Free Bluebottle by James Sallis Page A

"Lew's good at what he does, Mildred." Pressure remained a moment. Then to me: "What's next?"
    "What else? I hit the streets."
    "Carrying as cargo your photo of the mystery lady, hoping some sailor, in some port somewhere, may have seen and remember
     her."
    "Doesn't sound like much to go on, does it, once you strip it down like that."
    "Maybe you could lay off some of the bet, Lew. You know someone who's all over this city every day, uptown, downtown, sideways and in between. Finding out what the regulars are up to, finding out who's
     new in town, where they came from, why they're here."
    "Doo-Wop."
    Verne nodded. "More coffee, Mildred?"
    "No thank you, dear. Dinner wasfine as always, but I think I'll be off to bed now. You-all here in the city eat considerable
     later than I'm accustomed to. And try as I might, I can't make much sense out of this getting to bed at one or two in the
     morning some days, sleeping your whole way through others."
    "Rest well, Mildred."
    Verne freshened my brandy and poured one for herself. We sat for a while in silence. She got up and kicked offher shoes, put
     on CosiFan Tutti, reached under her shirt to pull off her bra (which she hung on a doorknob) and stretched out beside me on the couch. We listened
     to the sounds of traffic, to the call-and-response of people walking by outside. Mozart's music broke over us like water in
     a brook.
    "I can help too, Lew. I'm out there every night. Lot of us are. Your woman's still in town, chances are good that sooner or
     later one of us, one way or another, could come across her."
    "I ever tell you how wonderful you are?"
    "I'm not sure. I'll check my notes tomorrow. Right now I don't want to move."
    "Not working tonight, then?"
    "I called a while back. Victoria says she'll cover for me.
    "Your regulars won't mind?"
    "They all like Vick. Everybody does."
    "Want another brandy? Coffee?"
    She shook her head. Moments went by. Body warm and still beside me. Music washing over us.
    "I like this, Verne. I like what my life's become with you in it. I like what I've become."
    She raised herself on elbows so that we were face-to-face. "You should, Mr. Griffin," she said. 'Tou most definitely should."

6
    M y thoughts kept circling back to a couple of things those days. Vietnam was scarcely over, all that ungodly mess in Central
     and South America just ID beginning to surface.
    the firstwas a passagefrom (I think) Man's Fate, describing how someone has withdrawn fromthe world; how still, as he reaches for his book, for his pipe and tobacco tin, his
     arm enters—moves through—that world around him.
    Second was something Bob Dylan said about peace, that periodically everybody had to stop to reload and while they were reloading,
     those few moments, that was peace.
    Ten o'clock the next evening as I walked into Soft Machine deep in the Quarter, those notions were stomping through my mind
     in heavy boots again. Soft Machine was the only bar in town back then devoted to new jazz. A dozen patrons comprised a rush
     and two or three was the usual run, while up the street, at Preservation Hall, people stood in line for hours to sit on folding
     chairs as at a graveside and hear the millionth wooden reprise of "When the Saints Go Marchin' In." I'm all for tradition,
     God knows, but tradition doesn't just stop at some arbitrary signpost; it's not some fossil, a scorpion in amber; it's ongoing. That's the whole point.
    "There he is, ladies and gendemen," Bo said. "How's it going, Lew? Been a while."
    His first year in high school, Bo'd been principal trombonist, won afistful of blue ribbons playing stuff like "Flight of
     the Bumblebee" and "Carnival of Venice."Then his band director, a Canadian named Robert Cinq-Mars who played mean clarinet
     and wrote his own music, introduced him to jazz. Next thing you know, Bo's looking up old players, hanging out with them whenever
     he can at jazz funerals, house parties, recording sessions, bars. He'd had a band himself