Read Online Honky-Tonk Girl by Jr. Charles Beckman, Jr. - Free Book Online Page A

dripping with perspiration. It soaked through his coat and glued the tumbling strands of his curly black hair to his forehead. “There ain’t nothing wrong with my trumpet playing. You kept screwing up the rhythm. How’s a man going to take a decent chorus when the beat isn’t there?”
    Mamba looked grieved. “Johnny, boy,” he whispered, his bottom lip trembling, “I heard you been down on your luck and drinkin’ a lot. But—”
    Johnny swore. “That’s a lot of baloney! There’s nothing wrong with Johnny Nickles or his trumpet playing. Understand?”
    â€œSure, boy, sure...,” Mamba said soothingly.
    â€œHell, I should have had more sense than to get up on the stand with you. You can’t play any more. You’re too damned old. You’re a damned lousy old whorehouse piano player that can’t find the beat any more.”
    The old Negro’s blind eyes filled with tears. “I’m—I’m sorry, Johnny. Sorry, I—”
    â€œWhy don’t you—” Johnny’s voice suddenly broke. He grabbed his trumpet case and stumbled through the crowd, out into the night. Then he leaned against a lamp post out in the dark fog beside the lapping water and dry sobs shook his body. He was suddenly very sick and for a while he was occupied in emptying the Scotch he’d drunk into the bay. Then he wiped his face shakily with a handkerchief. After a bit he stumbled to where he had parked his car.
    The dripping fog had wrapped everything in a blanket of gray cotton. Ruth Jordon, the girl who had sung the blues with Mamba, was standing beside Johnny’s Ford, smoking a cigarette and shivering.
    Johnny stopped. “What the hell do you want?”
    She smiled at him. “L-lift, mister. Or would I be imposing?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t care.” He unlocked the car and she slid in gratefully and reached over to unlock the door on his side.
    Johnny crawled in behind the wheel, tossed his trumpet onto the back seat, and kicked the starter roughly.
    They drove in silence, Johnny directing the coupe viciously around slippery, wet corners.
    After a bit, still shivering, she said, “I don’t want to be a nuisance, but could we turn the heater on?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œN-no?”
    â€œNo heater.”
    â€œOh.” She was silent for a moment. “Well, then could I sit closer to you with absolutely no intentions of arousing any elemental instincts or anything like that? I wouldn’t want to have to walk home on a night like this.”
    â€œDon’t flatter yourself,” Johnny grunted sourly.
    â€œOuch!” she said. “Well, I guess I asked for it.” She slid nearer, until one leg rested against his.
    â€œThere’s a drink in the glove compartment if you’re so damned cold,” he told her grudgingly.
    She shook her head.
    â€œWell, if you don’t mind....” Johnny reached for the glove compartment door, opened it and removed a pint of liquor. He unscrewed the cap and sipped at it while he drove. His stomach was still squeamish from the recent attack of vomiting. “Where,” he asked, trying to get his mind off it, “did you learn to sing?”
    â€œOff records. I’ve been a jazz hound all my life. I’m going to the university, working on my master’s in music. I’m writing my thesis now, on American jazz. That’s what I wanted to see Mamba about.” She fell silent for a moment. Then she looked at him. “Johnny, I—” her eyes faltered. Her voice went on in a rush. “I’ve sorta hero-worshipped you for years. You’re—you’re one of the greatest. All the kids think so.” She looked at the bottle. “D-don’t bring yourself down....”
    He stopped the car with a dangerous skid on the wet pavement. Then he turned to her and said through his teeth, “There’s nothing wrong