serious cake of music that was served nightly. The older man had talked a rare blue streak trying to stop Dez from opening a club. He’d said it would suck out his soul and take his money with it.
Maybe Big Sam was right.
But Dez was as stubborn as he was talented and couldn’t be convinced. He knew this about himself and accepted it. Besides, he wasn’t all the way alone in the venture—Reggie Carney, a Pro Bowl lineman for the Saints, was his silent partner. Somehow, having a partner, one with some clout, comforted. “Guess I’m a slave to my mistress. I don’t want a different gig at a different place every night.”
Johnny Durant elbowed his way between Dez and a pretty-decent-looking coed and called to Sam, “Give me a Heiney and put Dez’s drink on my tab. The tips are hot tonight, my man.”
Dez held up his glass, clinking it against the icy bottle Sam handed Johnny. “Get it while it’s good, bro.”
“Damn straight,” Johnny said, downing several gulps. Perspiration glistened on the man’s brow. Most drummers who played like Johnny D would be drenched by now, but Johnny was a cool cat, sliding out easy tempos, his voice verging on a croon, his songs tight with a traditional bass line. “You got any new stuff yet?”
Dez’s gut twisted. Everybody wanted new stuff from him. Didn’t matter where he played, who he ran into, what he delivered behind the piano, everyone wanted something new. Something different. Something revolutionary.
But Dez had run out of new long ago.
Everything started with the storm. After years of collaboration on other people’s albums, Dez had written some good solo stuff. His turn in the spotlight had been washed away by Hurricane Katrina. He’d been in the studio cutting the demo two weeks before the storm hit. And then everything, the only recording that had tasted like magic, that had the whole music scene in New Orleans buzzing, had been destroyed. The entire studio had been under five feet of water. No demo. No debut.
His grief had lasted for almost a year, and every time he tried to write music, he failed. He couldn’t feel it anymore. What had once flowed in him like life’s blood had vanished.
Old standards weren’t a problem. Those melodies weren’t his. He hadn’t poured his soul into those runs, into those words, so he’d gotten a gig playing at a hotel bar in Houston, subbing in for other bands when he could get the work. The few visits home he’d made to fulfill his obligations with a youth music program called Second Line Players or to back up Trombone Sonny at a festival or two, only filled him with a weight he couldn’t explain or drink away.
And then he’d met Erin Garcia.
And shut himself off from his dreams, jumping into a life he’d never imagined—a life of grilling burgers, going to movies and making love on Sunday mornings. He’d gone to work overseeing her father’s upscale restaurants, paying a mortgage on a house they’d bought together, taking the dog for a walk every night, scooping up poop and convincing himself he could walk a new path and forge a regular-Joe life.
But even that couldn’t make him whole again. Eventually, he’d realized he couldn’t take his city out of his bones nor could he pretend to be someone he wasn’t. Maybe he had more of his rambling daddy in him than he thought...at least when it came to settling down with one woman. Or maybe he’d hidden long enough from who he was...a songwriter and musician.
“Come play with me, man,” Johnny D said, jarring Dez from his thoughts. Johnny jerked his head in the direction of the old upright standing in the corner awaiting a loose-limbed rollicking New Orleans rag.
“Nah, man, I ain’t in the mood,” Dez said, downing the rest of the Scotch, willing the fiery liquid to wash away the memories, as well as the image of the shattered glass outside Blue Rondo.
“Horseshit. You’re always in the mood. Let’s go,” Johnny said, slapping his shoulder and disappearing into the crowd, heading for the stage.
Bigmouth Sam jerked his head. “This crowd wants a beat, but do ‘Take Five’ for last call.”
Dez slid off the stool. “I want to find my bed, man.”
Bigmouth Sam grinned. “Yeah, but you’s a Batiste, and music’s in that blood. You ain’t turnin’ down hittin’ that piano any more than I’d turn down hittin’ Beyoncé if she’s standin’ here wantin’ it.”