CHAPTER ONE
Sunday, May 30th, 1976
Santa Monica, California
Countdown: Six Days
The restaurant was quiet except for a few muffled shouts and squeals coming from kids riding the carousel on the pier. Red floor tiles cooled my bare feet. The place smelled like garlic, and bread, and the fishy ocean breeze that blew through the open windows. If I hadn’t been so nervous, it would have made me hungry. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s stale donut.
I fingered my trumpet keys, clicking them softly, waiting for Salvatore’s answer. He rubbed his shiny bald skull and gave me a squinty-eyed look with his head cocked to one side, like a shady character from an old black-and-white gangster film.
“You sure you’re up to it, Scoob?”
“Yeah, Sal. I know every song your band plays.” I lifted my head like that would somehow stretch my eleven, no, twelve-year-old frame and make me taller. I could claim twelve, because my birthday was tomorrow. My heart fluttered. Getting this gig would be the best birthday present ever!
“I know them by heart.”
That was no lie. I’d practically grown up inside Salvatore’s Trattoria, listening to my dad play in the jazz band. My father taught me to play the trumpet before I was big enough to hold the thing in my hands. He’d made me a tiny stand out of some driftwood when I was three, so I could hit the keys without having to hold up the weight of the heavy metal instrument. Now, I was better than most of the other musicians on the Santa Monica pier. Even the grownup musicians. That wasn’t bragging. Just the truth.
Sal chuckled as he grabbed a chair and sat. He motioned to Xavier, the band’s piano player, who’d come in early to get extra practice on a new number. “Wanna play along?”
Xavier sighed and lifted his spidery fingers from the black-and-white keys, where he’d been plunking the tune to “You Made Me Love You.” His dark eyes studied me for a second or two, then he shrugged. “Sure.”
Grinning widely, Sal motioned for me to start. “Okay, young lady. Prove it.”
After a deep breath, I raised the trumpet to my lips. He was giving me a chance! Time to show him what I could do.
“Play Moon River.”
The first few measures of the song meandered from the piano, moving like a raft wandering the gentle Missouri. The languid notes floated into the air as I closed my eyes and played, adding a nice vibrato to give color to the melody the way Dad had taught me.
Music has color, kid. It has a feel, you know, like something you can touch with your hands. It even has a flavor. You can play all the notes right, but unless you add personality, you’re just tooting a tin horn.
With Dad’s words in my head, I put every ounce of my personality into that boring, old-fashioned song that was a favorite of the boring, old people who came to Sal’s place to eat. After a few bars, I sped things up a bit, adding a flourish and hurrying Xavier along. Sure, the song was at a relaxed tempo, but the piano man was playing at a speed slower than molasses in January.
Sal waved his hand to stop us.
“A Taste of Honey.”
I licked my lips and started again, not waiting for Xavier to do his intro on the piano. I punched out short, staccato notes, smiling on the inside. This had been one of Dad’s favorite tunes. Ba-Bap! Ba-Bap!
Sal folded his arms and bobbed his head in time to the music. Xavier did his best to keep up with me. Once again, Sal cut me off before things really got swinging.
“Now play Mas que nada.” His dark eyes sparkled.
No problem! My lips curved in a wide smile. A great idea for adding more life to this new number fizzed inside my head. Improvising was my thing. Dad had taught me to do my own stuff ever since I could remember. I started adding some of my favorite jazzy trills and was getting into a groove when the man waved a hand to stop me.
“You got the job, kid.” He shook his head. “Ah, Madonna, I never knew you got this good. Your dad would be proud.”
My smile practically split my face in two. Behind me, Xavier snorted and slammed the piano lid, then went to pour himself a drink. A prickle of guilt hit me. I’d ignored the accompaniment from the piano, desperate to show Sal what I could do. Anyway, Xavier would get over it. He would understand, being a musician and a performer.
“Thanks, Sal! You won’t be sorry!”
My hands shook as I stuck my trumpet back into its battered case. Sal’s jazz band played in his restaurant every night, and they got salary and tips! I’d be rich! My brother would be so stoked! Maybe sometime soon we could get our own place to live again. Sleeping on the beach wasn’t too bad, but nothing beats having your own bed. And a roof.
“Since you’re underage, Scoob, I can’t pay you salary. We’ll give you a cut of the tips. And dinner.”
Oh. My mood only deflated a tiny bit before I filled with bubbling happiness again. It didn’t matter! Sal’s place was no disco with a silver ball that flashed over a dance floor filled with trendy teenagers showing off their moves. No, Sal’s place was all class. People came for the great food and then stayed all night for the band. I’d seen men and women in fancy suits and swanky dresses drop fives, tens, and even twenties into the jar on the piano. A cut of that wouldn’t be bad. Not bad at all for a kid like me, playing the trumpet in a jazz band filled with grownups!
Besides, Sal’s place had the best spaghetti carbonara anywhere on the pier. Even better, the trattoria had recently become a favorite haunt of someone I’d been dying to meet my whole life: Chuck Warren, the jazz musician and television star, who happened to have his own show in L.A. He’d launched the careers of tons of jazz greats like Bob McCrae and Lino “The Bambino” Valente.
My hands shook. Regular meals and tips, and a chance to play in front of Chuck Warren? My heart fluttered. What if he invited me to be on his show? He’d done it before. Lino earned the nickname “The Bambino” because he started out when he was just fourteen. I smiled to myself. What would Chuck Warren think of me, an eleven, no; twelve-year-old kid who played just as well as Lino, and maybe even better? I’d be the new and improved Lino. The youngest kid ever to perform on Chuck’s show!
“Here.” Sal put a small basket filled with rolls on a table next to me. “Yesterday’s bread. Hope it ain’t too dried out.” He went on pulling chairs off tables while I tore into the tough bread. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted in my life. I gorged on my breakfast as Sal made his way back through the maze of dark wood tables and red leather booths. Plastic palm fronds waved from every nook, and the heavy stained-glass light fixtures kept the place just bright enough to see your filet mignon but dim enough to keep your eyes drawn to the brightly lit stage. Where I’d be performing!
My fourth roll had just disappeared when my brother showed up.
“Hey, Sal!” RC waved and wove his way among the tables, brushing his black hair off his forehead. When his eyes landed on me, he smiled big, showing off the deep dimples that girls always seemed to think were so cute. I did a check of the vast dining room to make sure Rita, Sal’s prettiest waitress, wasn’t around. My nineteen-year-old brother had a thing for her, but aside from Sal and Xavier, the place was empty. Why the dimples?
“Thought I’d find you here.” RC squeezed my shoulder.
“Well, if it isn’t the rock star. How’s it going, kid?” Sal chuckled.
“Far out.” RC stuck his thumbs into his belt loops and beamed again. “Things are looking up.” With one hand, he snagged the last roll and ruffled my hair with the other. “Come on. I got a surprise for you.” His eyes gleamed.
Chewing my last mouthful of bread, I picked up my trumpet case and hugged it. “I have a surprise for you, too.”
“Oh, yeah? I dig that!” He jogged to the street entrance, motioning for me to follow. “Hurry!”
Waving at Sal, I followed my brother to the door. “See you later!”
“Seven o’clock,” Sal yelled after me. “Don’t be late! Oh, and wear a dress or something!”
“Um, okay. I’ll wear something nice.”
I bit my lip. I’d said ‘something nice’ because, well, I’d never owned a dress. But Sal didn’t need to hear that, or he might just “un-hire” me minutes after offering me a job! Of course, my cutoff jean shorts and t-shirt would have to go. Maybe RC and I could round up enough change to pay for a pretty blouse at a thrift store, and I had a pair of black pants without any holes, stashed with our stuff. Sal’s was a classy place, after all. No cutoff jeans. And you had to wear shoes. I glanced at my dusty toes.
Please let me find my missing sandal.
My brother waited outside in the bright sunlight. After spending time inside the dim restaurant, I had to blink a few times until my eyes adjusted to the bright California summer sky. My jaw dropped. RC was leaning against an old brown station wagon and all his white teeth flashed in a huge smile.
“What do you think?” He patted the slightly dented and very scratched hood like he was petting his favorite dog. “Meet our new ride.”
“It’s ours?” I squealed. “Our very own car?”
“Our very own car.” My brother opened his arms, and I ran into them.
“I promised Dad to take care of you, Scoob.” RC squeezed me tight. “And I’m trying. I know things have been rough.”
“You do take care of me, RC.”
“I sure try, Scoob.” He brushed the hair away from my face. “We’re solid. Right?”
I laughed and lightly punched his arm. “Solid” was RC’s favorite word. It meant different things according to whatever he happened to be talking about. His favorite songs were “solid,” musically and lyrically. His guitar had “solid” acoustics. And we were “solid.” We were family, each the only family member the other one had left.
“You got it.”
Happy tears filled my eyes. RC’s surprise turned out to be way better than anything I’d been thinking, and I got a paying job. My brother was going to freak at the news!
RC opened the passenger door and waved me inside with a flourish, like one of those fancy suited-up chauffeurs you see on TV. Except that RC wore his old bell-bottomed Levi’s, and his hair hung past his shoulders. His t-shirt was almost as old and worn out as mine. He wasn’t wearing shoes, either. Also, this wasn’t a fancy ride like a Rolls Royce or a Corvette, but we had a car. We’d never had one before. And we could sleep in here when the cops chased us off the beach.
Laughing, I jumped into the passenger seat and held my trumpet case on my lap. “Do you want to hear my surprise?”
“You bet.” RC closed the door and hurried around the car to the dented driver’s side door. He wrestled with the warped metal for a few seconds.
While he yanked on the handle, I spied a man crossing the street a block ahead. His thin frame, tan skin, thick black hair, and the swing of his walk totally reminded me of Dad. My heart made a funny leap the way it did every time I clapped eyes on someone who looked like him.
When the father-like stranger reached the sidewalk and swiveled to walk in the opposite direction, the side view of his face ruined the illusion, but nothing could ruin my mood. RC finally wrenched the car door open and plopped down inside.
“Alright, spill. What’s the news?” RC started the engine, and we pulled onto the street. “How do you think you’re going to top my surprise?”
I bounced in my seat. “I got a job!”
RC blinked and his jaw dropped. “Say what?”
I giggled. “I’m playing with Sal’s band, just like Dad used to. Starting tonight. Sal’s even going to pay me!” I hugged my trumpet to my chest. “This is the best day of my life!”
RC’s mouth trembled for a moment. Then he chuckled. “You’re joking, right? That’s a good one, Scoob.”
“It’s no joke. Sal’s had a tough time keeping a trumpet player ever since Dad died. They need me. Sal gave me the job right before you came in.”
RC’s laugh died away. He glanced at me as he maneuvered the station wagon onto a busy highway. “But you’re a kid.”
“So what? Sal didn’t care.” Cars whizzed by in a blur. And RC didn’t say anything. He just kept chewing his lip and holding tight to the steering wheel.
“RC? What’s going on?” The station wagon sped up. We were on the freeway. And we were leaving Santa Monica. The bread suddenly felt heavy in my stomach.
RC sighed. “Look, Scoob. I’m proud of you, kid. Really.” He gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “I know how amazing you are with that trumpet. See, the thing is…” His voice died away, and he chewed on his lip again.
“What?” My stomach gurgled, and I put a hand on my gut, now feeling a bit sick.
“I have a paying gig in Montana for a few weeks. That’s where we’re headed now, as a matter of fact. It’s a real sweet deal, and it will help us get back into an apartment.”
“So will my job, RC, and it’s right here in California!”
Facing forward, RC gunned the engine. His chin jutted out. His smile was gone, and tears appeared in his deep brown eyes. He cleared his throat.
“My gig won’t wait. Sal’s will. I’m sure it will. When we stop in Vegas for the night, give him a call and let him know you can’t start for a few weeks. No problem.”
“A few weeks?”
“It’ll be fine, Scoob!”
My eyes stung with the used-to-be-happy tears turning sour and burning like acid.
“No, it won’t! How could you do this to me?”
“I’m sorry,” RC mumbled. “I am.” He switched on the radio. The song “Saturday Night” blared from the speakers. I dug the singer’s voice but hated disco. It had nothing on jazz. And right now, I hated that song with everything in me.
“RC!”
He didn’t answer.
“Come on, RC! Talk to me!”
My brother turned the radio up full blast. The city disappeared, and we entered the desert, leaving civilization behind. We didn’t say another word all the way to Vegas.
How had the best day of my life changed into the absolute worst, most rotten, most my big-brother-just-ruined-my-life forever kind of day?
