The Great Hall: The Jazzman and the Feast

By Xlibris US

Lincoln Parker, a young hubristic rising jazz star, is killed in the middle of a live jazz concert. He is given a second chance to redeem his lost soul in the Great Hall. In the Great Hall, Lincoln encounters a diverse group of people. Each person has been granted an opportunity to reverse their fate and save their soul. Each condemned soul attempts to explain or to justify why they had lost their soul.

Daily a mysterious person would appear and he would announce who had been selected for a final judgment. Unable to determine who had been selected, this mysterious person only indicated which souls were chosen for final judgement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493190171

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by James A. Terry.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014905746

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-4931-9020-1

                Softcover      978-1-4931-9021-8

                eBook         978-1-4931-9017-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/21/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

1.   The Bike Courier

2.   The Way Station

3.   The Great Hall’s Saga

4.   The Band Played On

5.   The Transition

6.   Investment and Closure

1

The Bike Courier

Lying in a shallow depression filled with wet decomposing leaves, the Jazz Musician found himself alone in the midst of this fog-draped forest. In the midst of this mysterious forest, an eerie veil of silence had slowly enveloped him. Quietly, Lincoln took advantage of this opportunity to catch his breath and size up his dire situation. Lincoln Parker struggled with his memory of being shot by his enraged wife while he was in the middle of his opening Soprano Saxophone solo. An alcohol-and-drug-crazed Tennessee had publicly sworn she would kill her husband if she caught him cheating again. God knows his wife, Tennessee, loved him more than she had loved herself. But she couldn’t fathom the thought of sharing her man with any woman. She realized she was older than her husband. Still, she struggled with her husband’s serious sexual addiction. So she tried to commit suicide by killing her husband, the renowned Lincoln Parker.

Desperately, this gifted Soprano Saxophonist wrestled with the vision of Tennessee calmly stepping up to the stage during a live New Year’s Eve jazz performance. Then his wife whipped out a silver-plated .32 caliber Colt Automatic and tattooed his chest with four shots, just like that. Weighted down by four sizzling bullets, this gifted Jazz Saxophonist sank to the stage. Suddenly, Lincoln Parker found his talented spirit struggling to escape his mortally wounded body.

One moment, the Jazzman was in the Club Tribeca desperately attempting to live up to his international fame as the last word in modern jazz. Hell! The next moment, the Soprano Saxophonist’s life had been prematurely shortened. His life had been shortened before he could get a chance to truly enjoy the privilege of being the unchallenged Lord of the International Jazz Scene. Lincoln had tried to balance his newly found fame with his wife’s obsession with his new lifestyle. As the unchallenged lord of the international Jazz Scene, Lincoln had thought he was entitled to enjoy whatever pleasures he desired.

The Jazz Saxophonist had quickly learned he had been given carte blanche to enjoy his every fantasy without regard of the consequences. To his astonishment, Lincoln had quickly discovered he had been surrounded by a group of rampaging impish women. These naughty ladies of the evening would freely hover about the glitzy Jazz Scene like dogs in heat. These vamps, with faces like angels, had morale even lower than the soles of their designer shoes. After all, everyone had reassured him all the past jazz giants had enjoyed their unchallenged privilege of being the reigning lords of the jazz world. Never known for his moral strength, the Jazzman had found himself hopelessly inundated by a flood of ever-exciting women, alcohol, and drugs.

Armed with his fabled Yamaha Soprano Saxophone, Lincoln Parker had quickly become renowned for his unique modern-Chicago-style jazz. This jazz style wasn’t your great-grandfather’s New-Orleans-swing-style Dixieland jazz. Neither was this jazz style your grandfather’s Kansas-City-bebop jazz, nor was it your father’s New-York-smooth progressive jazz. Like a beguiling musical Pied Piper, this young gifted Soprano Saxophonist had been able to tenderly wile the international jazz scene with his soulful sound. The youthful Jazzman had been able to artfully employ a mixture of warm, heartfelt down-home blues and a rapid halftone progression. Lincoln was able to create a suave, cool, and sometimes very steamy jazz sound. One could best describe this modern-Chicago-style jazz as being very expressive while still retaining its lyrically warm and full body.

As Lincoln Parker rode the skyrocketing star of success, Tennessee had failed to understand or overlook the lord of the Jazz Scene’s shortcomings. Ten years older than her musically talented husband, Tennessee had lovingly nourished the aspiring youthful wonder and his star-struck career. It was even said she had turned a trick or two just to keep the wolves from their door. Addicted to an ever-increasing combination of alcohol and drugs, Mrs. Parker battled mightily to remain in touch with reality. In the past, Tennessee had been willing to overlook her husband’s shortcomings. Suddenly, Lincoln’s wife felt immensely overwhelmed by her husband’s musical success. As these provocative women with their painted faces would cavort about the star-struck musician, they would freely scent the highly charged air about the young Jazz Saxophonist. It wasn’t very clear whether these prancing women or their suggestive scent had slowly driven Lincoln’s wife into a mad love frenzy. On more than one occasion, Tennessee had declared her life would be meaningless without Lincoln.

For Lincoln Parker, one might say the eventual end or maybe the beginning came on New Year’s Eve at the trendy Club Tribeca in Lower Manhattan. The Soprano Saxophonist was the featured act at this renowned international jazz Mecca. Just as Lincoln began his opening number, Earlene Goodall coolly began to unbutton her Burberry trench coat and smiled suggestively. Ms. Goodall had a smile that lingered like sparkling champagne bubbles in a glass. Then she slowly parted her Burberry trench-style coat and daringly displayed her sinuously shaped body. See! Earlene Goodall was just one of the many party animals who would frequently be found rampaging about the glitzy after-party sets.

Oddly, the Jazz Saxophonist had found everything intriguing about Ms. Goodall, from the traces of her lipstick on her extinguished Newport cigarettes to her alluring smile. Earlene’s smile conveyed the quiet promise of some unknown thrills. To Lincoln Parker, this sun-kissed woman was like a solidarity mountain peak crying out to be conquered or an unbridled filly waiting to be mounted. And the Jazzman was thoroughly convinced he had the right stuff to rise to any occasion. Lincoln knew Tennessee had promised to kill him if she had caught him messing around again. Because he was so full of himself, the lord of the Jazz Scene didn’t need his wife or anyone else to tell him what time it was.

As the clock struck midnight, Lincoln found a quiet inner peace as his nimble fingers gleefully skipped their way up and down the slender Yamaha Soprano Saxophone. With sensuous thoughts of the dark-eyed lovely dancing merrily through his mind, the lord of the Jazz Scene found himself in a special zone. The Jazzman freely soared across the musical scale. While the Club Tribeca patrons were joyously celebrating the arrival of the New Year, Lincoln caught a glimpse of Tennessee calmly approaching the bandstand.

Before the Saxophonist could react, his wife had pulled out a .32 caliber Colt Automatic and coolly placed four shots into his chest, just like that. Thus, Tennessee’s rash act had dashed all of Lincoln’s hopes to conquer Mount Goodall and any other aspiring mountain peaks. Suddenly, Lincoln Parker found his spirit struggling to escape his mortally wounded body. As his body was engaged in a life-and-death struggle to retain his waning spirit, the Jazzman was startled to hear the sound of a motorcycle approaching.

Looking up, the gifted Saxophonist was amazed to see a youthful rider dressed totally in black leather sitting astride a throbbing motorcycle. The slender-built youth had stopped his powerful racing-style street motorcycle just short of the fallen Jazzman. When the youth lifted his visor, Lincoln could see a dark, empty void where the biker’s eyes should have been. Yes, sir! These voids were darker and emptier than Judas Iscariot’s heart, if he could have had a heart. The sun-kissed Hispanic type had a sinister smile plastered on his face that could be best described as a bone-chilling sneer. The biker’s shoulder-length jet-black hair easily protruded beneath his highly polished black helmet. The motorcycle’s headlight had been replaced by a stark life-size human skull. In each sunken eye socket, a fiery red ember from the deepest part of hell glowed brightly.

Without warning, this young demi-garcon Latino yelled, Hey, man! I don’t have all night. Hop on, dog! The young biker’s vapor-thin lips barely moved as he spoke. The rider’s voice was thin and icy cold as it was sterile.

Huh! Are you speaking to me? a puzzled Lincoln Parker blinked his eyes a couple of times before nervously responding. Quietly, the Jazzman worried how this motorcyclist could drive his bike right into the Club Tribeca—a jazz nightclub—without being noticed.

Look, man! Do you see anyone else here? snapped the dark-haired mysterious biker. Hop on! I am a busy man. Okay! barked the motorcyclist as he slowly raced the bike’s powerful silky-smooth engine.

The Jazz Saxophonist stared at the stranger and declared, What do you mean ‘hop on’? And what do you mean you are a busy man?

Are you putting me on a sucker? This is New Year’s Eve, and I have a lot of passengers to pick up before this night is finished, impatiently said the black-leather-clad youth.

Who the hell are you? nervously asked the Jazzman. Lincoln’s