Do Not Forsake Me. Not For a Dollar. Not For a Dime.
"Do Not Forsake Me. Not For a Dollar. Not For a Dime"
As the bullet whizzed past my head, I heard Charlie Parker playing Body and Soul in the distance. “I never noticed how damned good the piano was on this particular track,” I said to myself. Which was odd, since gunfire raged around me, sparking the air with tiny blasts of lightning and thunder, threatening me with imminent death should I lose my concentration.
Just as that thought crossed my mind, I reached for my gun, and without hesitation, fired two shots with such precision, it seemed an act of God. I could hear the sound of a skull splintering, piercing the brain, turning it to mush. I didn’t need to even see the damage. I knew the phantom lurking in the dark was dead. The shot was as sure as Gershwin sitting at the piano writing a melody.
I was in my element, baby, and it was good.
And then Parker’s solo reached its climax. His alto sax cadenza became my background music, his triplets, my bullets, his band, the ghosts of my youth; Hopalong Cassidy and Jessie James, Thelonious Monk and Wyatt Earp, these were my spirit guides, causing my aim to be straight and true.
After stepping over the body, I carefully exited the building. I needed to get the-hell outta there, but I also knew that some really, really bad people might be waiting for me. I wasn’t ready to have my ticket punched. Not just yet, anyway. So I opened the door—barely an inch—and there it was again. That music. But this time, it was Frank Wes playing Stella By Starlight, slow—and sensual as hell, echoing off the worn brick wall just across the alley. It came back at me like a dream, drawing me into an unlit room. My thoughts filled the obsidian space in my head, causing a flood of memory—of every romance, every fistfight in some dive somewhere, every smile on a lonely Sunday afternoon, on a cool, almost cold November day.
Snapping out of my reverie, I remembered where I was. Thankfully, I couldn’t see any bad guys, just an empty alleyway, a rat or two, maybe, but no bad guys with guns. I slid into the darkness like a specter, just as it started to rain, bobbing and weaving between the raindrops like Sugar Ray Robinson fending off Carmine Basilio at The Garden.
Suddenly, there it was again. That music. Houston Person playing “Talk of The Town,” with a hurt as abiding as a hole in my heart, left there by some treacherous but beautiful woman. One as elegant as a silk panther or a white cloud-bank set against a deep gray sky.
“But why was this damned music playing? And who was playing it?” I asked myself.
It seemed strange. And believe me, brother, I’ve seen strange. I’ve seen a spider the size of a small dog. I swam with Nile Crocodiles. I’ve run with the bulls in Pamplona. I’ve seen a whisper. Heard a star. Hell, I played the best outta three 8-Ball with Willie Mosconi and Minnesota Fats at the same time. And I won! Not by luck, either. But by the hand of God. That and a 38. Because if one doesn’t answer your prayers, the other will.
"And, if God doesn’t answer?"
A split second after the bullet lands, I’ll be gone with the wind. A memory, fading to black, like the earth’s sun as it burns low and dies.
Eventually, we all die. Some sooner. Some later.
Now, turn the clock to the wall, and give me a shot of whiskey and a handful of bullets, and tell the devil I’ll be late for dinner.
But I’ll be there.
You can bet on it.
Mark Magula
As the bullet whizzed past my head, I heard Charlie Parker playing Body and Soul in the distance. “I never noticed how damned good the piano was on this particular track,” I said to myself. Which was odd, since gunfire raged around me, sparking the air with tiny blasts of lightning and thunder, threatening me with imminent death should I lose my concentration.
Just as that thought crossed my mind, I reached for my gun, and without hesitation, fired two shots with such precision, it seemed an act of God. I could hear the sound of a skull splintering, piercing the brain, turning it to mush. I didn’t need to even see the damage. I knew the phantom lurking in the dark was dead. The shot was as sure as Gershwin sitting at the piano writing a melody.
I was in my element, baby, and it was good.
And then Parker’s solo reached its climax. His alto sax cadenza became my background music, his triplets, my bullets, his band, the ghosts of my youth; Hopalong Cassidy and Jessie James, Thelonious Monk and Wyatt Earp, these were my spirit guides, causing my aim to be straight and true.
After stepping over the body, I carefully exited the building. I needed to get the-hell outta there, but I also knew that some really, really bad people might be waiting for me. I wasn’t ready to have my ticket punched. Not just yet, anyway. So I opened the door—barely an inch—and there it was again. That music. But this time, it was Frank Wes playing Stella By Starlight, slow—and sensual as hell, echoing off the worn brick wall just across the alley. It came back at me like a dream, drawing me into an unlit room. My thoughts filled the obsidian space in my head, causing a flood of memory—of every romance, every fistfight in some dive somewhere, every smile on a lonely Sunday afternoon, on a cool, almost cold November day.
Snapping out of my reverie, I remembered where I was. Thankfully, I couldn’t see any bad guys, just an empty alleyway, a rat or two, maybe, but no bad guys with guns. I slid into the darkness like a specter, just as it started to rain, bobbing and weaving between the raindrops like Sugar Ray Robinson fending off Carmine Basilio at The Garden.
Suddenly, there it was again. That music. Houston Person playing “Talk of The Town,” with a hurt as abiding as a hole in my heart, left there by some treacherous but beautiful woman. One as elegant as a silk panther or a white cloud-bank set against a deep gray sky.
“But why was this damned music playing? And who was playing it?” I asked myself.
It seemed strange. And believe me, brother, I’ve seen strange. I’ve seen a spider the size of a small dog. I swam with Nile Crocodiles. I’ve run with the bulls in Pamplona. I’ve seen a whisper. Heard a star. Hell, I played the best outta three 8-Ball with Willie Mosconi and Minnesota Fats at the same time. And I won! Not by luck, either. But by the hand of God. That and a 38. Because if one doesn’t answer your prayers, the other will.
"And, if God doesn’t answer?"
A split second after the bullet lands, I’ll be gone with the wind. A memory, fading to black, like the earth’s sun as it burns low and dies.
Eventually, we all die. Some sooner. Some later.
Now, turn the clock to the wall, and give me a shot of whiskey and a handful of bullets, and tell the devil I’ll be late for dinner.
But I’ll be there.
You can bet on it.
Mark Magula