,” Trina said.
Tony looked at Mr. Kelly. “Then I will not play.”
Mr. Kelly sighed. “You won’t?”
“Music is for everyone,” Tony said. “Music should be free.”
“You make a mint off drinks when he’s here, don’t you?” Angelo asked.
“Best three weeknights I’ve ever had,” Mr. Kelly said. “And I have sold more root beer in three days than I usually sell in a year.”
“If you do not charge,” Tony said, “I will play.”
“Okay,” Mr. Kelly said. “No cover charge tomorrow night.”
“I will be here,” Tony said.
After Mr. Kelly left the bar, a man writing on a notepad moved over a seat. “Oh, that was good.”
“What was?” Angelo asked.
The man read from the notepad. “ ‘Music is for everyone. Music should be free.’ I wonder what other musicians and singers will think about that.” The man smiled. “Bobby Bodkins, Associated Press.”
“You’re taking what Tony said out of context,” Trina said. “You’re going to misquote him.”
“It won’t be a misquote, honey,” Bodkins said. “‘Music should be free.’ Said by a living legend.
Twice
.”
Trina dropped off her stool and stuck a finger in Bodkins’s face. “That was a private conversation.”
Bodkins shook his head. “Not when you’re in a public place and especially not when you’re a celebrity like Tony here. This is going to make headlines. Think I ought to get Naomi Stringer’s take on this? Huh?”
Aika pulled Trina away. “No one will take this turd seriously, Trina. Let’s go.”
Tony slid off his stool and towered over Bodkins. “You are not a turd.”
“Thank you, Tony,” Bodkins said. “It’s nice to know that
someone
here has manners.”
Tony smiled. “A turd smells better.”
Bodkins pushed by him.
“Do not misquote me on that,” Tony said.
Trina laughed and hugged him. “You are so funny.” She winked. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes,” Tony said. “We must go.”
Fewer paparazzi chronicled their walk to Trina’s apartment building, and only one remained while Angelo and Aika waited for their taxi to arrive.
“We’ll see you, what, around noon again?” Angelo asked.
“Let’s play it by ear, Angelo,” Aika said.
“Haven’t we seen everything there is to see already?” Angelo asked.
“Not everything,” Trina said.
“I want to go to Chinatown,” Tony said. “It is supposed to be nice outside tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” Trina said.
“How about . . . seven-thirty?” Angelo asked.
“That’s too early,” Aika said.
“But that way I can make sure Tony gets a good breakfast for a change,” Angelo said.
“Make it eleven or so,” Aika said. “I want to sleep in.”
Angelo sighed. “Okay, okay. Eleven.” He turned to Tony as the taxi pulled up to the curb. “No messing around.”
Tony said nothing.
“Did you hear what I said?” Angelo asked.
“I heard you,” Tony said. “Good-night, Aika.”
“Good-night, Tony,” Aika said.
Angelo opened the back door, and Aika got inside. “
No
messing around,” Angelo said, and he got in, closed the door, and the taxi rolled away.
On the way up to her apartment, Trina asked, “Why didn’t you answer him?”
Tony smiled. “I did not want to lie to him.”
Oh, yes,
Trina thought.
We are messing around tonight.
32
T
he second Trina closed the apartment door, Tony said, “I want to push your button.”
“I need to wash my hair first,” Trina said.
I appreciate his enthusiasm—I really, really do—but how do I explain “I’m not in the mood yet because my hair is a wreck”? And what if I don’t respond like I did before? I am wasted tired from the workout he gave me at the museum and the workout I witnessed at Johnny Foley’s.
“Okay,” Tony said, looking at the floor.
“I’m going to need your help,” Trina said.
“Okay,” Tony said, smiling.
He is so willing! Or am I manipulating him. Hmm. Maybe a little of both?
“I’m going to put on some different clothes first.”
“I will wait in the bathroom for you,” Tony said.
“I wash my hair over the kitchen sink,” Trina said.
Tony blinked. “In the kitchen.”
“Right,” Trina said.
Tony wrinkled up his lips. “Not in the shower.”