Read The Right To Sing the Blues for Free Online Page B

than he is. This is a jazz town, full of top musicians looking to latch on someplace.”
    “It’s a raw deal,” Sievers said. “Fat Jack and I want to see that Sam lands on his feet.” He carried his drink to a flowered sofa, sat down in a corner, and became as relaxed and motionless as a wax-museum display. He was like an actor doing an upstage freeze, turning the scene over to Nudger and Sam Judman.
    “Why did you go to see Hollister the day you had the fight?” Nudger asked Judman.
    “No reason out of the ordinary. I had a few suggestions on the arrangement of one of Hollister’s numbers. I wanted to change the background beat.”
    “Does Hollister do his own arranging?”
    “Yep,” Judman said. “He does everything. And even though he cost me my job, I gotta say he does it well.”
    “So how come he got so excited when he came home and saw you in his apartment? Did he act as if he had something to hide?”
    “What he acted like was mad. He didn’t give me a chance to explain why I was there, just started in on me with his fists. And he didn’t explain to me why he didn’t want me there.”
    “Is he dealing in drugs?” Nudger asked.
    “No,” Sievers said definitely from the corner of the couch.
    “A user?” Nudger asked.
    “Sure,” Judman said. “Nothing hard, though, a little coke, a little good grass now and then. Means nothing.”
    “Did he apologize or try to patch things up after the fight?”
    Judman laughed. “Apologize? Not Hollister.”
    “And he didn’t tell you or anyone else why he beat up on you?”
    “When I asked him the next day,” Judman said, “all he’d say was that he didn’t like his privacy invaded.”
    “Maybe that’s all there is to it,” Sievers suggested.
    “Maybe,” Nudger agreed, not believing it. “What do you know about Hollister and Ineida Mann?” he asked Judman.
    “Only that they’re chummy. Ineida seems like a nice kid; she don’t deserve Hollister.”
    “What do you think of her as a performer?”
    “A nice kid.”
    Nudger looked over and saw that Sievers’ bland face was as unreadable as a turnip. He wondered if Sievers knew that Ineida Mann was the daughter of David Collins. That was one he’d have to ask Fat Jack.
    “If Fat Jack fired you,” Nudger said to Judman, “then Hollister doesn’t carry his own backup band.”
    “That’s right,” Judman said. “The club uses its own backup music; I’ve been playing there a couple of years.”
    “It won’t be long before Hollister takes his own musicians wherever he plays,” Sievers said. “They’ll line up for the job. He’s that good.”
    Nudger looked at Judman. “Do you think he’s that good? A rising star?”
    “Star? The son of a bitch is a meteor.” He didn’t like saying it, but he got the words out at a cost. Dean Martin, his arm flung around Judman’s shoulders, smiled down approvingly from an eight-by-ten glossy.
    “Meteors are bright,” Nudger said, “but they travel in a downward direction and burn out fast.”
    Judman grinned at the thought, but said, “I’m no astronomer, Nudger. I bang the drums.”
    Nudger stood up and thanked Judman for taking the time to talk with him.
    “No problem,” the drummer said, getting up to show Nudger out. “I figure to have plenty of free time for a while.”
    “Not for long,” Sievers said, also standing. “You’re too good a musician not to catch on somewhere soon. I’ll leave with you, Nudger.” He gave Judman a reassuring smile. “Let me know about those auditions we set up over on Rampart.”
    “I will, Mr. Sievers. And thanks again.”
    At the door, Judman shook hands with Sievers, then Nudger. His eyes were weary and his hand felt cold and weak.
    Sievers fell in step beside Nudger as they walked along the crooked sidewalks of St. Philip. “I wanted to talk to you alone,” he told Nudger. “Fat Jack hired you.” He stated it as a fact, not a question.
    “Did he tell you that?” Nudger asked.
    “No. I