Free Seaweed on the Street by Stanley Evans

she cheered up and we searched the city directories together.
    I was looking for information on the GoodTimes Club — the place the RayBeams played in 1980. We found no listing for the club in any recent directory, but Miss Brighton went into the stacks and we checked out some old ones. The GoodTimes Club was listed in the 1982 and 1983 directories — it was a basement bar on Water Street. But we drew a blank on the RayBeams Orchestra. Nothing. There had never been a listing anywhere. I wasn’t surprised. The RayBeams had probably been a pickup band — a group of musicians who got together for a season, played a few gigs, then drifted apart.
    Seattle has several long-established booking agents and music promoters, and the Musicians’ League also had offices in town. I noted likely telephone numbers, thanked Miss Brighton for her help and taxied across town to Water Street to check out the GoodTimes Club. But it had vanished: in its place was a gleaming 50-storey office tower.
    The Elliott Bay Bookshop was only five minutes away. I hiked over there and went down to the basement coffee shop. The daily feature was Kona Gold. I bought a cup, settled at a table in a corner and used my cellphone to call the Musicians’ League. Zilch. The girl who answered knew nothing and was interested in nothing.
    I said, “May I speak with the business agent?”
    â€œNah. The business agent is at a conference, can’t be reached.”
    â€œWhat are the business agent’s regular office hours?”
    She said indignantly, “Hey. What’s your name, mister? You a paid-up union member or some smartass looking to stir things up?”
    I thanked her and started working through my list of booking agents. They take calls politely, 24 hours a day, but nobody knew a thing about the RayBeams. I spent nearly an hour making calls and still nobody could help me. Nobody, that is, until a woman with a voice like Laura Bush’s said the band was something that Ray Smith might have dreamed up.
    â€œRay Smith?”
    â€œRay’s an old retired guy, plays tenor sax and clarinet. Sometimes he sits in with Dixieland jazz bands when he isn’t laid up with arthritis. You might check with the Banjo Club.”
    I phoned the Banjo Club and was told that they were open that night for dinner and dancing. I said, “Do you know whether Ray Smith is playing tonight?”
    â€œYeah, probably, because today’s Friday. Ray Smith generally comes in on weekends. Who’s asking?”
    â€œI’ll come over and introduce myself,” I said.
    â‰ˆÂ â‰ˆÂ â‰ˆ
    The Banjo Club was a low-ceilinged room with a horseshoe-shaped bar. There was a small space for dancing and a foot-high stage for the band. A sign on the piano announced that tonight’s band was the Seattle Stompers. Photographs of Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke and 50 other jazz greats decorated the walls. Lighted candles stood on tables draped with checkered cloths. The room’s air conditioner was an open door facing a back lane.
    A good-looking woman in a yellow shirt was polishing glasses behind the bar. I approved of everything I could see above the counter. She was brushing her blonde-streaked bangs with one hand now; the other rested on her hip as she said something to a drunk.
    The drunk was flipping a quarter with his thumb, catching it in his left hand and checking to see whether it came down heads or tails. Then he flipped it again.
    It was the happy hour, but nobody looked happy except the bartender. Two construction workers in hard hats stood at the end of the bar, eating salted peanuts and watching the Seattle Mariners taking a beating on the big screen. In the background, Louis Armstrong was singing “St. James Infirmary Blues.”
    I sat on a stool at the counter and ordered rum and coke with a twist of lime over ice.
    The bartender said, “You’re Canadian, right? I just spoke to you on the