Mova’S Jazz Cafe: Invisible in New Orleans

By Roger T. Maxey

Amelia Cheryl Monet, a thirty year old New Orleans entrepreneur had successfully turned an abandoned warehouse in the Big Easy into Movas Jazz Caf, the hottest chill-out lounge in the South. That is until August 29, 2005, when Hurricane Katrina destroyed not only the physical structures of the city, but many long-held dreams. Determined to keep her club alive amidst the mass exodus of business from New Orleans, Amelia thought the solutions to her problems would be within the musical incantations of a mysterious stranger.
Enter London Zao Thomas, a wealthy womanizing jazz man from Chicago. Whose charismatic charm and good looks were accented by his mastery of the guitar. His talents would seemingly be the spark needed to not only revitalize Amelias Caf, but her life as well.
London would eventually end up taking Amelia on a journey of love and pain that would turn out to be more destructive than any hurricane could ever be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450294591

Roger T. Maxey

Roger Maxey was born on Thanksgiving Day in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. At the age of seven he and his family would leave the cold weather city of Milwaukee for the warmer climate of the Mississippi Gulf Coast. It would be in Long Beach, Mississippi located just 65 miles from downtown New Orleans, where he would spend most of his formative years. Roger would go on to obtain degrees from both Xavier University in New Orleans, Louisiana and the University of Mississippi in Oxford, Mississippi. It would be the historic tragedy of Hurricane Katrina would not only rekindle his love for writing, but it would reunite him with his long time High School sweetheart. Together they would relocate to the Atlanta, Georgia where they currently reside.

Book preview

Prologue

WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME? Amelia Monet screamed, darting out the bedroom. She stumbled over a chair into the hallway. Everything had happened so fast she didn’t have time to think.

If she had been in charge of her emotions, she would have never flown to South Africa to follow a man.

The sound of a door slamming somewhere in the distance stopped Amelia in midstride. Was that behind me or in front of me? She looked toward the exotic 3-foot candles protruding from the walls for an answer.

Keep moving, girl, they seemed to whisper to her.

So Amelia continued down the winding hallway. Where she was running, she had no idea. She just knew that she had to get beyond the moment of what she had just done.

Amelia looked down at her palms. They were as red as the carpet underneath her feet. Reaching out, she began to wipe her bloody hands against the walls that were getting narrower with every step she took.

She glanced back at the trail of blood that was behind her. Real smart, Amelia! Now you’re leaving a path for him to follow!

Turning around a corner, Amelia stopped in front of an entrance that was set aside from the normal path of the house. Oddly placed and with only a small slit for a handle, the doorway could easily be missed.

Amelia cautiously opened the doorway. This just might work.

The dark coldness that first greeted her gave an odd comfort to Amelia. The creepier the place, the less likely someone would think to find her there. The dim moonlight from an unseen window provided just enough light for her. She descended into the blackness.

The dampness of the room, as compared to the rest of the home, made Amelia feel as if she were in some sort of basement. Her assumptions were confirmed when she saw rows of wine bottles. Surveying the area, Amelia’s eyes came upon an alcove. It was away from the window that let the moonlight in, yet it still provided her with the ability to see anyone coming down the stairs.

And so, there Amelia sat, huddled in a darkened room ten thousand miles away from the ones she loved. Trapped in a world of deception, designed by her own ignorance.

Fighting back the tears, she closed her eyes, leaned back against the wall and called out to her father. Daddy, if you can hear me, give me your wisdom to correct my bad judgment. Please take me home; please take me home.

Amelia opened her eyes and waited for his imaginary response. His reply never came, but in the stillness of the room, she heard something else: the heavy breathing of someone else’s presence.

_____________

The blow to the back of London Thomas’s head sent a sharp pain down his spine that almost caused him to lose his balance. Fortunately, he was able to fall back against the brick wall. He wasn’t as lucky the second time. The next hit sent his feet flying from under him. He fell head-first to the floor. Flailing about like a fish out of water, London tried to pull himself up, but he could not. In a twisted sort of way, he was grateful for the stinging sensation caused by the blood in his eyes —at least it let him know that he was not dead yet.

Amelia, he whispered, trying to raise himself off the ground. But he fell hopelessly back down, no longer having command over his hands and feet. Darkness took over his body, shutting down his last remaining senses of sight and sound. As the lights dimmed and unconsciousness began to grip him, only one thought passed through his mind: He had failed to protect the ones he loved.

CHAPTER 1

Someday My Prince Will Come

-Miles Davis

The storm passing over The Big Easy gave no signs of calming its tears over the moving traffic below. Its fury was certainly unrelenting for Amelia’s white Four-Runner that was traveling down the narrow brick pathway to Mova’s Jazz Cafe.

Tonight would mark the one-year anniversary of the reopening of her café since the unspeakable destruction that occurred five years ago.

Amelia made a conscious effort not to think of the hurricane that had caused her so much pain, for to say its name gave it life and credit for destroying her club’s existence. Mova’s Jazz Café was still breathing. She just had to figure out a way to let the people know that.

Prior to August 29th, 2005, the café that Amelia had started up from a life insurance policy had been riding the wave of success for almost five years. She had raised the café from an abandoned warehouse in its infancy to the hottest chill-out lounge in the South.

There wasn’t a more beautiful sight to see than Mova’s, firing on all four cylinders: the kitchen cranking out the food, the bar feeding the fishes, the music mesmerizing the listeners, and the people flooding the dance floor. Those earlier prosperous times made her feel like being a club owner was her destiny. But the life that Amelia had breathed into the establishment seemed to be slowly slipping through the cracks of Katrina’s destruction.

Amelia brought her SUV to a stop next to the large blue metal door that was the back entrance to her café and loft upstairs.

The full moon, combined with the swirling sheets of rain, created a strange vibe that didn’t sit well with her. It wasn’t the bad weather that was bothering her, so much as the uneasy intuition of another presence around her. For the past couple of days, her normal daily activities had been marked by the eerie feeling of someone or something watching her. She tried to ignore her suspicions due to the enormous pressure that she was under lately, but now, as she waited in her car for the rain to stop, she couldn’t help but feel an ominous shadow around her.

Amelia, seeing that there was no reprieve in sight from the rain, decided to go outside. Going to have to make a break for it, she said to herself, reaching for her umbrella in the glove compartment.

Grabbing the handle, her eyes caught the shape of someone in the back alley. Amelia quickly turned around to see who was watching her, but there was nothing but blackness in the dimly lit alleyway. Sitting back in her seat, she let out a deep sigh of exasperation.

Get it together, girl, your mind is playing tricks on you. That’s what you get for coming down the back entrance to avoid an ex-boyfriend, she angrily mumbled to herself. Perhaps, the bad sensations she had been experiencing of late was her sixth sense telling her that it was too soon to bring Mr. Jabez Hamilton back into her life.

Amelia had recently hired her old boyfriend as extra security at night, due to the increased crime level in New Orleans. Certain parts of the city had become battlefields for drug dealers and gang bangers trying to reestablish their turf following the devastation of the hurricane. Luckily, none of the violence had spilled over into the tourist areas around the downtown and warehouse district, where her café was located. But she wasn’t taking any chances.

Amelia had known Ja for almost eleven years. She met him when she was just a college sophomore. Their friendship blossomed into the total spectrum of feelings that came with a college relationship. But with age came wisdom, and although their physical relationship carried on further than their romance, she had finally moved on past his infidelities even if he had not.

Amelia often thought that, had she known Ja still had such strong feelings for her, then she might not have hired him to work at the café. His advances on her were tired and borderline harassing. Tonight was a big night for her reemergence as a club owner in New Orleans. She didn’t have time to reminisce about how it was, or how it was not, going to be with an ex-lover. So, as she stepped out into the rain, she started to recite a short prayer for the evening:

Help this to be a successful night of entertainment. Let Five & ½ Deep be the band that I’m looking for to fill my club again. Smiling, she looked up into the sky, and recited the most important part of her prayer. And please, God, don’t let Ja answer the door. I do all of these things in honor of my father and in your name, Lord Jesus, Amen.

Spur-of-the-moment prayers and mantras were nothing new to Amelia; she had been doing them since she was a child. They helped to keep her motivated and focused on the task at hand. And never, at any other point in her life, did she need a prayer to come to fruition more. Amelia recited the words several times as she walked up to the red, brick-covered entranceway. Removing her keys from her purse, Amelia could hear the heavy dead bolt sliding back. No, no, no. The door opened and standing before her was a man dressed in an all-black suit that was soaking wet. His heavy breathing indicated that he had rushed from somewhere.

Damn, Ja, Amelia said to herself. What the hell are you doing working the back entrance? As Amelia watched him swing back the huge door, she remembered how he used to be the big man on campus at Tulane University, around the same time she was across town at Xavier. She, like so many other young college girls, had fallen victim to his football-star power and his Kappa Alpha Psi pretty-boy charm.

In Amelia’s own defense, she thought, what nineteen-year-old girl wouldn’t have been impressed with a six-foot-six muscle man, who possessed a powerful square jaw that could have easily been chiseled from an image of superman. But she was a thirty-one-year-old woman now. His silly womanizing ways were not what she was looking for anymore.

Hey, Ja, Amelia said with her best fake smile. What’s it looking like in there? Do we have a full house or what?

Hi, beautiful, Ja replied with a grin that was spread from ear to ear. It’s still early. Five & ½ Deep is warming up. I’d say we’ve got a minimal crowd right now.

Amelia let out a deep sigh. Not the news she wanted to hear at all. The group in question was a five-member brass band that had one wicked seventeen-year-old drummer, hence the name Five & ½ Deep. They were one of the hottest local talents prior to the storm and they usually brought with them a huge New Orleans following. When they played, the snare-drum precision combined with the power of the tuba, and other wind instruments, gave an authentic rawness to their sound. But it would be all for naught if there was no one there to hear them.

Katrina, you bitch, you may not have flooded me out, but you’re going to be the end of me just the same, Amelia whispered to herself.

What’s that, baby girl? Ja said.

Amelia looked at Ja with the fury of a woman scorned. Ja! I’ve told you before. My father is the only one who can call me his ‘baby girl,’ so retire that phrase from your rolodex.

She normally kept her emotions in check, but sometimes her Creole spice could spring out and bite. There were certain topics, like the one just mentioned, that were still third-degree burns on her heart when she heard them.

Sorry, Amelia, you know I would never purposely disrespect you or your father. He took one step back, away from Amelia’s anger. I just want you to be my everything. No more, no less, Ja said in a shaky voice. By the way, did I tell you how sexy you look in your little tight green dress?

She shook her head at his feeble attempt to change the subject. Amelia didn’t have the patience for one-liners and come-on’s right now. Boy, I don’t have time… She tried to nip the nauseating Mack Daddy lure before it started, but Ja had already gotten his groove going and he would not be denied his shameful pick-up lines.

Straight up, Amelia, you look like a tall Salli Richardson in those green pumps. He straightened out his neck and looked her up and down. Didn’t J-Lo wear something like that to the Grammies a while back?

Amelia folded her arms over her chest to block his gaze, which had wandered down to her low-cut dress. Ummmm no. Look, Ja, I know you’re just being you, but you’ve got to get it through your head that what we had is over__ we both need to move on to bigger and better things.

Amelia hated to be tough on Ja because he was a good friend who was going through a difficult time. He had been suspended off the police force for allegedly being on the Take for a large post-Katrina drug bust. And on top of that, he, like Amelia and so many others in New Orleans, had lost his home with the flooding waters.

I know, you’re right…you’re right, he replied, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. And I do appreciate you and the girls giving me a job here; money has been pretty tight lately, ever since my misunderstanding with the police force. Ja raised his eyes to meet hers. But Amelia, you’re my little butterscotch beauty, so I am always gonna be looking out for you, he said. His hand lightly stroked her bare shoulder.

She didn’t know quite how to take that revelation. His touch against her skin felt cold and unnatural to her. Their relationship had clearly gone past the point of no return.

Amelia shook her head and took a closer look at the man in front of her. What’s with the wet clothes and the heavy breathing? Have you been having another one of your ménage a trois, or I think they’re called ménage a twizms now.

Funny, Amelia, Ja said, removing the smile from his face. I told you a long time ago that that part of my life is over with. I’m a one-woman kind of guy now. His voice was starting to become more aggressive. And as far as the wet clothes go, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a storm outside, so people tend to get a little wet in the rain.

Amelia closed her umbrella and walked inside past Ja. Take it easy, Mr. Sensitivity, I’m just messing with you. She playfully flung some water at his face. Have any of the other ladies made it here, yet?

Ja’s face regained its cool demeanor. Only Victoria’s crazy ass is here. She’s sitting at the back table, dressed to kill.

Victoria Bailey, along with Sabine Harris and Felecia Lavel, was a member of Amelia’s quartet of friends who were her backbone in life. Inspired by the song ‘You Send Me Swinging,’ by Mint Condition, ‘The Ladies of Swing’ was the nickname they had come up with to describe their unbreakable union of friendship and music.

Victoria’s free-spirited ways held many titles at Mova’s Jazz Café: MC, Bartender, and Waitress. But the title that seemed to fit her best was that of Amelia’s Best Friend.

Amelia tried to imagine what outfit Victoria had on. A short mini-skirt and high heels? Perhaps ripped jeans exposing her junk in the trunk? Or maybe just a braless blouse flashing her headlights to the world?

And I have to say, if anyone looks as good as you tonight, it’s got to be her, Ja continued. She’s already drawn attention from some of the band members in Five & ½ Deep.

Well good for her, maybe she can work off some of the money they’re charging me, Amelia replied, entering the back hallway of the café that led to her upstairs office.

She could feel Ja’s eyes watching her walk away. No doubt trying to figure out whether she was wearing panties or not. She gave her hips an extra twist to make sure he saw what his cheating ways had caused him to miss out on.

Amelia took the stairs up to her office to try and get a handle on her emotions that were slowly running out of control. Stumping into the room, she sat in her burgundy office chair. The rich smell of leather from the upholstery often comforted Amelia when she was feeling down, but not tonight. Kicking the wall behind her, she sent the chair into a fast spin that made the yellow and blue walls of her office appear to turn green.

So much for the first part of my prayer, Amelia thought to herself, as she lay back and melted into the cushioned seat. She hoped that Ja’s greeting was not a foreshadowing of a terrible turnout at the club, but she couldn’t seem to dispense the bad vibes that had been brewing inside of her lately.

She swiveled around to the mirror that hung over her antique desk and looked at her reflection. She was tired and weary and it was beginning to show in her face. People often remarked about how her long, autumn brown hair, which blended in with her light brown complexion, gave her an imaginary glow. But that glow had dimmed to a faint glimmer now, and her body felt like she was carrying the weight of triplets in her belly. Not that she would know what that feeling was like because she didn’t have time for a personal life, let alone a family.

Ahhhhh, please, God, take these negative thoughts out of my head, she screamed inside.

Amelia hated feeling like this. It was not her personality at all. Always stay upbeat and confident, greeting everyone with a smile, and it will become a part of your personality - that was the philosophy she tried to instill in her coworkers. It was an ideology she had picked up from her parents. But at this moment, the words had no effect on her saddened state. Amelia could think of only one other time in her life when she felt this depressed, and that was the night when she had killed her father.

Amelia’s daydreaming bubble was burst by the sound of the trumpet solo on stage. She took that as her cue to go downstairs and see exactly what kind of turnout was in the club tonight. The tranquil melody was a fitting escort for Amelia.

She descended the stairs and walked through the hallway decorated with photographs of her favorite horn players: the famous headshot of Miles Davis, silencing the room with his long dark finger pressed against his satin lips; Wynton Marsalis, playing at the library dedication at Xavier University; Kermit Ruffin, playing at the Maple Leaf; Terrence Blanchard on the set of the movie, Mo Better Blues. All of the pictures led up to the most famous of them all: a photograph of her father, serenading her with Happy Birthday at her sweet-sixteen party.

Amelia rounded the corner and entered the music-filled room. The resonance of the ding…ding…DONG from the clock striking the midnight hour could be heard. It blended in perfectly with the rhythmic baseline from the band, as they transitioned their way from the trumpet solo into the song, Midnight in New Orleans. The thick, rich groove enveloped the noises of the club like a musical vortex and shot it back to the people with augmented fury.

Amelia smiled when she saw Victoria at one of the back tables, dancing and shaking her moneymaker to the music. You and New Orleans are made for each other, V.

Ja’s description of her attire had not been exaggerated. Victoria was wearing a tight black tube top that was struggling to hold on to her thirty-four, double-D eye-catchers. They were matched with an equally tight pair of jeans that were screaming for attention from anyone who would notice her apple-bottom frame.

Amelia walked up behind Victoria and gave her a surprise hug. Wow that little drummer and his crew are trying to do something up there!

Hey, sweetie, Victoria said, turning around and greeting Amelia with a kiss on the cheek. You’re right about the band. They seem to be in their own little world up there on stage. I just wish more people were here to see them. Victoria adjusted her top and took a sip of her Purple Passion daiquiri. If you would’ve told me that Five & ½ Deep would be playing at Mova’s on a Saturday night, with only twenty people to hear them play, I would have told you to give me a hit of whatever you were smoking.

Amelia nodded her head in agreement. I know, right. She took a seat across from Victoria. It’s going to take some time for people to realize that we’re still open.

Amelia didn’t really believe the words that were coming out of her own mouth. Turning her head and looking at the crowd, Amelia became painfully aware that Five & ½ Deep wasn’t the answer. The place was no longer the hotspot that it once was. New hardwood floors, new stage lighting, and a new island bar all meant nothing if there was no one there to see it.

Victoria stood up and began to dance to the beat of the drummer and tenor saxophone, who had started a two-man musical showdown. I heard Tipitinas and Café Brasil have lost a lot of their business too, so it’s not just your place.

Oh, so now it’s back to My Place! Amelia said, trying to raise her voice over the music.

She hated it when Victoria did shit like that. Quantifying herself as part of the café when things were on the up and up. But when trouble arose or business was down, as it most certainly was now, she would push the club off on Amelia or the other girls. It was done unintentionally, but Amelia still didn’t like it.

Their friendship had always been that way, ever since they’d met during a morning jog in Tulane Park, nearly 6 years ago. Amelia recalled Victoria was wearing an unforgettable, loud, pink jogging suit. It was then that she came to learn that Victoria was a free spirited personal trainer from San Diego. And staying true to form as a sucker for infatuation, she had followed a Saints football player from California to New Orleans. The inevitable breakup led the unemployed Victoria to Amelia and Mova’s Jazz Cafe.

Victoria bumped the table and caused Amelia’s cocktail to splash into her face. It was just the wakeup call needed to bring Amelia out of her trip down memory lane.

Amelia pushed her glass back to the center of the table. What am I going to do with you, Victoria?

Come on now, Amelia, Victoria said. You know I’m always with you a hundred percent; you’ve bailed me out of more trouble than I care to remember, but we need to figure out a way to pick up the business here, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Victoria turned back to the stage and started chanting with the crowd, The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire, we don’t need no water, let the motherfucker burn, burn, motherfucker, burn.

Amelia laughed to herself, watching her friend get into the rhythm of the beat. That’s Victoria for you, the attention span of a six-year-old, but a carefree attitude that you just had to love.

Well, if you can’t beat them, join them, Amelia thought to herself. She stood up and began chanting the words with her.

As the amalgamating sound penetrated the wall of Mova’s and entered the thunderous night, Amelia couldn’t help but think that Victoria was right about one thing: she had to find a musical prince that could breathe life back into the café, or her days as a club owner would be over.

CHAPTER 2

Looking For Eve

Paul Taylor

The bar called The Corner Pocket was filled to capacity, with people waiting in eager anticipation to hear the man with the voice of Marvin Gaye and the hands of Jimi Hendrix. The front row was filled with women in their best eye-catching dresses, trying to draw attention from the baldheaded wonder in hopes of being that one-night stand for the evening.

The small club in Slidell, Louisiana, was gaining some popularity due to the previously unknown talent that had burst upon the scene. It was a place that was perhaps more known for its bar fights than its musical entertainment. But now, with the emergence of London Zao Thomas, the bar had a new image and direction.

There were many tales circulating about him and his sudden presence in the city. Each rumor snowballed into bigger and more outlandish stories, but London simply took all of the crazy myths in stride. He had to admit that some of the stories were actually pretty good.

I heard he used to sing backup for Mariah Carey and left because she wanted to have his baby.

I heard he’s an African prince who had to flee his country because the government was being taken over and his family was murdered by rebels.

No, no, that’s not it at all. I heard he was born and raised in London, England. And is a decorated war hero from the Iraq war.

Girl, you know he was a muscle man for the Chicago mafia, and he ratted them out. That’s why he’s hiding out in Slidell in the witness-protection program.

All the gossip, combined with his amazing musical talent, made him the hottest ticket in an otherwise boring city. Although some of the words had splashes of truth in them, London preferred the solace of the anonymous man. He never made any attempt to clarify the circulating talk about him, especially not to the many different women, whose bed he enjoyed almost every night after a show.

Where he was from, where his money came from, and how he came to be here, were all secondary to one important reality: London was running from his past. He was running from an image of himself that was so frightening, he wondered if he would ever be able to go back to his life in Chicago.

A polite silence greeted the band, Jazzy and the Argonauts, as they walked up to the unlit stage. London, in typical fashion, carried his blue Gibson guitar slung over his shoulder. He slowly tilted his black designer Fedora hat to the side as he pulled the cherry wooden bar stool up to his feet. His signature platinum white medallion swung back and forth across his opened linen shirt.

London sat down and whispered into the microphone. Mic check, one two…one two…mic check, three four…three four, London’s deep voice traveled throughout the club.

He pulled out the guitar pick from his cream-colored pants and placed it between his mouth. Then, with his eyes covered with mirrored sunglasses, London, in typical fashion, froze on stage as the band warmed up behind him.

His ritualistic behavior was thought to show his need for meditation before each performance, or his time to review the musical playlist in his head. Neither was the case. It was actually a time for him to scan the room in search of that woman who would be his muse for the evening. It was his pursuit of that person who would give him the emotional feeling that would translate into beautiful music, and perhaps, further translate into sex in the bedroom later that night.

London shook his head in disgust. He turned on the amplifier. I see and feel nothing, he thought to himself, looking over the crowd of scandalously dressed women. Going to have to do this one from memory.

London leaned over and spoke into the microphone. I’m glad to see the thunderstorm didn’t keep you away. The crowd erupted into loud cheers. Well, since you took a risk to come see us play tonight, we’re just going to have to give you your money’s worth.

London began to pick out an all-too-familiar tune to get the crowd involved. Tapping the side of his guitar, he started a rhythm clap with a few people in the front row. He was only halfway through the first few bars when a redheaded woman in the front row stood up from her table and began to sing the lyrics to the song.

"Just one look at you and I know it’s gonna be — A lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, l..o..v..e..l..y day."

Her spontaneity caught on like a brushfire around the room, and before the rest of the band could even join in, the entire crowd was singing ‘Lovely Day’ in unison.

London smiled at the fiery woman in red. He jumped off the stage and brought the microphone to her. Now that’s what I’m talking about. Sing it, Love. He cued the band one more time.

The musical power London brought to the room was so thick that it could be cut with a knife. Can you feel it, Louisiana? he shouted. Let’s keep the night feeling right.

The crowd’s response came in the form of stomping feet and clapping hands that caused the whole building to start vibrating.

When inspiration was at a minimum, there was always one thing that never changed: the music. The music was the one common denominator that linked him with her, and everyone else in the room. It was the one thing that kept everyone in a state of free motion.

For a brief moment, London was content, there at The Corner Pocket. A sentimental imagination took over his body, and he felt like he was back in Chicago playing at the infamous Elbow Room. But the sound of glass shattering on the hardwood floor brought him back to the reality of where he was, and where he couldn’t be.

The night continued at a high-octane level, filled with covers from Wes Montgomery, Miles Davis, and The O’Jays. London and his band closed the performance with an original Argonaut’s composition, called Turn the Page. It was an inspirational neo-soul piece that had become the theme song for the area that had been ravaged by Hurricane Katrina. The song left the crowd in a feverish frenzy of wanting more, validated by chants of one more song, as The Argonauts exited.

Backstage, with the sound of his electric guitar still echoing throughout the room, London looked at the different band members. They all had essentially become his family for the past couple of years. Marco Valentine, Gerald MacAfee, Dante Albright, and Kevin Washington were the people whom he had come to depend on to keep his whereabouts a secret since the egression from his former life. And thus far, the only question his band mates had for him was:

Baybay, where’d you learn to pick that lady axe like that? which was slang for, Who taught you how to play the guitar?

London’s reply was always the same. Just naturally started playing when I was five, and never looked back.

The answer didn’t appease his band mates. Their disbelief should have come as no surprise to him, because the answer never satisfied his extremely jealous brother Caleb during their youth. London always believed his musical abilities were at the root of Caleb’s deep-seated dislike for him. It was an unanswered anger that his brother took with him to his grave.

London stretched his hands and did his customary finger exercises as he walked into the dressing room, which was situated down a short hallway from the stage. He looked down the hall and saw Marco still at the door, taking in the sound of the cheers from the crowd.

Marco was the drummer and founder of Jazzy and the Argonauts. Of the three other members in the group — Dante Albright on sax, Gerald MacAfee on keyboards, and Kevin Washington on base — London enjoyed Marco’s company the best. This was partly due to the fact that the two of them had similar personalities. They were both men of few words who tried to speak through their music. And when they did speak, every word was carefully crafted and thought out.

Marco was a New Orleans native who was born and raised on a mixture of hip-hop and jazz. He loved the two styles so much that he gave up a full music scholarship to Southern University in 1998 to start his own fusion jazz group.

I think that was a pretty good set, yeah, Marco said, entering the room with a theatrical bow.

Could have been better, London replied, taking off his hat.

Marco twisted his mouth into a frown. If you weren’t such a perfectionist, you might learn to appreciate some of your abilities as a musician.

Come on, man, you should know me by now, London said, meticulously wiping down his guitar with a silk cloth. I was searching for that connection with some of the ladies in the audience and I just didn’t feel it.

London lifted his instrument and delicately placed it in his custom-designed African case. He smiled when he saw, from the corner of his eye, Marco watching him intently. Marco was a good man, but he would never understand the emotional bond that London needed to have with someone in order to have the ultimate performance.

Baybay, you gotta be kidding me, Marco said with a surprised look on his face. I was playing the drums way in the back and I could see this place was packed with fine-ass honeys from door to door, so you musta seen something right up front, yeah, he said in his heavy New Orleans accent. What about that pretty redhead who you were dancing with on the floor?

"Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Valentine, but sometimes people want a little more than just a pretty face to keep