Read Page 49

“He only sees people one at a time,” she says, hands on her hips. “I’ll take you up front and get you some nut mix. They got good nut mix.”

I hear Gonzo say, “I could be allergic to nuts,” as Miss D drags him away.Advertisement

The bodyguard lets me in and closes the door behind me. I’m in a little vestibule lit by a red lightbulb. On a side table, a dozen of those white candles you see in old churches burn, leaving bubbling trails of wax down their sides. Above the table is the watercolor painting of Junior and the black hole that was on the cover of the “Cypress Grove Blues” LP Eubie showed me in his shop. There’s a big white ring in the center of the painting just like on the album. Some Mardi Gras beads hang from a thumbtack. And there’s a picture taped to the bottom right corner. I blink when I see it, because I swear it looks like that same picture of Eubie in his harlequin mask on Bourbon Street.

“Somebody there?” a gravelly voice calls out.

I push aside a curtain. The room has nothing in it but two chairs beneath a single lightbulb. Junior Webster sits in one of the chairs, shining his horn. He looks about a hundred years old. His black skin’s dark and lined and ashy in spots, like a pair of beautiful leather shoes stained with snow. He wears the same suit as in the poster, with the same straw hat and black sunglasses.

“Come on over and take a seat,” he rasps. “I won’t bite.”

“You’re really Junior Webster?” I say, sitting next to him.

Junior chuckles. “All my life.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Cameron.”

“How do you know—?”

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“In time, in time. Everything’s connected, my friend, and we got a lot in common.” Junior tucks his horn under his arm. He takes my hands in his. The insides of his wrists are marked by thick scar tissue. “You’ve seen ’em, haven’t you?”

“Seen what?” I say, thinking he means the scars.

“Not what. Who.” Junior’s lips peel back from his shiny teeth. “Fire giants.”

My mouth’s gone dry. “You know about them, too?”

Junior nods slowly. He drops my hands and goes back to shining his horn. “Oh yes, my friend. I know ’em. Nasty things. You steal a look at ’em and you ’bout feel you could burn up with your fear. A glimpse of another world beyond this one here. Them fire gods are bad news, all right, but they’re not the worst of it. They work for the big guy.” He leans close. “The Wizard of Reckoning.”

The name and the way he says it raise goose bumps on my arms. “Who’s that?”

“You seen him. In your dreams. Maybe on a stretch of road in the middle of the night.”

“The guy in the black space-suit armor with the helmet and sword?”

Junior purses his lips. “That’s what you see, then that’s him. Don’t always look the same to ever’body.”

“Who is he?”

“Somebody who ain’t from around here. Somebody who don’t like bein’ put off. Somebody you gotta tangle with at some point, whether you want to or not. Him and them fire bullies been trying to get my horn for years and years.”

“Why do they want your horn?”

“All my passion’s wrapped up in the notes. That’s not just air I’m blowing through this mouthpiece, sonny. It’s my soul. Someday he’s gonna come for me, and I’m gonna blow like I never blown before, and we’ll see if it’s enough. You lookin’ for Dr. X, that right?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I met him myself one time. In the hospital, after the war. Yes sir, you and me got a lot in common.”

“Wait—how do you know about all this? How could you have already met Dr. X if Dulcie said the wormhole just opened up—”

“Time and space don’t always play by the rules you think they do, son, and Dr. X bent a lot of rules,” he answers. “I met him then. You looking for him now.” He taps the tips of his fingers together. “All connected.

“Enough with that talk. I wanna show you a little something. Take my arm.”

I help the great Junior Webster from his chair. He may look frail, but there’s a lot of strength in that arm. I’ll have to tell Eubie about it when I get back.

He drags one leg when he walks. “Got this limp in the war. Went over to play for the troops. Silly songs, mostly. Dance songs. Get-you-some kinds of songs. You feel me?” pqdm.com