AT 29 (54 page)

“Couldn't be better. I just need some advice.”

“About what?”

“I met someone today.” He dropped it like a thud. There was a long silence on the other end.

“A girl?”

“Yes.”

“You're not okay. Describe her.” It was a command.

He told her everything from the moment he climbed the stairs at Saint Malachy's Orphanage to the long night with no sleep, culminating in his call. He left nothing out.

“You have feelings for her?”

“I don't know what I have. It was only a few hours.”

“But now you can't sleep and you're calling me from a million miles away. When will you see her again?”

“I have to audition a new singer, then maybe I'll see her before I fly home. Tell me what you think.”

“It's too early for me to say, but I can tell you what you should do.” There was a caring tone in her voice.

“I guess that's why I called.”

“You have to see her again.”

“She wants me to come back after I evaluate the singer. She wants to know the outcome.

“That's fine as a pretense. You need to get off alone with her, dinner maybe.”

“Then what do I do?”

“O'Boy, this is not like you at all.”

“Don't make it worse.”

“Okay, Mr. rock star ladies man who suddenly doesn't know what to do when he meets a girl for the first time. You talk, you listen, and you see where it goes.”

“What if she says no?”

“Forgive me. I know this is hard for you, but you're not in high school. If she's interested, she'll say yes. If not, let it go and come home.”

“I don't know what I'm feeling. It's different, that's all I'm saying.”

“It happens, Jimmy. See where it goes. That's all you can do.”

He decided to keep his room. He would be away for a day or two, but Peggy was right, he should see Leslie again. He'd need a place to stay for the last night before he headed home. He was out early and down in the lobby, waiting for delivery of a rental car. After signing some papers, the attendant opened the boot and helped him toss his bag and the Gibson inside. Absently, Jimmy opened the passenger side door. He realized his mistake when the man shook his head patiently.

“Other side, mate.”

He suddenly realized he'd never driven on the left side of the road. Getting accustomed to that while trying to read a roadmap would be treacherous. A few minutes later, with two narrow misses under his belt, and going far slower than usual, he was on his way west out of Melbourne enroute to the Great Ocean Road and Aireys Inlet.

It seemed like a long time before he reached Geelong, the last major metropolis before entering the scenic route along Bass Strait and the Southern Ocean. Shifting with his left hand proved tricky, but, in time, he began to get the hang of it. The Holden was a spartan box with a small engine and none of the Saab's handling. Just as well, he decided. He was in no position to go zipping around on the wrong side of the road.

Less than an hour later a rustic sign, marking route B100 and the start of the Great Ocean Road, came into view. A few kilometers further, it opened into a broad plain, overlooking the ocean on his left and a series of steep hills on his right. The vista was more than he expected. As he continued, he began to see similarities to the Pacific Coast Highway in California, only to his mind, this was better, fewer cars, slower speeds and plenty of places to stop and enjoy the view.

He couldn't get Leslie out of his mind. She had him the moment their eyes met. The nearest sensation was when he met Cindy, but that wasn't the same. Cindy had never seemed so familiar. When Leslie said hello the bells went off. They'd been ringing non-stop ever since. Now, with thoughts of her controlling his emotions, everything was slowing down. The urgency to return to Millburn waned. Sure, he had to leave. Twenty-four hours in Aireys Inlet and another day back in Melbourne, then he'd be on his way. Except, the feeling that he did not want to leave was creeping into his mind. He tried to fend it off, but it only grew along with an unwelcome apprehension that Leslie might not want anything to do with him. It was a concern that had never bothered him in the past, just her, here and now, as Peggy said, ‘a million miles away' from the familiar routines of his life.

The landmark Split Point Light came into view. Jimmy wound his car along the road until he reached the small motel where he'd reserved a room. The mid-August cold felt more refreshing than severe, certainly not like the winters he knew in New England. He checked in, deposited his bags in his room then returned to the car and headed further west out of the parking lot.

Within a kilometer, he spotted the dirt road on his left. There was a small hand made sign simply stating, SURF SHOP, with an arrow pointing the way. He turned into the road and followed it for a short distance toward the ocean where it opened into a clearing surrounded by trees with a small wooden structure at the center. A large sign on the front spelled, Whitehurst's Surf Shop. There were no other cars parked out front. He pulled the Holden close to the building, shut off the engine and opened the door to get
out. The place was quiet except for the sound of crashing waves in the distance. Jimmy looked around for a moment then climbed the two steps to the entrance, noting a display of surfboards on either side. They were short boards, not what he expected, but he knew nothing about surfing. There were panes of glass on either side of the door and he peered inside as his fingers took hold of the knob. Every inch of the interior was occupied with boards, wetsuits, and displays of sunscreen. A sales counter, with a cash register at one end, ran along the back of the interior. A door that Jimmy suspected led to a living area, stood partially open behind the counter. He could see a bed and small sink. He turned the knob, but it was locked. He wondered if today was some sort of holiday, knowing that Australia had many. For a moment, he kept his eyes on the mishmash of items inside, finally deciding to take a chance by knocking loudly. There was no answer. He knocked again, gradually accepting the obvious. Nigel Whitehurst was not home. He returned to the Holden. Plan B would have to do at Willies that night.

He arrived at Willies on Green Street at eight. Dinner was fish and chips at the bar, washed down with a Pure Blonde. He had the contract with him and spent the time over dinner perusing its contents. The terms were strictly boilerplate, no different from the contract Jimmy had received the first time he met with Daisy in New York. He turned his attention to the signatures. Sister Marie Bonaventuri's was a big bold script, flawlessly penned. Leslie's forgery was smaller, but equally flawless. Jimmy thought it was beautiful.

People began to fill the room at nine. He was nursing his second Pure Blonde when the lights went up on the small stage at the far end of the room. Passim came to mind, not because Willies was the same size, but because the performance area had the same no-nonsense look, sparse with only a lonely set of yet to be manned drums, sitting idle surrounded by four amplifiers to which guitars and keyboard waited to be connected. He watched with anticipation, half hoping Nigel would not show or, if he did, would be nowhere near as good as the tape of him back in New Jersey. Then it would be McCabe's problem.

Leslie no longer crowded out his other thoughts. Although the contract remained open to the page with her handwriting, he let his mind wander to all that needed to be done as soon as he returned to the Millburn. He decided he'd call Sonny before flying home. There was a harmonica player from Connecticut they both saw a year earlier at the annual music fest in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Maybe Sonny could locate him and test him out. Benson would be Jimmy's problem, although he already knew he'd take him back. In truth, it would save time while he searched for Mitch and Ralph's replacements.

Four men burst through the door, coats in hand, and made straight for the stage. A smattering of halloos greeted them as they worked their way among the tables and tossed their coats in a pile on the floor to the side of one of the amps. In seconds, they took their positions, plugging in guitars and adjusting the controls on the amps. One of the four slid in behind the drums and tapped a few beats. Then, from the far end of the bar, a big man, Jimmy had not noticed, took a last sip from a pint glass of beer and followed them onstage. More people came through the door and took seats at tables and along the bar to Jimmy's left and right. It was as if everyone knew the exact time to make an appearance. The barmaids scurried among the tables quickly taking orders.

From somewhere behind the stage a violin was produced and passed forward to the big man just as he stepped onstage. A few high hands were extended and Jimmy
decided this must be Nigel Whitehurst. His imposing figure fit Sister Marie's description. Jimmy guessed his height at six foot six. He wore jeans and a black tee shirt tight around his chest and arms. Muscles bulged from beneath the fabric, not an ounce of fat was evident. His sandy hair was long, covering his ears and resting over his forehead. When he turned to face the audience he smiled, carefree. His complexion was clear, lightly tanned and freckled with the most distinctive feature, his nose, pressed slightly flat against the rest of his face. There was an easy way to his grip on the violin. Jimmy sensed that he played it well.

With no introduction, the band launched into an instrumental featuring long solos on the violin, expertly played and enormously pleasing to the ear. It was probably a well-liked local piece. Jimmy didn't know it. The next song was also an instrumental, not fast paced, but equally pleasant. These, Jimmy knew, had to be warm-ups, but the audience received them with enthusiasm as the waitresses came from the bar with trays loaded heavy. First round, Jimmy thought, by the third this place will be rocking. He studied his subject, wondering when he would sing. The backups were competent, but not especially creative. The whole approach was casual, just music at the watering hole, killing the night hours and having a good time.

After another song featuring the fiddle, Jimmy watched as Nigel set the instrument down on a small table near the keyboards. He said something to the band and then turned confidently to face the crowd of fifty in the room. More kept coming through the door. Jimmy thought the place would be filled in another half hour. A standup microphone appeared out of nowhere and Nigel's voice boomed out from the speakers.

“Gidday Mates, and thanks for joining us at Willies on this chilly Friday night.” It was easy to see that Whitehurst was in command. Jimmy studied his mannerisms and the way the people paid attention. “The fiddle's warmed up and we're ready to settle in for a nice long sing. Join in, but be careful not to sing better'n me. Bad form, don't you know.” He flashed a smile to the room, stepped back for a brief moment, then came to the mike just as the keyboardist hit the opening notes of the next song. Jimmy sat forward and cocked his ears. The voice that filled the room took his breath away.

Three hours later, Jimmy was back at the motel. He never spoke to Nigel Whitehurst or to anyone else at Willies. He was too awestruck by the purity of what he heard. He applied every ounce of concentration to the words and notes emanating from the vocal chords of the man on stage. At first, he thought Whitehurst must be lip-synching to an expertly produced soundtrack. He even looked around the room for some sign of a device, but after a few more lines, he decided it had to be real. Just otherworldly in that way only professional singers can understand. There's talent and there's well-honed skill. Jimmy had both at a high level. Nigel Whitehurst was off the charts.

By the second round of drinks, Willies was filled to capacity. When prompted, the audience chimed in from time to time as Nigel worked his way through a catalogue of familiar and less familiar songs. It seemed like everyone knew the words, but unlike most venues where a throng of voices often drowns out the main performer, these voices were careful never to interfere with the star. And, Jimmy knew Nigel Whitehurst was a star. It didn't matter that he was in a small out of the way tavern in front of less than a hundred onlookers. Jimmy knew that all of them were as captivated as he was, sitting still at the bar, unable to take his eyes and ears off the singer onstage. It would be the same in Madison Square Garden in front of twenty thousand.

By the start of the second set, everyone in the room was involved. The violin came out again, this time played at hyper speed with an intensity that brought foot stomping joy to every pair of feet in the building. Jimmy tried to stay objective, but his mind was already busy imagining new creations for this extraordinary talent. He looked around just in time to catch the arm of a waitress hustling by. He gestured for something to write with. She produced a worn pencil from the pocket of her apron before hurrying off. Quickly, Jimmy flipped over the contract and began to write on the blank back page. He had his own way of writing songs, notes really, simple reminders of the melodies that rattled around his brain. Later, he would refine them before turning them over to professionals who would preserve them in the permanent lines and symbols that he had no patience to draw.

He left Willies before the last set was finished. He knew he would come back the next night, but tonight was too filled with inspiration to wait. He rushed back to his chilly motel room and sat on the bed with the Gibson. All through the darkness and long into the light of the next day, he sounded out chords and notes. He wrote and re-wrote reminders on paper until he had three new songs not for himself, but for the Australian with the magnificent voice.

The next night he took his place at the bar full of anticipation. The Saturday night audience was smaller than the night before. The bartender brought him a Pure Blonde without being asked. Jimmy acknowledged his efficient memory with a nod as he lifted the glass to his lips.