Chango Chingamadre,
Dutchman, & Me

 

R.V. BRANHAM

 

 






Ä„






Así!"

 

Dutchman
and me heard it, drawing closer.

 

“Ä„De
a Pepe timbales!" Dutchman served one of her regularsa patent attorneyhis
espresso. “Ä„Asi!" She made change. “Ä„Mira el H.P.!"

 

Dutchman
hawked into the sink behind the bar, cleared her throat and covered her mouth
before sneezing. She then turned to me: “Hey, M.E., make yourself useful and
turn the frigginł record over."

 

M.E.,
thatÅ‚s me. Mervyn Eichmann. Now you know why I use the M.E. “Ä„De a Pepe
cojones!"

 

I
put the other side on, and gently slipped the needle onto the edge of that
divine platter. Louis Armstrong to you, Sir. Call him Satchmo and youłll be on
your ass. “Potato Head Blues." (This was the D.B.A. Dutchman had used when she
sailed into the rotten apple and decided to get a business shingle and take
over this dumper, ah, bistroserenaded by her flying phonograph and her flying
78łs, inherited from her uncle, whołd drawn succor from them while stationed on
the Maginot Line in the mid-thirties.)

 

“Ä„DE
A PEPE SANTOS COJONES!"

 

Who
else, none-other-than El C.C., Chango Chingamadre, former Great Black Hope of
Bebop, Newyorican Contingent, with a box, a big heavy box. He was a
spidermonkey on the needle. A monkey with another monkey on his back. “On
The Road," Chango Chingamadre declared.

 

“Cool
it, babe," Dutchman told him. “Mistah Armstrong, heÅ‚s swinging."

 

“Sorry,
Dutch." Chango set the box on the bar. Dutchman examined the side.

 

“Viking,
eh?"

 

“Fell
off the back of the truck," I offered by way of suggesting how it had come into
our acquaintancełs hands. Dutchman unfolded the flaps. It was On The Road.

 

“B.F.D.,
babe. The long-awaited Kerouac debut"

 

“You
can give me twenty for it, eh? CÅ‚mon, Dutch."

 

“Hey,
this is yesterdayłs papers. Everybody in the Village has been reading the
galleys for donkeyłs years."

 

“Look."
Chango was sweating. He needed a fix. In a rather bad way. “Gimmie ten now and
ten when you sell ęem all."

 

IÅ‚d
walked over to examine the books. Fifty. Hardcover. I opened one. First
edition. And a slip, “Review Copy."

 

Dutchman
saw the slip: “Why didnÅ‚t you say so? Hell theyÅ‚re worth something." She took
out a couple of ten-dollar bills. “Sorry, IÅ‚m a bit short now. Come back
tonight and IÅ‚ll give you the rest."

 

Chango
smiled. “ Ä™S cool."

 

“But
Donłt Spend This All On Junk; Get Some Food In You. And get a jacket, ęs cold
evenings."

 

“I
go to the Queen of Night," Chango replied, “Å‚s warm there."

 

I
poked ChangoÅ‚s shoulder to get his attention, and he turned to face me. “You
ought to stay away from that scene."

 

“But I get to sit in
with the house band, M.E. I get to jam we play the secret music. That house
band is"

 

“House
band, my butt," Dutchman told us while furiously scouring at some
other or thing behind the bar counter. “A bunch of
hasbeen-neverwas-nevergonnabe no-account junkys"

 

I
glared at Dutchman. Chango mumbled some Spanish crap and started to leave, but
turned, and grabbed a book; he gave it to me. “Keep it for me, till I go home
to the old lady."

 

Word
on the street was that hełd met his old lady at the Queen of Nightłs salon.
(Iłd even heard from one gone case that she was the Queen of Nightłs kid
sister.) Well, theyłd been together, gotten a cold-water boxcar flat with a
Harlem air shaft view. Chango insisted that one night hełd found her naked with
someone (I think; itłs hard to tell, Changołd been incoherent on that point,
raving on about blood candles and a bowl filled with wax and a goatłs severed
platter on a large head) and theyłd had an uncool fight. And shełd kicked him
out.

 

“ItÅ‚ll
be good, tu miras, we make up; she take me back home."

 

Dutchman
exchanged glances with me; we all knew shełd never take him back home. Not now.
Now home for her was a six-by-six-by-six plot of land in potterłs field.

 

Chango
was out the door before you could say shit or Shinola. Dutchman frowned, shook
her head.

 

“You
really laid into him, Dutch."

 

The
patent attorney spoke up: “Could I buy a couple of those from you. TheyÅ‚re for
a nephew, his bar mitzvahłs next week."

 

“Ten
percent above cover." Dutchman was unpacking the books.

 

“But"the
patent attorney wanted to haggle"youłve already got a good markup at cover
price."

 

I
turned away, to let Dutchman hustle a good price from the customer. In the
back, by the rest rooms, I saw a woman rush past actually, I just saw a flash
of her flashy dress. It was funny. I hadnłt noticed anyone else besides Chango
come in.

 

“Fifteen
percent. I hear youłre a good lawyer. You can afford it." She put the books on
the small bookcase by her dusty bar minor, along with the City Lights Howl
and Other Poems.

 

After
a moment the attorney agreed. He became peeved when he asked for a sack and
Dutchman said she didnłt have any.

 

“Closet
Beat," I said, after the lawyer had left.

 

Dutchman
laughed, her dyke laugh.

 

Dutchman
is a dyke; IÅ‚ve never seen her with a woman or heard of such Sapphic episodes,
but I came on to her once and she wouldnłt hop into bed with me. The only
fifteen other women who wouldnłt ride the banana boat with me were, not to put
too fine a point on it, lesbians. Theyłd even told me so, when
declining my favors One time, after a jam session, IÅ‚d brought it up with
Chango Chingamadre, and he had said, “Who caaares?"

 

Well,
I donłt Dutch

 


Shełs family. She is a friend.

 

“I
worry about Chango" Dutch said.

 

“What?"
IÅ‚d been thinking of the gig tonight, about maybe going home and taking a nap,
maybe taking the old upright and practicing. East Saint Louis Toodle-oo. Maybe
something by Bird. I never played more than one or two songs before a gig. I
might jam for hours afterwards. But not before the gig.

 

“I
donłt know." I gave her that donłt-despair smile (itłs what she calls it).
“Maybe we should get him into Bellevue."

 

Dutch
shuddered. “Cold Turkey. I dunno."

 

“I
do." I had been there. IÅ‚m no Ishmael, but IÅ‚m no Ahab, either, not
anymore. People quit when they are ready to quit. Not before. But there is the
first step, and Cold Turkey is one first step, one Nanfuckingtucket
sleigh ride.

 

“M.E.,"
Dutchman said. “IÅ‚ve heard a lot about the Queen of Night. And it doesnÅ‚t sound
like a good scene."

 

“Yeah,
well." I laughed. “A whorehouse that does double duty as a shooting gallery
isnłt my idea of a good scene."

 

“IÅ‚ve
heard theyłre mercenary bastardswonłt even feed the girls; keep em locked up,
doped, and half-starved. Not even a fridge on the premises."

 

“But
they got a house band, Dutch."

 

“TheyÅ‚re
too tight to even have a decent cathouse band. From what IÅ‚ve been told, you
hear ęem, and even if youłre stoned out of your cranium, you just want to do
your business and split. I call that cold-blooded mercenary."

 

Her
outburst made me curious. “How do you know so much about whores?"

 

“My
great-grandmother ran a very popular bordello in Rotterdam."

 

“You
never told me"

 

“You
never asked. Anyway, she kept a buffet, heaping plates and bowls of erwtensoep,
spinach tarts, sateh, ploverłs eggs, smoked salmon, duck sausages, waffles, all
laid out on lace tablecloths lunch and dinner. And full bar. The Queen
of Night doesnłt even have ice for booze, let alone food."

 

“But
you donłt even serve food, Dutch."

 

“I
at least serve pretzels," she yelled.

 

“So
now youłre an authority on the Queen of Night?"

 

“I
have my sources."

 

“Rasputin."
I hooted.

 

“I
have my sources."

 

I
remembered something, about Rasputin. His tour bus, with his “See The Village!
An Epiphany & A Meal, Such A Deal!" banners all over it. He always brought
them into the Potato Head for espresso and the Beat poetry books Dutchman kept
in stock. His name was Rasmussin, but we all called him Rasputin, because of
his Svengalish ways with the ladies. Dutchman even had the hots for him. Which
I resented. I resented him for trying to convert her. It wasnłt her
faultRasputin had those pheromones, sex hormones. He was clearly oversexed.

 

This
arrangement, between Dutchman and Rasputin, was quite good in a business
sense. But goddammit, if my friend wanted to be a dyke, then who was Rasputin
to lay a bourgeois patriarchal routine on her? And using sex?!

 

He
would come in with his chiropractorsł wives from Chicago, dermatologistsł
divorcees from Des Moines, and Rotarian widows from Richmond, and, while they
were ordering espresso or cognac, while they were buying Beat books, he would
stand there and irradiate her with his pheromones.

 

I
had seen this. Time and again. So I had to make a moral decision. Either tell
her, in which case shełd run upstairs and get all dolled up or not tell her,
in which case he might be too distracted with the seduction of one of his touristas
to work on Dutchman.

 

“Rasputin,
hełs coming today" Dutchmanłs a big girl, big enough to make her own mistakes.

 

“I
thought it was tomorrow."

 

“Remember,
last week; he said he was changing the schedule."

 

Dutchman
was lifting the wooden grids she kept on the floor, behind the bar. “IÅ‚d better
hurry and hose these off. Theyłre filthy."

 

“Need
any help?"

 

“YouÅ‚ve
gotta go home, nap, and practiceremember?"

 

Later,
on Bleeker Street, I ran into Rajłneej, an East Indian Welshman of sorts. He
always sounded like Dylan Thomas when he talked. Not the Welsh, but the drunk,
bit.

 

“M.E."
We slapped hands. “Have you by any chance seen Chango"

 

“No."
I lied.

 

“I
heard hełs hanging out at the Queen of Nightłs, jamming with the house band."

 

“Yeah."
I remembered something ChangoÅ‚d said. “Secret Music he calls it."

 

“
ęS secret all right; I go there about a year ago with my drummer, and I hear
the house band, hear isnłt the word for it. They stand in a corner, with
their eyes closed, fingering their axes like worry beads, and sway. But no
sound. A lot of the cats in the room sway too, their eyes closed too. I see my
drummer close his eyes, and sway. So I say to myself, when in Rome, shut
my lids too. And faintly, ever so faintly, I hear a buzz, a sort of minor
chord. Therełs an odor, too, a vague smell of cheap perfume. But the more I
focus on either the music, or on the aroma, the more they fade. And I start to
get a headache, like my cranium says fuck that scene, so I open the eyes. But
everyone still sways, eyes still closed, waiting for a wake-up call. Itłs a
drain, M.E., a real energy suck I think of the Vetala and Rakshasa of India"

 

“Vetala?
Rakshasa?" IÅ‚d never heard the terms before.

 

“IndiaÅ‚s
vampires, who first play tricks, suck your will, then hypnotize you into doing their
will. Then they dine on your horse, or on youI donłt really believe it. I
donłt disbelieve it, either; so I leave everyone to their individual karmic
dances. I go in a room and find agitated gents at the walls, peeping in on some
tantric exchanges. So I go to another room, and therełs a very weird poker game
going on, played with tarot cards, and before they put their money in the pot
they fold it into frogs or cranes, flowers or whales, paper airplanes. In the
next room is the oldest guyI recognize him, old Gutbucket Slim, from Ma
Raineyłs band (hełs like antediluvian). The Gutbucketłs on the nod, in front of
a television showing the Dorsey brothers. So I walk over to say hello and
observe the hype in his arm; itłs filled with blood. Then blood dribbles from
his mouth and down from his nostrils. I turn to call for help, and I hear a
lady. She says:

 

itłs
being taken care of,

 

and
through the glass beads of the doorway I see the skirt of a woman, kilometers
of ruffles, very Carmen Miranda. I then decide itłs time to depart (like, I
donłt want to be there when they fold twenty-dollar-bill origami cranes for
Mistah Police); so I return to the main room, and everyonełs still swaying. I
drag my drummer out of there; he says it is the most beautiful music hełd ever
heard. Month later his playing went to shit in a rickshaw, and I had to fire
his ass. Been through two other drummers since."

 

I
looked at Rajłneej in amazement; I had no idea what occult scene he was getting
at, but it made me anxious. I remembered the skirt I had glimpsed at Potato
Head.

 

“IÅ‚d
like to give Chango a break; hełs too good to waste."

 

“Yeah?"

 

“IÅ‚ve
got a gig for tonight; we need skins." Rajłneej was the coolest pianist Iłd
heard in a long time; he couldłve blown Brubeck away. Hell, Dutchman snoring
couldłve blown Brubeck away. But Rajłneej was good not Monk, mind you,
but good.

 

“Too
bad." I almost wished I hadnÅ‚t lied. But “He lost his cabaret card, yÅ‚know."

 

“I
could get him a bogus one. Everyone else is cleanif we have a junky sitting in
for one or two gigs, there wonłt be any hassles. He could use the bread, he
might get straight."

 

“Go
to Potato Head Blues. Tell Dutchman I sent you."

 

“I
know Dutchman." RajÅ‚neej paused, and blushed. “IÅ‚ve heardis it true sheÅ‚s a
dyke?"

 

“Ask
her and see."

 

* * * *

 

I
was in the middle of the dream of dreams when the phone of phones rang its ring
of rings. I picked it up. “M.E., Ä™s Dutch; Chango Chingamadre, heÅ‚s"she
fought back sobs"turning gray!"

 

“IÅ‚ll
be there!" I hung up. And I was there, in no time. I ran those seven
blocks past needle-head Applejackers slamming into each other as they waltzed
their junky waltz in front of bebop music stores, past asthma-inducing
bookshops and a zillion bistros, I ran them faster than IÅ‚d run any distance
before; in terms of speed, I ran one-hundred-thirty-second notes,
arpeggiated. I ran up the rickety alley steps to the Dutchmanłs loft, which was
above Potato Head Blues. She answered the door.

 

“RajÅ‚neej,
hełs in the bedroom, walking him."

 

“Have
any milk?"

 

“For
the cat, yeah"

 

“Forget
the cat, boil some." I hurried into the bedroom, where Rajłneej was trying to
walk Chango around the room. He was dragging him over his shoulder. Chango,
though a foot taller than Rajłneej, must have been thirty pounds lighter and
Rajłneej was a bit on the Bantam Weight side himself.

 

Chango
looked like one of those El Greco paintings of the dead Nazz, all gone to gray
and rigor mortis.

 

I
went into the crapper, and found the needle, filled with blood. And the heroin.
I tasted the heroin. Looked at the matches. At the spoon. At the matches. And
flushed that junk down the toilet.

 

I
then smelled a sweet jasminy perfume, which was odd. The perfume couldnłt have
been Dutchmanłs, too bourgeois. Dutchman always used an after-shave. Maybe, I
thought at the time, it was from one of Dutchmanłs apocryphal girlfriends.

 

And
I heard a distant buzzing noise, like a band playing far away, or underwater,
on another world. And, just like Rajłneej, when I tried to focus on the music,
it faded.

 

I
took the needle to Dutchman, along with the spoon: “Get rid of it. Take it down
the alley and dump it." The milk was ready. “IÅ‚ll take this."

 

I
took the pan. Into the bedroom. “His pulse, itÅ‚s light," RajÅ‚neej told me.

 

I
heard the front door close. “Lay Chango on the bed." His muscles were slack,
his breathing was coming slowlybut it was coming, he wasnłt too
cold, or sweating too much. I lifted the eyelids: the pupils had
followed Sputnik into space.

 

“He
showed up, and we told him about the gig." RajÅ‚neej was blowing it. “He said he
needed Dutchmanłs bathroom to clean up."

 

“Go
to the kitchen and get a cup. Put sugar and cocoa in it." I got a towel from
the bathroom and wet it, and began to slap Changołs face with the tipnothing
hard. No response. Nada. Rajłneej came back with the cup. I took it from
him and mixed it with the hot milk.

 

I
noticed IÅ‚d left a scorch mark on the dresser. Oh well. I mixed the cocoa and
milk, stirring it. “RajÅ‚neej, take the towel and slap ChangoÅ‚s face" He did
so, too vigorously. “Lightly. We want to wake him up, not beat him up,
at least not until hełs over it."

 

I
drank the cocoa, slowly. It was good.

 

Rajłneej
looked up at me drinking the cocoa. He shined it on, and kept slapping Chango;
it was working. Chango mumbled.

 

I
heard the door open and close. And caught a glimpse of Dutchmanłs skirt as she
walked past the doorway, one of those ruffled numbers a Puerto Rican might
wear. But not Dutchman. No, that dress was just like what IÅ‚d seen that
afternoon, just like what Rajłneej had seen at the Queen of Nightłs. It had to be
nerves, seeing things like that. Then I smelled that perfume again. Chango
muttered an oath in Spanish.

 

“LetÅ‚s
get him up." I held him by one shoulder and Rajłneej held him by the other.

 

I
had taken my coat, which was designed for New England winters or summers in San
Francisco, and draped it over Chango Chingamadre. We walked. To the living
room. Back through the hall, to the bedroom. Back to the living room.

 

“My
gig starts in an hour," Rajłneej whined.

 

“We
might get him well enough to play. Hełs not too bad."

 

At
one point, when we were in the bedroom, we heard the door open. Dutchman had
returned with pots of coffee.

 

We
pumped Chango full of coffee. And after he had thrown up a hearty dinner, we
pumped him full of more. And more coffee. We kept walking, finally deciding to
walk Chango down the stairs, down around the corner, to the front of the Potato
Head, and inside, for more coffee. The Potato was busy.

 

Rasputin
was minding the barit surprised me, the decency of the gesture. Of course, he
was chatting up a nice lady. We drank more coffee. Rajłneej used the pay phone
to ring a cab.

 

The
pay phone rang. Rasputin answered.

 

He
gestured to me. I went and picked up the phone. I was late. First set starts
in five minutes. I told them IÅ‚d had to help Dutchman take a friend to the
hospital, and asked Lou if they could do the first set without me. Itłll be
funny for a trio playing with only keyboards and drums. I reassured them I
would be there for the second set.

 

I
was wrong.

 

* * * *

 

The
cab arrived and took Rajłneej and Chango Chingamadre off to the club date, in
some Uptown space. They too missed the first set. At least they made the
second. And managed to bring the house down on the third.

 

Not
that IÅ‚m complaining.

 

I
was going to run back to my place, to get my bass. Dutchman asked me if I could
come upstairs. For a drink. To help her calm down. She was a lonely dyke. And I
was her friend. How can a friend refuse?

 

“Do
you remember a few years ago, when we were still ęundergroundł?"

 

I
sighed: “Those days were intense. Too intense, for M.E."

 

She
laughed sympathetically. “Yeah." Then, took a bottle of cabernet from her wine
rack. “And that wild poetry reading, where Ginsberg showed up?"

 

“The"I
busted every time I remembered it"the crackers."

 

“I
sent Chingamadre to get crackers; give him the money, and he comes back with
every safecracker in Manhattan."

 

“And
the cops thought there was a burglarsł convention going on, and stormed in and
broke the glass window and the mirror, and stole the brass eagle from your
espresso machine."

 

“I
thought Changołd stolen it, for the longest while."

 

We
talked about other times, and drank the wine, and went to bed. I am not
sympathetic to those who subscribe to the Diddle And Tell school, the We Did It
In Our Clothes school, the We Did It In The Shower school, the We Did It On The
Kitchen Table school. (Nor would I confirm the existence of a Middle English
tattoo on her fanny: Brid Liveth.) Dutchman was a dyke.

 

* * * *

 

The
next night we were tearing through our second set, and I saw someone seated by
the stage:

 

Dutchman.
Dutchman in a dress.

 

She
wore these gorgeous silver glad rags that caught all available light and tossed
it back like confetti. She hadnłt come to see me do a gig in quite a while. I
dedicated the next song to her. And she bought us a round of drinks.

 

Then
I dedicated the next song to her, and she smiled. But no drinks came forth.

 

And
then another party came in. They also sat by the stage, two tables away from
Dutchman. I saw that dress again, the phantom dress, so resplendently Latin,
and looked at the face which I was certain had to be beautiful. But all I saw
was two emerald eyes that said,

 

hello,

 

and
the more I tried to focus on her facial features, the more I was only able to
see the eyes, which said,

 

you
make the most gorgeous music I have ever heard, please join us at our table,

 

I
turned away and caught a look from my pianisthe looked worried. He mouthed
something. I read his lips:

 

“Queen
of Night."

 

I
glanced back at the table; the Queen of Nightłs consorts were tall and gaunt
junkys in tight-fitting penguin suits, with expressions that spoke of heaven or
the morgue, rictuses of joy. The Queen of Night caught my attention again, and
would not let go. I liquesced in her gaze, her gaze, which said,

 

come
to my place, your music is lovely but it could be even better, youłre better
than your companions, you could be vamping,

 

and
I looked back at her, and she must have detected some resistance, because she
said,

 

yes,
I have a bordello, and my bordello has many rooms be my lover, and IÅ‚ll cradle
you in my beautiful breasts, give you money or anything else you need, and you
will be worthy to sit in on the best, most secret music

 

And
the spell was broken; boy, was the spell broken.

 

Dutchman
walked over to the Queen of Nightłs table, and threw a drink at her, and said,

 

get
out of the club, get out now.

 

Then
one of the Queen of Nightłs consorts said words, and Dutchman replied that they
werenłt the only ones in New York with some connections. No onełs lips moved,
but I heard the dialogue, and IÅ‚m sure anyone within ten feet could hear it.
All of this happened quickly, so very quickly the pianist and drummer
had begun to really wail as Dutchman had gotten up. And the Queen of
Night rose; she held no rancor, was dispassionate, as if the Dutchman had
beaten her fairly in a game of croquet. But the Queen of Night had a grave
dignity. Before the audience was hip to what had gone down, the Queen of Night
and her consorts were departed.

 

After
the final set, while having a final round at the bar, Dutchman turned to me:
“YouÅ‚re moving in with me."

 

“What
did you say?"

 

“Wipe
the drool from your mouth, and donłt get any delusionsitłll be the couch for
you; itłs just that I might have pissed the Queen of Night off; it might be a
good temporary measure, protection."

 

“Chango
wasnłt so protected at your place." She frowned as I recounted Rajłneejłs
Indian vampire lore, and his visit to the Queen of Nightłs. And how it tied in
with my having seen the very phantom dress the Queen of Night wore, seen it,
not once, but twice. And about the phantom smells.

 

“I
think hełd be safe now." She headed for the Ladiesł.

 

I
stared at her: “What? How?"

 

She
didnÅ‚t hear. “Might be an idea: get him a sleeping bag."

 

* * * *

 

Chango
didnłt make the Potato Head scene after that, so I had not only the couch but
the whole Dutchman living room to myself.

 

Two
weeks later, we heard from Rajłneej that Chango Chingamadre had flipped out,
jumped out of the cab suddenly when they were on their way to meet Miles
Muthafucking Davis. That hełd run into the traffic screaming about
secret music and been hit by a Mack truck.

 

Again,
I smelled the phantom perfume, glimpsed the phantom skirt, heard the opening
and closing door and the secret music but only as a memory. And, after all, I
was beginning to tell myself, that was just superstition and hysteria rearing
their uncool heads.

 

And
it wouldnłt bring Chango Chingamadre back to us.

 

Nobody
could afford to do a decent burial. Besides, his old lady is in potterłs field.

 

We
Three Were Three No More.

 

The
Dutchman moved to Sausalito, north of San Francisco. She owns three restaurants
and lives on a houseboat with two Korat cats and a seismologist whołs also a
licensed therapist specializing in tarot therapies and future-life regressions.
In her spare time, the Dutchman also supervises a rape crisis hotline.

 

I,
M.E., I live in Los Angeles, which is kinder to my arthritis than New York. I
write film scores, which is a living, a very good one. I got an Oscar
nomination five years ago. IÅ‚m not holding my breath waiting for another.

 

If
Iłm North, then we do pasta. If shełs South, we do sushi.

 

I
tell her how remarkably young she looks; itłs not a line. And she talks about
plastic surgery, and I donłt know whether I believe her, because she has the
beginnings of a secretive grin on her face. But no laugh lines. And we talk.
Dutchman even talks about Chango (and, at times, we take turns weeping for
him), but she refuses to discuss the Queen of Night.

 

Once
we talked about a tombstone, which we could afford to go half-sies on. It would
read: “Here Bops Ä™Chango Chingamadre," The Monkey Muthafuckah Of Thems As All."

 

There
was a problem. We had never learned his real name.

 

I
ran into Rajłneej during a Playboy Jazz Festival and he couldnłt recollect
Chingamadrełs name either. He did recall how Chango ODłed at the Dutchmanłs.
And how he found a strange lady crouched over Chango. And how when she faced
him, he only saw green animal eyes. And that shełd itsplayed, walked through
a wall, and he figured it was the reefer hełd just smoked.

 

I
then told Rajłneej what Iłd seen that night, and the next.

 

“Maybe."
RajÅ‚neej folded his hands. “Maybe ChangoÅ‚s dead old lady came for him, maybe
she needed him more than we did. Or the Vetala claimed him. Or maybe we had
what the French call a group delusion." Rajłneej unfolded his hands, reached
for his wine glass. “But maybe not." He downed the Chablis in one gulp. “Have I
ever told you about the ę63 Newport Jazz Festival?"

 

“No,
but we havenłt seen each other since ę62."

 

“Has
it been that long ? Well, I was producing a live album; we were recording
everyone. Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Mingus, Ella, Max Roach, Carmen
McRae. And this act shows upIÅ‚d forgotten who sponsored themcalled the New
Queen of Night, and these guys were dead ringers for the house band at the old
Queen of Nightłsonly, if they were the same cats, they had not aged a day.
When they played, it was like the Re-Birth of the Cool, they had the audience
and all of us backstage eating out of their hands nothing ęsecretł about that
musicI tried to catch them after the set, I had an A & R gig for Blue
Note, too. So I ran out to the back parking lot to offer them a record
contract, and they were tearing out of there in a black hearse. Then later the
recording engineer played the tape back, and all we heard was a faint
sound, like the secret music crap Chango raved about, like what I heard at the
Queen of Nightłs. Only there was some percussion, not quite so faint, a clave
beat. It was Chango. But no matter how that engineer twiddled those pan pots,
the notes stayed faint, became a secret music again. It all made me think of
old Bela Lugosiłs Dracula and how he never cast a reflection in a mirror."

 

I
slouched, felt drained by all the emotions Rajłneej had summoned. But I wanted
to hear that music, hear Chango. “You still have the master?"

 

Rajłneej
shook his head. “My engineer, heÅ‚d been a junky, but cleaned himself up, like
you. He fell apart. Police found him ODÅ‚ed in Central Park, they found him by
following the trail of master tape he left. I had another copy, but I erased
it. Then threw the blank tape away."

 

Rajłneej
recounted every ghost story hełd ever heard, in India and, later, in Wales. On
through the night, and into the cold eye of noon.

 

But
he could not remember Changołs real name.

 

So
Chango it was, and Chango it shall be. But what about his grave, what about a
proper marker?

 

Well,
to hell with the Queen of Night, when Gabriel plays his secret music on
his horn IÅ‚ll have it put on my tombstone:

 

Here Bop We Three:

Chango Chingamadre, Dutchman, & M.E.