Coq au Vin (21 page)

With a toss of his head, he pressed the doll into my hands.

“What the fuck? It's somebody's birthday every day, isn't it? Here, take it. I have it on good authority that this lady will fix up your life, no matter what kind of blues you have. And let's face it, Smash-up, you could use the help.”

Like they say, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Though I never had an idea in hell what that old axiom meant.

“Thanks, J. That's really sweet of you. I think I'll name her Justine, in your honor.”

“Unh unh,” he cautioned. “She's already got a name: Mama Lou. You have to call her Mama Lou.”

“Okay. But why?”

“Perry Mason,” he said, as if that answered my question.

“Perry Who?” Aubrey asked.

Myself, I knew who Perry Mason was, but his answer still made no sense.

“You know that old TV show from the fifties,” he began to explain. “He was a lawyer that never lost a case. And my girl Della, his secretary, used to wear these kickass high heels without the backs to them.

“Well, when I first started working at Caesar's, my shift would start about two in the afternoon. So I would get out of bed about eleven or twelve. They used to show
Perry Mason
reruns every day on Channel Five. I would eat my breakfast and get ready for work while I watched it. Got to the point it would ruin my day if I couldn't see it. I saw most of the shows five … six … a hundred times.

“Anyway, they had this one story about this young white girl who had lost her parents, and so she was raised down in Haiti by this voodoo mammy they called Mama Lou. But somebody killed Big Mama. Man, that was my favorite
Perry
. The thing is, while I was watching it the power went out in my building, and I never found out who the murderer was. They never showed that one again, godammit. To this day, I don't know who killed Mama Lou.

“So there I am the other day, coming back from Armani on Fifth Avenue, and I cut down Fifteenth Street to come back over east. Right there at Union Square and Fifteenth where all those street vendors hang out—”

“
Armani?”
That was Aubrey's incredulous hoot, interrupting Justin's narrative. “Motherfucker, you don't shop at no Armani and you know it.”

He bristled and snapped at the air. “I buy my soap there, bitch. Everybody knows Italian soaps are the best. Anyway, as I was saying, there I am at that corner of Fifteenth and the park. And I look up and there's Mama Lou staring me right in the face.

“There's this woman who looks like she could be a voodoo lady herself. She sews these dolls and sells them on the street there. Got a whole table full of different kinds of dolls. She said all her dolls got magic powers. Hell, I can always use a little magic. So now you come in here looking like … well, like you're looking,” he said. “I figure you'll be a real good test of Mama Lou's magic. If she can help you, she can help anybody.”

I took the doll and held her close, swallowing hard. “From your lips, Justin.”

I looked over at Aubrey. “Are you still pissed at me, Aub?”

She didn't say anything, just plucked a few tissues from her table and began to wipe my mouth.

I smiled at the two of them. “Thanks, Mom and Dad,” I said.

CHAPTER 2

It's Magic

This fucking thing does
not
work! I thought bitterly.

I was pretty grim that afternoon. Two days since Justin had given me the Mama Lou doll and I was damned if I could see any magic changes taking place in my life.

So much for voodoo. So much for Perry Mason.

I had the doll propped up in my saxophone case, so that she could oversee and bless those bills raining into the case as the public showed its grateful appreciation for my playing. Ha. The previous day's take had been mediocre. Today's was downright lousy.

I was blowing in the Times Square station, where any number of musicians I knew from the scene told me they'd been cleaning up as of late. The pickings were supposed to be ripe in Times Square now, owing in great part to the Disneyfication of the area. Hordes of out-of-towners roamed there freely, taking the subways by day and night, no longer afraid of being held up, raped, carjacked, and so on. Little by little, New York is getting rehabilitated as a tourist mecca—that is, becoming a shopping mall, where the real Americans can feel at home.

Like all dyed-in-the-wool Manhattanites, I found the so-called clean-up of 42nd Street distasteful. What with the pimps, the porn movie houses, the touts for the live sex shows, the drugs, the parasites that hung around the Port Authority terminal, and all the rest of that scuzz, the old 42nd Street had been no picnic. But it was preferable to this version of Wonderland where everybody was buying inflatable Little Mermaids and queuing up for
The Lion King
.

I had had it with the Deuce, as they were calling Times Square in the seventies. I threw in the towel: packed up and rode up to street level on the spanking new escalator.

I'd locked Mama Lou inside the case with a cruel little laugh, hoping she'd suffocate in there.

I walked east, stopping at the main library on Fifth Avenue. I slipped into Bryant Park and crunched around on a few dead leaves, sat down on one of the benches for fifteen minutes or so. Then I went back out onto the pavement to try my luck playing again. Once more I propped up old Mama Lou, my supposed lucky charm.

I got a couple of bucks from some student types, a fiver from a European couple, and assorted coins from the sainted New York types who seem to give money automatically to anybody who asks for it.

After a couple of hours I headed downtown on foot, thinking evil thoughts about the corn-fed tourists in their K Mart jeans; the mayor and his fucking gated-community mind-set; lite jazz; turn-off notices; autumn in New York; my bloody karma; and, especially, Mama Lou.

I needed to stop off for groceries. Given the current budget, spaghetti sounded delicious. In the supermarket I walked past the lamb chops and straight to the pasta aisle.

At home, I looked at the Jack Daniel's bottle but didn't go for it. Instead I kicked out of my shoes and opened a beer. While I made supper, I listened to a Lady Day/Lester tape I've always been fond of, going over to the machine a couple of times to replay “This Year's Kisses.”

My tough guy pose had pretty much dissolved, helped along by that titanic crying fit the other day. I was beginning to feel a little more like myself, kind of human. But I was still broke and I was still sad.

No rush to hear my phone messages. What was the point? I had little desire to talk to anyone. Unless it was Aubrey, I did not plan to return the call. But, just before turning in, I did press the message button and listen.

The voice, a woman's, was vaguely familiar. Not until she said something about a $350 check did I recognize the voice to be that of the secretary at the travel magazine where I work periodically, translating articles from French into English. Apparently, through some computer mix-up, they had the wrong address for me. They had been sending me the same check, and getting it back in the mail, for weeks.

Money! At last, a piece of good luck.

I sent up a little prayer of thanks and a silent apology to Justin. If he had such great faith in the silly doll, then I guess I could give her a little credit, too.

Actually, Mama Lou was not the first doll I owned as an adult. I used to keep some little West African cuties on a shelf in the kitchen, but I ditched them when I last repainted the apartment—ended up giving them to a neighbor's little girl.

I used to tell all my secrets to my dolly when I was a kid. In fact, if memory serves, my father caught me whispering tearfully to her once. Naturally he insisted on knowing what I was telling her. I'm sure I lied to him. Daddy wasn't big on superstitions or black people who fell under their sway. Lucky charms, Friday the 13th, dream books, avoiding ladders and cracks in the sidewalk. All nonsense, he said. Work hard, eat right, do the honorable thing, and you won't need luck.

But I did. I needed a lucky break.

Four days a week, the north quadrant of Union Square Park was converted into a farmers market—a heady mix of ravishing wildflowers, spices, craft works, and seasonal produce. Twenty varieties of apples and squash and arcane hybrids of potatoes; pumpkins as big as a Volkswagen, homemade pies, sheepskin blankets, and brick oven focaccia; hand-churned butter and organic honey—an endless list of goods that city folks craved and were prepared to pay dearly for. By night, the same patch of the park became a gathering place for teenagers polishing their rollerblading skills.

So, the question was, Did I really need that bunch of authentic, gritty broccoli rabe, or was I inventing an errand just so I could get a look at the doll's creator, the real-life Mama Lou?

With the bustling market on my left, I walked and scanned the skinny strip of Broadway—or Union Square West, as the new street sign was calling it—running along the park. There was a vitamin store at the corner of 17th, and next to it, a McDonald's. I'd always found that kind of amusing.

A few doors below, there was a pissy-looking wine shop, and then the terraced seafood restaurant where middle-aged lovers liked to gather on summer nights.

I continued south. Past the hugely successful all-night coffee shop where the younger crowd flocked, naively hoping to spot a few supermodels consuming their midday yogurt and heroin.

Finally, 15th Street. That was where the dolls were sold, Justin had said. I'll be damned, there they were! A bevy of dark dolls dressed in riotous colors. The folding table, set up in front of the office building with a bank on the ground floor, was thick with them. And the real Mama Lou was at her place, on a metal chair. No customers around, she was playing solitaire at one edge of the table.

I didn't go up to her right away. Instead I looked at the goods on the unattended folding table next to hers, which contained a sea of unctuous body musk in dark little glass vials. Some people find those scents sexy, I think. I don't get that.

“He'll be back in a minute, honey,” the doll lady said, placing a ten of hearts on the jack of spades. “I'm watching his stuff for him.”

“Oh, that's okay,” I said. “I'm just looking.”

A black man with matted hair, who had been dozing near the entrance to the ATM, roused himself and approached me, paper cup extended.

I gave him a buck, but when he wanted to engage me in one of those panhandler flirtations, I shook him off and sauntered over to the doll lady's table.

“What's the matter?” she said with a teasing laugh. “Don't you need a new boyfriend?”

“Funny you should ask,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I do. Since I can't get the old one back.”

“Oh, you'll get him, honey. Just let me know if his granddaddy is single.”

We had a good laugh together.

“What's your name, baby?” she said.

“Nan.”

“I'm Ida Williams.”

She swept all the cards together then, ending the game. I looked at her ebony hands, nimble even though they were old, with knuckles like little marbles.

“You've got some worries on your mind, huh?” she said.

I was taken aback. “Does it show?”

She didn't answer.

“I guess I haven't been having the best luck lately with—well, with anything.”

“Um hum. Well, that's going to change, baby.”

“You think so?”

“Everything in its time, honey, everything in its time.”

Mrs. Williams patted my hand then. I was crying, and I hadn't even known it.

Three young women laden with shopping bags walked up to the table just then. A lucky thing that they did. Because otherwise I might have unloaded my worried mind on Mrs. Williams. Which would have been incredibly dumb. I'd known the woman for all of five minutes. There was just so much empathy in those old eyes of hers. She was friendly and funny and salty. But, oddly enough, there seemed to be sadness in her as well.

The potential customers began examining Ida's wares. She went into her spiel and I stepped aside.

“Nice to meet you,” I called to her as I began to walk away.

“All right, you have a beautiful day, honey.”

I looked back, more than a little skeptical.

“Just look up,” she added. “See? It's already beautiful, isn't it?”

She was right. I removed my scarf and let the strong sun play on the back of my neck. It felt wonderful.

I could do no wrong.

Yesterday was yesterday. Today, I could do no wrong. Or should I say “we” could do no wrong. The Mama Lou doll sat there beaming with pride while I played my ass off.

I had planned to play outside the big soulless café on 53rd Street and Seventh Avenue for only an hour or so and then head back downtown. But the crowd wouldn't let me go. The case was fat with dollar bills.

One nattily dressed older man, hammered on martinis by the smell of things, had me play “Save Your Love for Me” three times. With every rendition he would drop another ten-dollar bill. When he was young, he said, he had a terrible crush on Nancy Wilson. He was staying at the Sheraton, which was just across the street, by the way, if I was interested.

Then a lady in a fur asked if I knew Stevie Wonder's “Ribbon in the Sky.” Not really. I bumbled my way through it. Ten bucks from her, too.

Your girl was money that day.

I finally did close up shop, put the loot in my wallet, and walk to the nearest station for the downtown Lex.

Maybe I ought to buy Mama Lou a fur, I thought as the train whipped along. Keep her warm all through the winter.

At the 23rd Street station I took the stairs two at a time. And practically floated up the stairs to my apartment.

That night's phone message beat the one from the magazine by a mile: my old music coach, Jeff Moses, was phoning to say he had a regular gig for me, if I wanted it. I would be filling in for an ailing saxophonist, part of a trio that played three nights a week at a restaurant uptown.