Cut and Run Read Free

would learn, too, sooner or later.
    J.J. Pepper had first glided into the Club Aquarian that spring. The place had been open just one year, and already it was one of the hottest nightclubs in New York. Len had opened its doors shortly after his final season as a power forward with the Knicks. His original dream had been to start up his own down and dirty jazz joint, but if nothing else his years on the basketball court had taught him who he was and, maybe more important, who he wasn’t. Down and dirty wasn’t his style, and he wasn’t a purist about jazz. He liked to mix in some popular, some soft rock, some easy classical, turn the musicians loose, and let them do their thing. He wanted his club to have a little polish, a certain cachet. Tall ceilings. He wanted it to be the kind of place where people could have a good time, wear their best clothes, be their best selves.
    Looking at J.J. the first time, he didn’t think she’d fit in. She’d had on one of her nutty outfits, a thirties dress and lots of rhinestones, and had plunked herself down at the baby grand, like, hell, baby, I belong here. Right then he’d known she had it, never mind the crazy lavender hair and the feeling she wasn’t quite on the level with him.
    She’d started to play, stopped after a few seconds, and turned to him. “Did you know this piano has a muddy bass?”
    â€œThat right,” he said, noncommittal.
    â€œI’ll compensate today, but you should have it looked at.”
    â€œSure, babe. I’ll get right on it.”
    Before he could pull her little butt off the bench, she’d started to play. Then he didn’t want to stop her. He’d just stood there, listening. Her technique was awesome. He’d never heard such sounds come out of that piano, damned muddy bass or no damned muddy bass. But she didn’t let go; she held on tight to all the notes she had memorized. He could feel something there inside her, waiting to get out. And when it did—man, he wanted to be there. The walls’d be shaking.
    She played three tunes and stopped. She turned around on the bench and looked up at him with those pink and lavender streaked eyes for his verdict. She didn’t seem winded or nervous. Len had the feeling that if he told her she wouldn’t do, she’d just shrug her nice round shoulders and walk off, ego intact.
    â€œNot bad, J.J.” A fake name, he decided. Who the hell would call a kid with eyes like that J.J.? He didn’t believe the Pepper, either.
    â€œThank you,” she said, polite, but not what he’d have called relieved. She knew she was good.
    â€œYou need to let yourself go, put some heat into what you’re doing.”
    She frowned, smacking her plum-colored lips together. “Improvise, you mean?”
    â€œYeah, improvise.” He thought, bub, what’re you getting yourself into? But then he heard himself say, “You can play the early crowds, some lunches if you want. I’m looking for somebody to do Sunday brunch, if you’re interested. We sometimes bring in a classical pianist. You know any Bach and Beethoven?”
    â€œI’d prefer to stick to jazz and popular. When would you like me to start?”
    â€œTomorrow night.”
    â€œI can’t start tomorrow night.”
    â€œCan’t?”
    â€œI have a previous commitment.”
    â€œYou playing another club?”
    â€œNo.”
    She wasn’t going to explain. “What about Sunday?”
    â€œYou want to open me with a brunch?”
    â€œYeah. Earl Hines you’re not, babe.”
    Those high, sweet white cheeks of hers got red. “Okay, Mr.—”
    She’d forgotten his damn name. “Wetherall,” he supplied, deadpan. “Len Wetherall.”
    She’d never heard of him. Took her two weeks to figure out who he was. Told him she followed hockey, not basketball. He’d dropped the name Wayne Gretzky, but