Playing With Fire (2 page)

He had made a sizeable profit off other people's addictions. As Romeo Marshall twirled a bottle of vodka in the palms of his hands, the thought tripped a heavy path across his mind. Upon hearing the ornately carved wooden door open and then close, he looked up from the glass he was filling. A damp breeze preceded the emaciated black man who'd found his way inside out of the evening rain. The old man's hollow eyes scanned the perimeter of the room. Exhaustion wove an intricate pattern of crimson lace against the white of his cornea. The gaunt figure, nourished by too meager a diet and too much alcohol, stared openly at Romeo, then nodded his gray head hello. Brushing the raw drops of moisture from his shoulders, he eased the heaviness in his limbs toward a small table in the back and sat down.

Romeo placed the vodka-filled glass on the counter just as his head waitress swept by to pick up her order. “See what the old guy wants,” he said, nodding his head toward the man at the rear table.

“Uh-huh,” Odetta replied. Chewing heavily on a stale piece of bubble gum, she rolled her eyes as if annoyed when Romeo winked at her, flashing her a full smile.

Romeo propped his elbows on top of the long cherry bar, the solid wood supporting the weight of his well-built frame. He watched with amusement as Odetta crossed the room, the strut of her wide hips swaying to the beat of the music. The woman shuffled her way to the man's side, spoke to him briefly, and then pulled a seat up to the table to sit down beside the stranger. Watching their interaction closely, Romeo found himself focusing his full attention on the old man. He looked familiar, Romeo thought to himself, the man's aged features reminding him of an acquaintance he might know, but couldn't quite place. Then, as Odetta threw back her head, laughing briskly, he didn't think he looked familiar at all. Romeo felt his body relax. He found the sensation awkward since he wasn't quite sure why he'd become tense in the first place.

Romeo glanced down to the small black clock perched on the counter below the bar top. The digital numbers glowed in the dim light. It was half past eight. He sighed, knowing that business would soon pick up in spite of the rain. Folks would never let a few raindrops keep them away from a good time, and Romeo worked hard to ensure his patrons always had a good time. As he busied himself in preparation, Odetta's sudden return pulled him away from his thoughts.

“Looks like you made a new friend,” Romeo said teasingly.

Odetta laughed, the warmth of it helping to brighten the room. “He's actually kind of sweet. I like him.”

“You like all old black men,” Romeo said. He leaned his body against the bar, staring down at her.

“That's not true,” she said, her smile widening. “I like old men, period. I don't discriminate.” She chuckled warmly. “Anyways, the man said he doesn't want anything but a glass of ice water,” she said, still chomping heavily on the gum in her mouth. There was a mild glimmer in her eyes, as if the duo had shared a secret no one else had been privy to.

Romeo raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

“Told him this won't no homeless shelter,” she said, heaving her thick body onto a bar stool in front of him. She paused, taking a deep inhale before finishing her comments. “Then he said good 'cause he preferred sleeping on the park bench. He's just an old fool,” she said, a loud huff of air blowing out her last words. “He's sweet though, and too fresh,” she concluded, chuckling under her breath ever so softly. “That's one fresh old man. He actually had me blushing and you know that takes some doing!”

Romeo looked toward the man, who was himself staring in Romeo's direction. They studied each other momentarily, then the elderly man's dark, sunken eyes dropped down toward the table, looking as if he'd been caught doing something he had no business doing. Reaching to the counter behind him for a clean glass, Romeo filled it with chipped ice and cold water, and handed it to Odetta. “Here, take this to him. Tell him this one's on the house.”

“You need to throw the old fool out with his fresh self,” Odetta muttered as she took the glass from his hand, pulling herself up off her seat. “Shoot. If the water's free I guess I can't be expecting no tip.”

Romeo laughed. “Be nice, Ms. Brown. You know good and well that I'll take care of you.”

“Hmph,” Odetta grunted, turning to deliver the cold drink to the stranger.

Romeo watched as the old guy nodded in his direction, then lifted the glass in a gesture of appreciation before pulling it toward his lips.

Romeo shook his head, eyeing the stranger, who was still stealing glances in his direction. After drinking his fill of the icy fluid, the old man rose from where he sat and moved slowly toward the bar, the two men still locked eye to eye.

The small club was comfortable, the senior citizen thought to himself, his stare moving from the young man behind the bar and skating around the expanse of tables and the drunks who filled the seats. Music hummed from the speakers and his head bobbed slowly as he inhaled each slow note. They were playing an eclectic mix of blues, fitting for the cold rain that fell outside. At that moment Etta James was singing a duet with Sugar Pie DeSanto. Keb' Mo' had played before her, and before him one of the youngsters too new to the game to really know what it was to feel the blues ripping through his soul. The music felt good though, filling his insides with a wanting that was both bitter and sweet in the same breath.

As he finally reached Romeo's side, he extended his massive hand in the younger man's direction. “Thank you,” he said softly, his thick voice barely a loud whisper. “Thank you much.”

Romeo nodded, his own large paw lost within the worn flesh. “No problem.”

“I don't take no charity, so do you think I can work off what I owe you?” he asked, staring questioningly at Romeo.

Romeo chuckled. “It was only a glass of water. Don't worry about it.”

The man shook his head. “No. I owe you and I'm willing to work.”

Romeo hesitated, briefly turning his attention toward a couple who sat across the way. A tall woman with large brown eyes, a cocoa-colored complexion, and a short, Halle Berry haircut had wrapped her arm lazily about her companion's shoulder just as he was gesturing toward Odetta for a refill.

“What can you do?” Romeo asked, turning back to the conversation.

“I can play that piano over there,” the old man responded, pointing toward the large black instrument perched on the stage.

Romeo's eyes followed the line of the man's crinkled finger, his gaze resting upon the instrument and its highly polished wood. He nodded, then lifted his hand toward the dais. “Be my guest, and we'll call it even.”

Strolling the length of the bar, the newcomer dropped his seedy, wool jacket onto a bar stool, then sat his aged body comfortably on the piano bench and began to play, replacing the recorded music that Romeo had turned off. Blues suddenly spilled forth from the man's long fingers like a flood of tears, the mournful strains indicative of a heavy heart.

It was a symphony of one that filled the space with an intoxicating, consuming blend of musical notes. Notes that were teasing and tormenting, unfolding a story that probably should have been left untold. The music girdled them, the undulation of the piano dancing in time to the rain beating against the window outside. In no time at all, the piano player had captured everyone's heart and was pulling at their spirits like St. Gabriel and Satan going head to head for possession of their souls.

Romeo fixed a third round of drinks for the tall woman and her friend. When he was certain that no glass was empty and the clientele was content, he moved from behind the bar. Crossing the room, he took a seat at the same table the elderly man had occupied just minutes before. Like everyone else in the room, his eyes were fixed on the piano player.

Romeo studied the man intently. Tar-black flesh clung hungrily to thick bones. His dark complexion complemented the snowcapped crown of thinning curls on top of his head. A full forehead, narrow nose, and thick lips blended into the heavy age lines etched in his flesh. There was an uneasy sadness in his eyes and Romeo sensed that whatever had locked such emptiness away in his heart would one day cradle the old man in his grave.

Glancing about the room, Romeo took note of the tapping feet and swaying shoulders of the men and women who sat listening. They were as enthralled as he was, the music carrying them toward forgotten times and distant places. They were each lost in another realm, intoxicated, as if the music combined with the drink had taken full control of their sensibilities. The old man had been right about his being able to play that piano.

The door opened again, ushering in Romeo's best friend and business partner. Malcolm Cobb waved in Romeo's direction, then stopped short, staring toward the stage. Shaking his head in disbelief, he turned and gave his friend a thumbs-up, grinning broadly. Romeo lifted the length of his body from the seat, strolling slowly across the hardwood floors to join the man behind the bar.

“Hey, what's up?” he said softly, the volume of his voice just a step away from being a whisper.

Malcolm pulled a small apron around his waist. “Hey, Rome! Where did Piano Man roll in from?” he asked, nodding toward the entertainment. “It's been a long time since I last heard him play.”

“You know him?”

“Most folks from around here know Piano Man. At least the older ones do. Man, my mother had a serious crush on that old dude! Burdett something or other is his real name. He was playing the chitlin' circuit years ago, then he up and disappeared. He pops up every so often and if you're a true blues aficionado, then hearing him play is like winning the lottery. My man can play that piano now!”

Romeo nodded his head in agreement, his gaze resting yet again on the old man behind them. “Do you have the bar?” he finally asked.

Malcolm bobbed his head up and down. “I'm on the clock,” he responded.

Returning to his seat, Romeo watched as the room began to fill, a mélange of chocolate and vanilla confections filing through the front door. Odetta and Sharon, the new waitress, bounced from table to table filling orders. Up on stage the piano player continued to play.

An hour or so later Romeo was tired for him, but the man's fingers continued to glide easily across the keys, seeming to move on their own accord. They were oblivious to the exhaustion that had to be consuming the rest of the man's body. From the expression on the old guy's face, Romeo sensed that he was completely lost somewhere in the music.

Romeo tossed another look around the room, in awe of how attentive the audience was. Across the room the piano man was still playing as if his life depended on it. Romeo blew a deep sigh.

Rising from his seat, he passed by the bar for a refill of his beverage, then moved toward the stage. Romeo placed a warm hand on top of the old man's narrow shoulder and smiled. “Take a bow, and come talk with me a minute,” he said, his tone polite, but commanding.

Piano Man nodded, bringing the song to its end. Rising from the piano bench, he clasped his hands in front of him and smiled as loud applause rang through the space. Waving a hand toward the audience, he followed Romeo back to the rear table. On the other side of the room, Malcolm switched on the sound system, flooding the interior with the heavy wail of B. B. King.

“It's an honor to have such a distinguished musician perform here at the Playground,” Romeo said as he sat down.

Piano Man shrugged as he took his own seat. “I ain't 'stinguished. I just play the piano is all.”

Romeo extended his hand. “My name's Lawrence—Lawrence Marshall—but everyone calls me Romeo.”

Piano Man grasped his hand in a firm shake, pumping it up and down lightly. “Pleasure. They calls me Piano Man.”

Romeo nodded. “So, what do you drink besides water?”

Piano Man grinned, a wide display of teeth and gums filling his face. “Well, I ain't never been one to turn down a glass of good scotch.”

Gesturing for Odetta, Romeo sent her to bring them two shots of Black Label and a second glass of water. “How long have you been playing like that?” he asked, turning his attention back to the man who sat across from him.

Piano Man shrugged his shoulders. “Most of my life. Started playing when I was a baby and ain't never stopped.”

Romeo nodded just as Odetta placed the glasses down in front of them, his eyes briefly meeting her inquisitive stare. As she walked away, he and Piano Man both paused, following the woman with their eyes, appreciation flowing like water over the lush curves of her frame.

“You come from these parts?” Romeo asked, gazing back at the old man as he fingered the shot glass between his hands.

Piano Man leaned back in his seat. “Come from a lotta places. Just happen to be here now.” Pulling his own glass to his chapped lips, he quickly downed the bitter contents.

“How long is
now
going to last?” Romeo asked.

The man shrugged, his thin shoulders jutting upward. Romeo stared at him curiously; the man's dark eyes were haunting, their deep intensity drawing the breath from him. Inhaling deeply, Romeo slowly blew the air out past his lips. Reaching into the pocket of his linen slacks, he pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills and quickly counted off five, laying them on the table in front of Piano Man.

“If you're interested, I could use a regular piano player. I'll pay cash, and I'll pay in advance.”

Piano Man fingered the crisp currency, lightly caressing the paper with his fingertips. He pulled his hand back into his lap, leaving the money where the other man had placed it. “I can't make no promises 'bout how long I'll be staying.”