Free Neon Dragon by John Dobbyn Page A

Clyde loosened up his fingers, while Daddy got comfortable around his bass. It was at moments like this that I said an extra prayer for Miles O’Connor for putting the dimension of music into my life.
    I caught a little grin on Daddy’s sly face when he yelled over to Clyde and me, “Cherokee.” It’s an old Charlie Barnett tune that’s played at about a hundred beats to the bar. I groaned and my head hit the music rest.
    Daddy held up the three-flats sign and launched an avalanche of notes on the bass that I could feel in the pit of my stomach. By the time I waded in, I had adrenalin coming out my ears, and we did it at a full gallop.
    We went through eight choruses of improvisation on the fly, when Daddy finally held up the closed-fist sign for the last chorus. I said a sincere prayer of thanks.
    There was a nice ripple of applause before Daddy laid down a bass introduction to a mercifully slow and sleepy “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” It was like hot-walking a horse after a race.
    Two choruses had me cruising with my eyes shut, when I heard those beautiful lyrics in the clear, sweet voice of one of God’s angels. The voice was right behind me, and I could feel the satin touch of long, tapered fingers on my neck.
    I didn’t want to turn around, or speak, or breathe to break the spell until that last gorgeous line.
    I turned around and saw that face with the auburn hair and the smile that makes everything else in the room background. I couldn’t remember a time when it didn’t, although we’d only met at Daddy’s a few weeks before.
    Lanny Wells did something in Filene’s executive offices during the daytime, but at night her pumpkin turned into a microphone, and she turned into the finest jazz vocalist I’ve heard since Harry Ortlieb’s recordings by Sarah Vaughn.
    When Lanny spoke, it sounded like she was still singing.
    â€œDaddy said you’d be here tonight.”
    â€œHey, it’s Monday night. How was the gig?” I checked out the evening gown. “Must’ve been way uptown.”
    She smiled. “
This
is way uptown. You look like you had a day.”
    â€œAnd a half. I’ll tell you sometime.”
    Daddy leaned over the piano. “Let’s give ‘em ‘Route Sixty-Six.’”
    I swung back into position, and after a driving pacesetter from Daddy, Lanny took us on a tour of my favorite road to California.
    IT WAS JUST AFTER FOUR in the morning when Lanny and I climbed the steps to street level and hailed the last cab in Boston. Wewere the only car on the snow-dusted street when we pulled up to her apartment house on Commonwealth Avenue.
    I walked Lanny up the six steps to the door.
    â€œWould you like to come up for coffee? I grind it fresh.”
    â€œWould the Bruins like to beat the Rangers for the Stanley Cup?”
    I love to throw sports analogies at her because she looks so cute while she’s grasping for a clue as to what I’m talking about.
    â€œDoes that mean ‘yes’?”
    â€œIt means ‘yes,’ but no. I have to be awake enough to play in the big league in about four hours. If I sleep fast, I’ll get three hours.”
    I gave it a second or two before asking a question to which I really did not want to hear a negative answer.
    â€œHow about a real date? Dinner, North Shore?”
    â€œWhen?”
    That sounded promising. “Wednesday? I’ll give you a call. Would you like to?”
    â€œWould Versace like to see Chanel in the red?”
    It was my turn. “Does that mean ‘yes’?”
    She kissed me. “Call and see.”

9
    IT WAS ABOUT 8:30 AM Tuesday when I stepped off the elevator at Bilson, Dawes. I never made it down the corridor to my office. I was cruising past the cluster of secretaries’ desks with a paper cup of black caffeine, when Julie waved to me from behind a telephone. Her right hand pointed south, and