Manipulate Page 5

  He approached her and stooped. “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Li Min.”

  “So, Li Min, you have a lot of flowers. How much for all of them?”

  “Ten dollars,” replied the urchin.

  “So much?” exclaimed Noah.

  “Okay, okay. Can you give me one dollar?”

  Without letting anyone else nearby see, Noah pressed twenty dollars into her hand.

  Li Min gaped. She had never seen so much money in her life and she clenched her tiny fist to hide her loot.

  Noah held his index finger to his mouth, indicating he didn’t want her to let anyone know. Thinking of how he might help her, he thought of the foundation. She would be a candidate to join. “Do you like basketball?”

  She shook her head. “I’m too short.”

  “How about kung fu?”

  “I hate fighting… I like to sing.” She broke into a traditional Chinese song 世上只有妈妈好 (In the world, Mother is best)

  There is no one like a mother

  A child with a mother is truly blessed

  Covered with a mother’s arms

  Happiness will never end

  There is no one like a mother

  Without a mother is like grass without roots

  How can one find happiness?

  As she sang, Noah felt his emotions churn. Ten years ago, he had lost his mother and father to a drug addict that they had taken into their family home. Noah had drowned himself in alcohol to mask his grief and only Master Wu’s patient care pulled him out of the quagmire and back to life. “That was beautiful.”

  “It’s okay, but I heard someone in the hospital play it on the piano and it sounds so much better,” said Li Min.

  Noah bit his lower lip. Olivia plays piano. “Why were you in the hospital? You don’t seem very sick to me.”

  “Not me. My mother. She works there washing dishes so sometimes I have to stay outside and sell flowers.”

  Noah glanced back to the hospital. “Maybe someday I can start a singing group and we can sing together.”

  The little girl giggled. “I’d like that. Can you sing?”

  “Me? I’m terrible. But I have friends who love music. I’ll try to get them to come.”

  “Mama!” cried Li Min as a haggard woman in her thirties approached. Pointing to Noah, Li Min cried out, “He bought all the flowers and someday he’s going to start a music group for us.”

  The mother’s eyes glowed with appreciation. “Xie xie ni. Thank you. We all need music.”

  Noah jerked his head. Was this uncommon intimacy from a stranger a sign about…?

  He gave an understanding nod. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  Noah’s face flicked back toward the hospital. Passing the hunchbacked woman he had spurned fifteen minutes ago, he took out ten dollars and placed it in her hand.

  Pins and Needles

  New York

  Café du Music was one of those rare New York City jazz clubs that refused to die. In its various incarnations over the decades, it had survived recessions, wars, and changes in musical taste. It remained true to the original vision of Benjamin’s great-grandfather Abraham when he opened “Le Chat Noir” back in the 1920s. No synth drums, no computers, not even an electric piano.

  Café du Music began and remained a haven for acoustic jazz aficionados and everyone who was anyone in jazz loved playing there. A visiting musician from Japan, a prof from Julliard or a member of the touring Ellington tribute band... And when you got up on that time-honored stage, you better be ready to play. The “cutting contests” where jazzers got up and tried to outdo each other with their improv skills were brutal… and fabulously entertaining.

  But musicians were notorious about being lousy with money and patrons were fickle—New York had a ton of options for their entertainment dollar.

  With competition so fierce, one had to be crazy to own a jazz club in New York.

  Crazy, or smart.

  Benjamin’s great-grandfather was both. He was crazy about music and smart enough to have bought the building that Café du Music was housed in during the Depression, when property was cheap like borscht. Of course, the various clubs that inhabited the space were under separate legal entities so that when, not if, they went broke, the prime asset—the land and building—were protected. That way, Abraham’s desire to keep jazz alive in New York remained fulfilled long after he was gone.

  Great-grandson Benjamin was no real jazz lover but the rents in the rest of the building were so profitable, he happily kept the cycle of jazz clubs going.

  Abby and Olivia shrank when they entered through the doors—there were at least twenty other women milling around. Some hadn’t hit puberty; some were seniors. Some appeared as if they had stepped out of Vogue Magazine, others like they’d stepped out of the food kitchen. They all had eagerness written on their faces. This might be their ticket to stardom.

  “Hello, I’m Olivia and my friend is Abby. We’ve got an audition with Queenie,” said Olivia to Benjamin, who was manning the entrance and screening the candidates.

  The bar owner sized them up, then handed Olivia a little cardboard card with the number 36 written on it.

  “You’re the last ones and she’s running behind schedule. Maybe in ninety minutes. Just find a place where you can park yourselves. Sorry, the club was blocked out for the auditions and space was a little tight in the lobby.”

  As Olivia and Abby moseyed toward the lobby, Benjamin fired off a text to Queenie.

  They’re here.

  Abby and Olivia used the wait time to explore the club. It had autographed pictures of all the greats since the 1930s on the walls—Ella, Billie, George, Duke, Count. The sounds of their competition wafted through the doors of the club. Others were so-so but some were damned good. While there was the odd smiling face, seeing the stream of dejected women exit the room was no confidence builder.

  “Maybe we should leave,” gulped Abby. “I don’t think we’re good enough.”

  “Stop that artistic insecurities crap. We’re here and we’re going to do it,” said Olivia, trying to convince herself as well as Abby.

  It felt an eternity before Benjamin called out, “Number 36.”

  “Let’s do it, girlfriend,” nodded Abby.

  “We’ll kill it,” said Olivia, not really meaning it.

  Putting smiles on their faces, they entered the storied lounge where jazz giants of the ages enthralled, enchanted and entertained.

  “Over here,” yelled a female voice at the front.

  Abby and Olivia walked in the direction of the woman’s voice and were shocked to see a young Eurasian woman wearing a multi-colored boa and a vest made of feathers, sporting a patch of red on the top of her head.

  Both had the same thought. Yes, we have definitely arrived in New York.

  “So, Abby and Olivia, what do yin and yang have for me?” asked Queenie with a jaded tone.

  “I Got Rhythm,” declared Abby.

  “Girl Crazy. Ethel Merman’s debut in 1930 at the Alvin Theater, less than a mile from here,” stated Queenie with the voice of someone who knew her stuff. “Let’s hear it.”

  As Abby stepped onto the stage while Olivia sat at the pre-WWI New York Steinway Grand, Queenie saw from their expressions that her desire to impress was successful, thanks to a quick text from Benjamin.

  “You got it,” said Abby as she picked up a vintage German microphone. She started snapping her fingers and began scatting, “Dooby do wa, de doo wah.”

  Olivia added a walking bass line in counterpoint with her left hand and with her right, added punctuating rhythmic chords.

  I got rhythm, I got music

  I got my gal, who can ask for anything more?

  The catchy American standard had been covered by everyone from Ella Fitzgerald to Tony Bennett.

  Abby’s performance stood up to the best of them but one would never have known that by looking at Queenie. Leaning over the lid of the grand
piano, Abby gazed into Olivia’s eyes, then whipped around to see Queenie, just sitting there with an enigmatic vacuous expression. No reaction at all.

  As the end of the tune approached, Abby turned to Olivia and batted an eye. Olivia stopped playing allowing Abby to do an incredible fifteen-second scat before Olivia re-joined her for the rousing finale.

  The two looked expectantly at the would-be impresario.

  With her poker face on, Queenie asked, “Got anything else?”

  Queenie’s stoic indifference had Olivia and Abby walking on eggshells. What the hell does she want?

  But there was no chance for discussion. Olivia inhaled a huge breath to calm her frazzled nerves, then caressed the keyboard, first with single notes, then gradually adding full-handed chords to the intro of Billie Holiday’s sultry ballad God Bless the Child. When Abby started singing, it was if her transcendent performance traveled through Billie’s pain, feeling her hurt at being a successful black woman in a white world that rejected her as a performer.

  As Abby mined the depths of Billie Holiday’s soul, she and Olivia could see Queenie tapping her fingers—not in time to the beat, but a rushed “hurry up and let’s get this over with” sporadic drumming.

  Queenie leapt up and shrieked, “Stop it! You’re killing me! You’re making me see Billie, making me feel her vibe, and that’s exactly the problem. You got to make it your own, just the way Aretha Franklin did or David Clayton Thomas with Blood, Sweat and Tears. I want to hear Abby Sung, not Billie Holiday. And the piano playing was okay but, just like the singing, I’ve heard that noise before. Check out how Keith Jarrett or Cecil Taylor turns a standard inside out. Whether you like it or not, it’s uniquely them. I don’t want clones; I want new juice. You are just rehashing old news. If I’m going to stick my neck and dough out for you, I have to make sure I got a great chance to make a return on my investment.”

  Devastating silence was made all the worse because every criticism was true. Singing standards from yesteryear was hardly groundbreaking but was exactly what Olivia and Abby had tried to do. Emulate their heroes, preferring to be safe than venture into new unchartered waters.

  “I got some of my own tunes,” muttered Abby timidly. “We...we just didn’t think anyone would want to hear them.”

  Queenie groaned in frustration. “Just the kind of artist’s self-doubts that drives me nuts. Listen. Am I wasting my time or what? Okay. Okay. One shot. Give me your best tune now.”

  Both women were frazzled. Knots gnarled their stomachs and perspiration beaded on their brows.

  Olivia sat back at the piano and glided her fingers over the ivories with a sensual, evocative introduction to their song, Forever I Will Love You. Abby started singing softly.

  Forever, I will love you.

  Forever, I’ll be there

  “Stop!”

  Jolted to silence, Abby and Olivia quaked as they awaited Queenie’s next critique.

  “It’s the same old shit. Like it’s Whitney and Dolly’s song, I Will Always Love You re-hashed. It needs kick. Right now, we’re at a funeral, playing footsy.” Queenie’s hands began drumming a syncopated Latin beat on the bar table.

  A light went on. Olivia’s left hand started a funky bass line of her own. Nodding in approval, Queenie got up from the table and stepped over to the conga drums. Olivia’s right hand started comping with full rhythmic chords.

  Abby’s body started strutting and she started singing in a Latin-flavored pop style.

  Forever, I will love you.

  Forever, I’ll be there

  Olivia sang harmonies and traded vocal licks with Abby until the electric final notes

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” enthused Queenie, bounding back toward the table. “It’s the same, but different!”

  Queenie saw the girls’ questioning faces. “Everybody thinks originality is the key to success but that’s BS. You ever wonder why everything sounds almost the same? It’s because people say they want something new, but they don’t. They want SOS—same old shit but with just a little twist. I think that Gloria Estevan groove mixed in with a little bit of yin and a little of yang is a winner.”

  “Does that mean we’re in the showcase tomorrow night then?” asked Abby timidly.

  “Yes, yes, yes. Let’s sit down and talk.”

  10

  Cards on the Table

  Queenie took a sip of her Perrier. “If we’re going to work together, I need complete honesty. I’m not one of those ‘hey, everything’s cool and I’m going to make you a star’ types. There are enough time wasters like that around. My job is to help you develop, find angles to put you on everyone’s blog, all the important playlists. Yeah, you have the talent but are you willing to do what it takes to get you where you want to go? Take direction, make changes, compromise?”

  Olivia and Abby glanced uneasily at each other. Both had numerous offers from men and women who promised them the moon if they provided sexual favors.

  Reading their body language, Queenie snorted, “I catch your drift. That is totally not my style. Jumping into bed might get you a meeting with some hot shot, but he can’t make J.Q. Public listen to your music or download your songs. Remember this. As hard as you may think I am, listeners are even crueler. Not only will they not pay; they’ll tell the world you totally suck.”

  “Thank you, Queenie,” replied Olivia, exhaling with relief. “What is it you want us to do? We’ll work our butts off anytime, day or night.”

  “We’ll do anything,” interjected Abby.

  “Just about anything,” corrected Olivia

  Queenie assessed the two women sitting across from here. Two young bright women, one a Harvard Law grad, the other a graduate from the prestigious Julliard School of Music, acting like star-struck teenage groupies and latching on to her every word; again proving two timeworn axioms about the entertainment industry.

  There’s No Business like Show Business and Everyone Wants to be a Star.

  Manipulate. Time to put the spin to work. “I read your bios. Not bad, but what brings you back here to New York? Sounded like you have great lives and futures in Asia.”

  “Only New York is New York,” answered Abby.

  Olivia nodded, adding the cliché, “It’s go big or go home.”

  As Queenie took a slow sip of her drink, her brow furrowed. Putting her glass back on the table, she caressed its glass rim as she said, “So the poor little rich kids want to prove they’re more than busty babes with bucks?”

  Olivia and Abby were stunned. Queenie’s candid remark hit like a crushing blow to their mid-sections. Seeing their dumbfounded faces, Queenie piled it on. “Hey, just telling you like it is. Look at me. I’ve worked hard to get everything I’ve got. No silver spoon in my mouth. I don’t mind telling you I’ve done a lot of things you would never stoop to do in order to get to where I am. You know what I heard when you were telling me your story? ‘Oh, I didn’t feel like being a lawyer’ and ‘Woe is me. I’d never do any of those things like the girls with Harvey Weinstein or Jeffrey Epstein did. But I feel so unfulfilled so I’m going back to New York so I don’t have to play with the uncouth cowboys in China.’”

  Queenie had just stripped away the niceties of their pampered lives and laid it on the line.

  “So, do you still want us?” asked Olivia, trying hard not to sound deflated.

  “Oh, please. Stop the pity party. I’m just letting you know that I play for keeps without a safety net. If you want me to work with you, I need to know your commitment matches mine.” Queenie paused for a moment, then said reflectively, “The reason I’m having a showcase is because I’m starting a new business. A new recording label. Not jazz or jazzy, but jazz-influenced. Jazz today is stale. Almost everything sounds like it came out of the same music grinder. Everyone goes to college or music school, everybody plays with their friends...stuff that comes out of the marketing factory today.”

  Nothing Queenie could have said could have gotten Olivia
and Abby more interested.

  “That’s awesome,” said Abby.

  “Yeah, and one hell of a lot of work and a big chance to screw up. But forget me. This meeting’s about you. The way I see it, we start with a hook and angle for you like your East West synthesis thing…”

  “That works,” nodded Olivia.

  A smug smile appeared on the Eurasian tantalizer’s face. “It might but it might not, but let’s get real. New York is a hard market to conquer but, if you can do it, the world’s your oyster. But it’ll take more than just me and you. Who do you know that can help? Who is there that can open doors? Industry execs? Managers? Lawyers? Someone with bucks? Help me so I can help you better.”

  Olivia and Abby were suddenly silent. Abby glanced at Olivia, urging her to say something but she refused to open her mouth.

  Noting the facial exchange, Queenie blurted, “Hey, what is it you’re not telling me.”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s bullshit. Everyone knows somebody, even if it’s their high school choir director. Listen. Okay, I do everything I can for my clients but this is teamwork and I need you to help me get you out on top of the millions of fantastic but starving neglected artists.”

  Olivia murmured, “We have tons of connections. Abby’s father was the CEO of some of Asia’s top casinos and my dad was a lawyer who put together the deals. We…”

  Queenie interjected, “Great. Let’s call them up and we can put something together fast.”

  “It’s not possible,” said Olivia. “They’re dead. Killed by the guy they worked for. A Triad leader named Chin Chee Fok.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Exactly. He was worth billions but our fathers secretly stole much of his fortune away. When he found out…”

  “My father was shot in his own casino by a crossbow arrow and Olivia’s went up in smoke along with Chin in a fire at Chin’s penthouse.”

  “That is so totally awesome. Do you know how much buzz that can get us?” She began brainstorming. “Mafia Musical Mistresses. Daughters of the mob. Yakuza Yummies. Deadly Divas…”