He leaned back and let out a labored sigh.

"Thank you, Julian," he said. "I hoped that you would come, that I would see you again before I..."

He strained against the pull of cords and tubes, one carrying a supply of blood into his arm, another feeding him oxygen.

"h.e.l.l of a way to go, considering, huh?" he said in a near whisper.

Julian guessed at the intended sarcasm. It was true-it wasn't only hurricanes, broken levees, and floods that moved the hands of fate these days.

Matthew fixed a sharp gaze on Julian, though his voice was paled by exhaustion and a weakened heart. "Have you found him?"

"No sir."

He leaned his head back and sighed again. "Don't give up hope, son. You have to keep looking." He coughed again.

"Don't worry. I will."

Parmenter let out a choked wheeze, then sat back on the bank of pillows, and rolled his eyes upward toward the ceiling.

"I am so sorry that nothing came of my inquiries about your father. The police were...well, you would not believe how they've struggled with all this." He pointed to the television, and told Julian about a ninety-year-old man who was found recently in a shelter in Denver, Colorado. "So you see, it's still possible."

He pointed to the wooden chair next to the bed, and Julian sat again. "Thank you for coming. Did I say that already?"

"It's OK, sir." Julian didn't know what else to say, so he continued, "I, uh, I got here as soon as I heard. Sylvia called me. Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm feeling lousy," he said. "But I'll get right to the point. I know your father told you about our little business deal a few years ago."

His voice was whispery as words rushed out in a long, labored breath, then another struggling breath and another rush of words. Julian fidgeted in his chair, crossed his right leg over his left.

"And I know you think I cheated your father."

The man's bluntness shocked Julian. He looked away a moment, and folded his hands across his lap. "Well, I..."

"You don't have to worry. You can speak freely to a dying man. You thought I cheated him." His voice was insistent.

"Yes, sir, I did."

He nodded, with a faint smile on his lips. "I appreciate your honesty. But let me tell you, I had no idea your father's recipe would take off the way it did. It was a gamble for both of us. It was entirely possible that the product would not earn even as much as I paid Simon. The fact that it became wildly popular was highly unlikely, but fate is peculiar sometimes. You never know how things will turn out.

"But all that was many years ago. Since then I've learned that some things are more important than business. I saw how your father struggled with money when your mother was ill. I offered to help him. But he refused. My wife, Clarisse..." He coughed again, sitting forward, again straining against the restrictive cords.

"Clarisse never let me forget that we had money while Simon struggled, and why things were that way. She thought of me...well, the way you did. I have tried many times since then to get your father to accept money from me, but he wouldn't hear of it. Your father is a proud, stubborn man.

"So I wanted you to bring your father to me when you found him. As I mentioned before, he owes me something. And I have something for him he'll not be able to refuse."

Julian shrugged. He didn't know what the old man could be talking about. "If....when I find him, and he's...OK, I'll bring him here."

"Good. And I have another favor to ask you."

Parmenter's words dissolved into a sharp fit of coughs. A monitor beeped steadily and a nurse rushed in. Julian stepped aside, and as another nurse entered, began to move toward the door.

And that was when he noticed him. Julian hadn't even heard the stranger enter the room. He was a tall, broad-shouldered black man who looked to be in his late-forties, and dressed in a finely tailored dark blue pinstriped suit that hugged his muscular frame perfectly. His head was shaved; a thick bushy mustache and bristly beard consumed the bottom half of his face, and a diamond stud blinked from his left earlobe. His well-heeled look, given the recent realities in Louisiana, made Julian think he must be an insurance agent (a highly successful one), a lawyer, or a funeral home director.

The man waited silently at the doorway until Julian headed to leave.

"Mr. Fortier. If you have a minute, I'd like to talk to you."

[image]

In the coffee lounge/waiting room at the east end of the wing, the man introduced himself as Cedric Cole, Matthew Parmenter's attorney. He and Julian sat together opposite each other on low faux-leather sofas in front of a coffee machine.

When the man placed two Styrofoam cups of coffee on the table between them, Julian thanked him and took a sip from the one nearest him. With his black leather briefcase placed on the floor next to his feet, Cole leaned forward.

"Mr. Fortier, Mr. Parmenter has instructed me to hire you-that is, you and your band, or whatever group of musicians you can organize-to play for his funeral. That is, if you're willing. A traditional New Orleans jazz funeral with parade, second line, the full works."

Julian was speechless. Stunned, first by the presence of Parmenter's slick-looking black attorney who dressed like a million bucks, and second by the request itself. A jazz funeral for Parmenter? Well, that figures-everybody in New Orleans wants a jazz funeral. He blinked twice, then leaned back against the sofa pillow, rubbing his knees with his palms.

"Certain things will have to be arranged slightly differently, the conditions in the city being what they are," Cole continued. "He wants the second-line parade to course through the French Quarter, ending at the location where his restaurant used to be. There are a few other specifics Mr. Parmenter has asked for, certain musical selections, et cetera. And you and your friends will be generously paid, of course."

Still dumbstruck, Julian looked at Cole in bewilderment, and it struck him that his father's oldest friend was actually dying. He hadn't played such an event since he'd lived in New Orleans, and didn't even know where the guys in the band were, if they were in town, or if they even made it through the storm in one piece. Or, if they were alive and well, would be able to take time from rebuilding their lives to play a funeral.

"Mr., uh-"

"Cole. But call me Cedric."

"Right. I...I'm honored that Mr. Parmenter would want me to play. I don't know if I-"

"I know about some of the things you're dealing with," Cole a.s.sured him. "Your father missing-Mr. Parmenter told me. I know how highly he regarded him. He's also instructed me to furnish you with as much money as you need to find him. I'm prepared to write you a check today, to hire an investigator, if that's what you need. Or if you'd like me to hire someone for you, I have a few contacts."

He reached in his pocket, pulled out his business card, and handed it to Julian.

"There's very little time, I'm afraid. The doctors say things could change very quickly, given Mr. Parmenter's deteriorating condition. But he's asked me to tell you that if your father is found well and healthy while Mr. Parmenter is still alive, he would very much like to see him, to talk to him. He says he has something very important to say to him."

Julian stroked the back of his neck with his palm, and took a long, tired breath.

Why was the man so insistent about seeing Simon? What could he possibly do or say that would make any difference now? Julian strained his memory, calling up his last conversations with his father for some hint of what Parmenter could possibly want. But Simon and Julian hadn't talked about Matthew in months. It had been such a th.o.r.n.y issue with them, since Julian hadn't exactly tried to hide his resentment for the man. And accordingly, Simon had simply stopped mentioning his name.

Parmenter was dying now, and Julian was sorry about that, but he could only think of his father, who had loved this undeserving man like a brother. Whatever Parmenter had in mind now, it was too little too late. Too late to make the past right, too late for deathbed amends.

And now the guy wants a jazz funeral. What was he supposed to do, put together a band with players he might not be able to find, and who probably wouldn't speak to him? What was he supposed to do, put together a band with players he might not be able to find, and who probably wouldn't speak to him?

Six years had pa.s.sed since the last time he'd seen any of them, and it had been the worst night of his professional career. It was the last weekend of Jazz Fest, a balmy evening in early May, and he and the band were about to perform their last set, a tribute to New Orleans trumpet players-Bunk Johnson, Joe "King" Oliver, Louis Armstrong-in the WWOZ jazz tent. A half hour before they went onstage, Julian had surprised them with an announcement that he was leaving for New York-not in the fall, as he had told them earlier, but in the next few days. He'd lined up a meeting with a recording company executive. And a pianist buddy from Tulane was saving a spot on his couch, and promised him all the freelance jobs he could handle.

Onstage, the music had been cool, stiff, the men unyielding. The silence afterwards still rang in his ears, the cold stares still frozen in his brain. They had a right to be upset, and he'd wanted to explain, tell them that he had had to leave-now-while his heart was still in one piece. But the words would not come. After the last chord, the other players cl.u.s.tered together backstage, and no one spoke to him as he cased his horn and started the walk back to his car. Eventually, it was his old friend and trumpet-playing rival, Grady Casey, who came around. "Good luck man," he'd said, when he came by Julian's place the next day. "Knock'em dead, up there." to leave-now-while his heart was still in one piece. But the words would not come. After the last chord, the other players cl.u.s.tered together backstage, and no one spoke to him as he cased his horn and started the walk back to his car. Eventually, it was his old friend and trumpet-playing rival, Grady Casey, who came around. "Good luck man," he'd said, when he came by Julian's place the next day. "Knock'em dead, up there."

They went out for a drink that night at Sorrelle's Hibiscus Lounge at the far edge of the French Quarter near the Market, and under a half moon casting silken light on the river Julian had confessed about his troubles with Velmyra and how it had ended. Grady lowered his eyes in sympathy, saying, "That's rough, man, I'm so sorry." And without dropping a beat, added, "So you don't mind if I call her?" After a deadpan moment, they both broke into outrageous laughter. The rest of the evening, they had drank themselves as silly as rookie tourists, starting at one end of the Quarter-plastic go-cups in hand, loaded with high-octane daiquiris-and stumbling all the way to the other.

He put three quarters in the machine. The ice clanked into the cup, then the liquid. Julian could feel Cole's eyes on him as he took a swig of the cold c.o.ke. The coffee was lousy, it was hot in the waiting room, and the memory of the daiquiris put him in mind of something to take the edge off his thirst. He turned up the cup and swallowed, long and slow.

He wondered if the man knew he was stalling.

Finally he said, "I don't know if I can even find them, the guys I played with. I wouldn't know where to even look for them."

Cedric nodded. "I understand. But Mr. Parmenter realizes that your friends might need a little financial help at this time. He's offering a very generous fee for the musicians. Fifteen hundred dollars each. And in addition, he will cover travel expenses from wherever they've evacuated to back to New Orleans, if needed, and lodging."

Fifteen hundred for a funeral? Outrageous cash had a way of smoothing the blunt edges of hard feelings. n.o.body in New Orleans made that kind of money for a one-day gig. The guys could use the money, no question. h.e.l.l, he'd hardly worked in almost a year; he needed the money himself.

One more thought sealed the deal: if Simon were here, he'd want him to play-no doubt.

Julian nodded. "I'll do it."

Cole's serious face relaxed into the smile of a man who did so rarely, showing two rows of perfect teeth.

"Great. And, ah, there's one more thing I'd like to ask you."

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a CD, its cover showing a chest-cropped photo of Julian with trumpet in hand, looking out over the Left Bank of the Seine in Paris, the cathedral of Notre Dame looming in the backdrop. A closed-mouth, confident smile, eyes in a slight squint from the brilliant sun. t.i.tled "Boplicitude," the CD was the last he'd made three years ago after his first European tour, and it had gotten him the Grammy. He looked at his image on the cover, self-a.s.sured, happy, even c.o.c.ky, and barely recognized himself. In his air-brushed face, there was no hint of the uncertainty his life held now.

The man on that cover had no idea what was coming for him.

"I'm a big fan," Cole said. "Maybe you could sign this for me?"

He pulled out a black felt-tip pen. Julian nodded politely, took the pen and the CD, and scrawled his name illegibly across the image of his face on the booklet cover.

"Thanks," Cole said. "By the way, caught your spot on Leno. Nice."

They shook hands, and Julian strode away, wondering if his chops would hold up long enough to get through the gig.

Back in the motel, he flopped on the bed and picked up the remote control. But the TV news was all about what the mayor had called "Look and Leave" and the papers had called "Look and Grieve"-the residents of New Orleans coming back temporarily to their city to find, in so many cases, complete chaos: shattered homes, drowned possessions, remnants of what had been normal lives. The local news stations in Baton Rouge covered the influx of the displaced filling up the hotel rooms, grocery stores, shelters, church bas.e.m.e.nts, and the extra bedrooms of every neighborhood in town. Exhausted, Julian remembered how the day had begun so long ago, and didn't want to hear another word about life gone wrong, about things he couldn't control.

Sitting up in bed, he reached for his cell phone, wondering what Velmyra was doing, and looked at his watch. The thought of not being with her tonight sank his spirits deeper than the news had, but when he thought of calling her, he rejected the idea. There was a serious conversation in their future requiring thought and energy, and he didn't have the capacity for either. The truth was, he had no idea what to say to her. After what had happened between them, and given their history, there should be some kind of plan. But he had none. If she were to fit into the weird puzzle of his life at this point, he wasn't at all sure how it would happen. Or even if it should.

He turned the TV off and tossed the remote onto the nightstand. He needed to talk to someone, and he could use a beer. Within a few minutes, he was back in the car.

[image]

The bar and grill in the atrium of the Emba.s.sy Suites in Baton Rouge was decorated in a lush, tropical theme, with tall palmettos, yuccas, and elephant ears situated between tiered waterfalls, and sun fed through an enormous skylight six stories high. Julian could hear the sound of the trumpet from the reservations desk, and by the time he entered the bar, sat down on one of the five, leather-topped barstools, and ordered a beer, Grady Casey had caught his eye.

It was just a quartet tonight, apparently; his wife, Cindy, a bluesy, dreamy eyed singer, was not around. A young male pianist sat at a shiny black seven-foot grand, a bushy haired man of sixty or so hugged a deep brown upright ba.s.s, and a red-haired drummer, the only white guy in the group, kept time with wire brushes swirled against a snare head to the muted tones of Grady's version of Miles Davis's "Blue in Green."

When Grady nodded toward the bar where Julian sat, he gave a quick salute in the direction of the bandstand. The bartender, a smiling young blonde with frosted brown lipstick and a sunflower tattooed on her bare shoulder, poured a light ale into the huge frosted mug before him. Julian closed his eyes as the icy brew slid down his dry throat, and felt as if he could drink this beer until the end of time. If it wasn't the best beer he'd ever tasted, it was surely the most appreciated one. There were only a few people in the bar; the quiet, relaxed scene was a comfort, almost as if the world were a normal place, as if it hadn't tilted so far from upright that everyone within a sixty-mile radius of New Orleans (or even much further) was not walking uphill, pushing and bowing against a strong wind.

Julian closed his eyes and listened to the trumpet's fat, lazy tones, his head nodding as the misty ballad floated around him. It had been a while since he'd done this-actually listen to somebody else play. He'd never really been jealous of Casey before, but after seeing Cole with a copy of his CD, and hearing Grady's sweet tone filling the air in the bar, he was reminded of his stalled career and a cool sadness enveloped him. The guy sounded better than ever, his tone crisp and clean, as pure a sound as he had ever heard. His head bobbing on the beat, fingers dancing on the valves, carving out melodies and runs as if they were soft clay beneath his nimble hands. This guy This guy, he thought, is the guy who should be known all over the world is the guy who should be known all over the world.

When the set ended, Grady nodded to Julian, laid his trumpet down in the open case on the bandstand, and headed toward the bar. Up close, Grady looked tired, worn. It had only been a couple of days since Julian had last seen him, but he swore he looked older now. Half moons of loose skin bagged beneath his eyes, and the whites were red-veined. His white shirt, though clean and pressed, looked two sizes too big, and gray stubble flecked his gaunt cheeks and chin.

The bar stool next to Julian whined as Grady sat down and leaned against the counter. He caught the waitress's eye, held up a finger and pointed to Julian. "Bring this man another one of whatever he's drinking. His money ain't no good here."

He and Julian shook hands. Grady took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up. "What's up, Homes? You ready to play?"

The waitress sat another beer in front of Julian and he took a drink. "Naw, I'm just listening. Sounding good, man."

Grady let out a long stream of smoke, then put the cigarette out in a gla.s.s ashtray. "Kinda slow tonight, but thanks."

When the waitress turned the volume dial on the flat screen TV above them, both men looked up. The headline news station showed a T-shirted reporter standing in Jackson Square with the spires of the Saint Louis Cathedral glinting in the backdrop, dispensing the latest in a series of reports on the current situation of the flood-ruined city downriver as its residents returned. The state of Louisiana, he said, had just declared the tap water in most of New Orleans drinkable, except in the Ninth Ward and the East. And, he added, the first wave of government trailers had rolled into town to house the thousands displaced by the flood.

Grady waved his hand dismissively. "Like that's gonna fix anything. This whole thing, man. It's bulls.h.i.t. The whole thing. You know what they called us down here? Refugees Refugees, man. Like people who ain't got a home. They act like this thing is our fault, like we did something wrong. Act like they don't want us here, man. You hear about the levees? Now they're saying maybe they wasn't built right. Like we didn't know that that. I been hearing about those d.a.m.n levees for years."

Grady ordered a brew and a plate of hot wings, and when they arrived, he took a bite out of a drummette and followed it with a long gulp of Bud Light. It didn't take Julian long to figure out what had gotten into Grady's craw: he and his wife had been arguing about where to live. Since Julian had last seen him, Grady's wife had gone back to Dallas to be with her relatives, and had given in to their gentle coaxing to "look at a few apartments, just in case." Now she wanted to move there permanently, while Grady, who'd never considered living anywhere but New Orleans, wasn't having it. But when he tried to find lodging in the unharmed parts of the city, all the rents were sky-high, in some cases double what they'd cost before the flood.

"She told me to call her when I came to my senses," Grady said. "I told her to call me when she came to hers. Dallas Dallas, man. Can you believe that? Where am I gonna play in Dallas?"

Grady went on to tell Julian about his aunts, elderly uncle, cousins, three sisters and three brother's kids who'd just come back from Atlanta. With their Ninth Ward houses washed away, all thirty-eight had crowded into an aunt's four-bedroom two-story on the edge of Uptown, where the water had only reached the bottom porch step.

"Everybody living on top of each other, man. Crazy. But what are they gonna do?"

Julian listened quietly, taking a swig from his beer now and then.

"So you wouldn't move here, I guess." Julian figured Grady had already considered Baton Rouge, but it was the only solution that came to mind.

Grady took another bite, put his barbecued chicken wing down. "Here? Baton Rouge? Baton Rouge ain't New Orleans, man, you know that. Besides this place is crawling with musicians looking for work. Manager at this club wants to spread the wealth, so my gig is up at the end of next week. So now I gotta figure out how to get a gig, find a place to live, and and get my wife back." get my wife back."

Julian had an idea for one third of Grady's problems, and this seemed like the perfect time to mention the funeral for Matthew Parmenter. "There's only one thing," he said. "We need the whole band. I don't know where everybody is. And I don't know if anybody wants to play with me, after the way I left."

When Julian told Grady how much the gig paid, he let out a long slow whistle. "For that kinda money? They'll play with Humpty Dumpty. Let me handle it. I know where they are."

Grady turned up the end of his beer. "Who is this cat, man? He must ain't got nothin' but but money." money."

His father's best friend, Julian explained.

"Your daddy?"

Julian's gaze lowered to his beer as he took a long, slow drink. When he told Grady what he believed to be true about his father, his old friend clapped a hand solidly on his back.

"Man, I'm real sorry." He lowered his head a moment, pursed his lips, and looked thoughtfully at his mug. Then he lifted it.

"Here's to your daddy, man. Here's to Brother Simon," he said, and they both drank.

They talked on about each other's lives, how Grady had been doing great, playing almost every night of the week until the flood happened. And Julian told him about running into his ex-fiance, and their excursion to look for his father, and the situation with his father's land. And how, even though he didn't believe his father had survived, he was determined to find out what happened to him, no matter how long it took.

When the thirty-minute break ended, Grady looked at his watch, then signaled to his trio; the pianist was just coming out of the men's room, and the ba.s.s player and drummer were at a nearby table talking with two dark-haired women who looked like identical twins.

Grady clapped his hands together. "All right, man, let's go. Go get your horn. I know you got it with you. It'll be like old times."

Julian swallowed hard, took another drink, then put the gla.s.s down and stared into it. "Look man, there's something I gotta tell you."

Julian had felt humbled by his friend's soul-baring, and in turn, wanted to hold nothing back. The embarra.s.sment he thought he'd feel simply wasn't there. And when Julian poured out all the details of the accident, the long depressing months of surgery, recovery, canceled gigs, and the Tokyo disaster, Grady nodded in true sympathy. n.o.body understood what he was going through like another musician, and as they talked, all the years that had pa.s.sed since they were young boys melted away. Julian felt like he was talking to a brother.

Grady turned up the last of his beer, set it back on the counter, and frowned thoughtfully.