"No animal can tell good music from bad." Steve Azos,
proprietor of the Jazz House Coffee Bar, laughed and shook his
pale head. "No way."
Jeff Rath felt an answer batter against his teeth. He tried to
stop the words, but couldn't restrain them.
"Satchmo can tell." His brain felt fuzzy, as though he was
drunk, his body and thoughts beyond his control. Hoagy
Carmichael music danced from the stereo, making everything
shimmer and tilt at crazy angles. Something strange was
happening.
Why had he revealed his pet's special talent? Why did he
feel so odd, as if his thoughts moved in sync to the music's
offbeats? As if he watched people around him with eyes not his
own? They felt odd and stressed, as if his pupils were dilated and
in bright light.
He looked into his Coffee Special sitting on the antique oak
bar. Steve had mixed the brews himself. Had he slipped
something hallucinogenic into the beverage, its taste hidden by the
bite of the coffee?
Steve sipped from his mug. "What does this cat do?"
"He turns on the boom box," Jeff explained, trying to hold on
to his sense of reality. "I swear. He knows what music I need to
calm me down or raise my spirits. I unlock the door, greet him,
and he looks at me with huge green eyes. Then he walks to the
shelves, digs out a disc, drops it in the player and hits 'Play'."
"He opens plastic boxes?" asked Steve.
"They're in those travel folders that hold about ten each,"
explained Rath. "He paws them out."
"Lots of claw marks, right?"
Jeff shook his head. "I've never found a scratch." He drank
and sighed, listening with pleasure as an elegant Duke Ellington
selection began.
"Tell you what," said Steve, thumping down his mug. "My
sister's been wanting a cat for her kid. Let's make that bet. Bring
in your Satchmo on Friday. If he indicates that he likes the new
trio I've hired, I'll believe that animals have musical sense. If your
cat hides or seems indifferent, my sister gets him. Gloria's going to
be tending bar that evening, she'll help judge."
"Sure," the brunette said with a grin as she reached for a
clean mug.
Jeff asked hoarsely, "What's in it for me? Besides possibly
losing my cat."
"Let's see." Steve swirled his coffee as music curled around
them. "I know. One of my friends is acquainted with Terry
McCormack, the music producer. That company's always looking
for talent scouts with jazz savvy. Maybe they'd give you a job
that'd let you quit your three part-timers. I could arrange an
introduction."
Rath shook with internal palsy, but his hands remained steady
as he raised his mug and drained it. The world seemed more
skewed than ever. He could not force his head into lateral
movement to deny the proposal. All he could manage was a jerky
nod. His neck felt like it was anchored with a rusted hinge which
might snap and send his head rolling across the bar. He moved like
a marionette, controlled by some power outside himself. Jeff hated
the feeling.
Steve said, "This is Tuesday. Bring your pet in Friday night.
Then we'll see." He raised his drink. "I still say no cat knows
music."
Rath sat silent and miserable, thinking it might be a good
thing if he could disappear along with the last of the Duke's sweet
notes. How could he have made a bet on a buddy who couldn't
speak for himself?
"Another Coffee Special to seal the bet?" offered Azos.
"Can't, thanks." Rath slipped off his stool, surprised to find
his feet solidly beneath him and the floor where it should be. "I
work in a few hours. Gotta sleep." Brubeck's "Take Five" began,
one of his favorites. "Thanks for the coffee, Steve." He shrugged
into his jacket.
"Don't forget," the owner called to his back. "Friday at eight,
you and the cat."
Jeff stepped into the rain beyond the door. "Satchmo, how
could I have done this to you?" he groaned. "Why do I feel so
odd?" Seattle's winter fog caged him in a misty bubble that
suspended all reality except the slap of his feet against wet
pavement as he trotted the four blocks to his tiny apartment. The
ends of his shoulder-length hair guided damp beneath his collar
and he shivered. "Buddy, you're going to hate me. I'll never find
another cat like you. Not with your music magic." Feeling
suddenly tired and very much alone, he dragged up three flights of
stairs and unlocked his door.
Satchmo Jazzz waited for him in the middle of the main
room, the tip of his gray and black tail twitching. Creamed coffee
cheeks bristling with white whiskers contrasted with the tabby's
brick-red nose. Round green eyes rimmed with black and buff
looked enormous set amid dark and light stripes of his face. Rath
shucked his jacket, scooped up the sixteen-pounder, and plomped
them down in the worn easy chair.
"Tell you what I did," Jeff said in a rush, ruffling the soft fur
behind Satch's ears as the cat sighed and demanded more attention.
"You're my best friend. I don't want to lose you." Satchmo looked
straight at him, peridot-green eyes absorbing every word. "I made
a stupid bet that you could tell if Steve's new trio is good. They're
playing Friday. We're supposed to go there and listen. Do
nothing, and his sister's kid gets you. Act interested and we win.
Then you and I get introduced to some music producer needing a
talent scout. That meeting might not gain us anything." Shaking
his head, he scrubbed fingers through his dark hair. "I know you're
pretty unusual, but this is more than even you can---"
Rath's lap cooled suddenly as Satchmo jumped down. The
cat strode to the stereo boom box, tapped the "Play" button, and sat
beside it staring at the man as the strains of "Don't Worry, Be
Happy" filled the room.
Jeff laughed and leaned back, patting his legs. "No matter
how bad it gets, you always make me feel better, Satch." The
tabby leaped into his lap, turned once so the softest part of the
worn jeans were under his paws, and settled down purring.
They'd been together for five years, through good and bad
times. This last six months since he'd been laid off at TechWorks
and had lost his investments through lousy advice was the leanest
stretch they'd had. Love interests for Jeff had dwindled to nothing
because of his peculiar hours, leaving him very lonely.
The cat stoically accepted his partner's frustration,
exhaustion, and erratic hours working whatever jobs he could get.
In return Satch offered companionship and entertained them with a
zany selection from Rath's CDs. How and when the cat had
learned to dig the discs from their folders and work the boom box
Jeff couldn't recall. It was part of Satchmo's magic.
He combed the cat's brindle coat, remembering. Rath had
known that Satch was uncommon from the moment they met. Five
years ago he'd been walking across the parking lot of TechWorks,
the area's largest computer hardware and software development
firm, when an escaped Rottweiler had taken a fancy to his ankles.
Jeff had butted the dog in the side with his brief case and sprinted
for the building. A gray blurr streaked between them, and the Rott
veered after the cat.
Panting, Jeff slid his security pass through the slot outside
TechWorks' huge door. The feline wheeled and charged full-speed
toward the building, the dog slavering three paces off its tail. Rath
slipped inside. Something made him look back. He spotted the cat
flying for safety. Jeff awaited his rescuer, holding the door just
wide enough for the kitten to squeeze through. He let it shut just in
time for the Rott's nose to smash into thick plastic.
"What am I going to do with you?" Rath had looked at the
bedraggled, half-grown kitten and met a pair of intense peridot-
green eyes. The bond between them was instant. "You could sit
on my desk."
The tabby "Yowwed" silently as Jeff picked him up and
carried him to his cubicle. On the desk, the kitten washed and
settled into what Jeff called the "loaf" position--lozenge-shaped,
head up, eyes slitted, tail and paws tucked beneath his body. He
accepted admiring pats with grace, but his aloof mein announced
his affection centered on his desk mate. When lunchtime came,
Jeff shared two coldcuts sandwiches with his hungry new friend.
That afternoon, Sheila in the next compartment had switched
the radio station to elevator music. The kitten's eyes sprang open,
his head whirled around, and his agonized wail cut across the
melody. He jumped down, located the radio, hopped onto that
desk, and began batting it.
"You're kitten's attacking my radio," Sheila shrieked.
"Change the station," Rath suggested, stepping around the
partition to claim the tabby.
Sheila did so, passing one with jazz. The kitten complained
and reached out a protesting paw. She tuned in the Louis
Armstrong song. Jeff, hearing a satisfied purr accompany the
brilliant trumpet, decided to name the cat Satchmo in honor of that
musician.
Many incidents since then convinced Rath his cat knew good
jazz. He had bought a stereo boom box with a radio and left it on a
station that specialized in a mixture of Pat Metheny, the Marsalis
brothers, Thelonious Monk, Charlie Bird Parker, and Lady Day, as
well as cuts from new musicians. Satchmo reacted with his best
cat smile to the oldies except for the more outrageous of Spike
Jones' pieces, turning up the corners of his mouth and hooding his
eyes in ecstacy. New musicians he divided into three groups: the
good, the okay, and the walk-aways. Jeff learned that when the
tabby turned tail, that person or group wasn't long on the play list.
Satch seemed to hear something that made his ears flatten and his
toes twitch to be gone.
Leaning back, Rath smiled and relaxed a little. Telling his
mental alarm to wake him in three hours, he fell asleep to the cat's
rumble matched to the body percussion and soft vocals of Bobby
McFerrin.
* * *
By Friday Jeff wasn't so certain of success. He spent his
afternoon as a clinic security guard trying to think of ways to quit
the bet with dignity. He could not let his best friend go. He
calculated his finances, thinking that he might be able to eke out
the adoption fee from the local humane society if he skipped three
meals before his next paycheck. Then Steve's sister's brat would
have a kitten to maul and he could keep Satchmo. No other
solution occurred to him as he walked to the security firm's
headquarters after his stint, changed into street clothes, and hurried
home.
"You know what you've got to do tonight." Jeff knelt, petting
his friend and receiving a purr recalling the roar of an unmufflered
Harley. "This is real important. I'll never, ever, make a bet like
this again."
Satch butted his head against Rath's knee and looked straight
into the man's eyes. Jeff stared back, mesmerized by the assurance
he saw there. The human blinked first. "Are you telling me
not to worry?" The tabby's chin bumped over his knuckles. "I
don't think I can. I'm too nervous. I should eat, but I'm not
hungry. I'll get coffee at the Jazz House." He scratched Satch
behind the ears. "We'd better go." Jeff slung on his jacket, zipped
it a few inches, and thumped his chest. Satchmo sprang, landing in
his arms.
"Good thing you know when to use those claws." Tucking
Satch's tail under his left arm, Rath let the cat's head protrude from
the coat's opening. With a huge sigh he locked the door and
thumped down the stairs.
The walk to the Jazz House passed too quickly. It seemed to
Jeff as if they arrived there by science-fiction transporter instead of
by his feet. He hesitated, one hand on the door, then pushed into
the Jazz House. "Basin Street Blues" enveloped him and the cat.
"There you are." Steve stepped up to meet them. "I thought
you might not show. Where's your--oh, there. Sit down, the
coffee's on me tonight. Two, Gloria," he ordered. "The first set
doesn't begin for half an hour."
Jeff let Satchmo out of his jacket onto the bar, where the cat
shook to rid his fur of damp. Steve frowned, watching the
tabby's ears twitch. The cat paced down the long curving oak bar
and stopped again, listening. "What's he doing?"
"Probably finding the best place to listen." Rath chose a
stool, perching on the edge, noticing the fog at the edge of his
vision. Things were getting strange again. "He went straight to the
corner where the sound balances."
Satch sat, head up and tail wrapped primly around his feet, as
Wynton Marsalis wailed. The cat's ears pricked.
"Maybe he does know about jazz," Steve admitted. "But
that's an established artist, a sound he's probably familiar with.
The trio's only been working together a few weeks."
Nerves scratched Jeff's throat, making his tone harsh. "I don't
think Satchmo's ever been to a live performance. At least not with
me." He sipped coffee that seared his tongue, and grimaced.
"My sister's kid's looking forward to this cat," the coffee bar's
owner remarked.
"I meant to ask you about that," Rath began. "Would it be all
right if I bought her one? Satch and I have been together a long
time, and I---"
"Then our bet's off and you welched," said Steve. "I want to
see this feline do the things you talked about. It's worth a little
risk."
Jeff twisted his cup. "You're risking nothing." His insides
knotted and the room seemed to warp.
"Here they are," said Steve.
A tall dark-haired young man walked to the piano as a bass
player and a guitarist took nearby chairs. The pianist waited a few
minutes for his partners to get comfortable and then struck a tuning
A. When the bassist nodded satisfaction, the young man sat down
at the upright and began stroking his long fingers over the the keys
without pressing.
Steve rose to turn off the stereo, waiting until Pete Fountain
finished "'Way Down Yonder in New Orleans" before he stepped
to the microphone.
"Tonight the Jazz House welcomes you with a new group.
And there's an added attraction." He pointed at Satchmo. "See the
big cat on the bar? There's a bet. He's supposed to know good
jazz. The person he lives with says the cat will have an
unmistakable reaction to these musicians, particularly if they're
good." He turned to the trio. "Make it hot, men, the cat's
watching."
The pianist caught ready-nods from the others as Steve
moved through the tables and sat down. Plunging his fingers onto
the keys, the young man slammed into Fats Waller's "The Joint is
Jumpin'".
The music sounded a little ragged at first, but the audience
yelled moderate approval as the triad wound to a stop and swung
into the next tune. Jeff glanced at Satchmo. The cat had assumed
loaf position, but his head was high and his ears twitched as if he
listened for something elusive. His intent green eyes stared past
the musicians. Rath crossed his fingers, noticing as he did the
sense of unreality taking over again.
"Don't let us down, Satch," he pleaded.
The third song gathered howls of favor as the pianist blasted
into Jelly Roll Morton's "Ballin' the Jack". The young man's
demeanor changed--eyes slitted, head thrown back, half-smile on
his lips, his fingers caressed the keys as he gave away his lead to
his partners and took it back without faltering. The sweating
bassist watched him closely, but the guitarist displayed a Cheshire
cat grin. People ignored coffee and conversation to listen. Some
even clapped in rhythm.
They played "Old Man River" by Cole Porter, followed by
Cannonball Adderley's "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy" and Brubeck's
"Blue Rondo a la Turk". Following another classic, the trio
rollicked into a playful version of "The Birth of the Blues".
Steve grabbed Jeff's arm. "Where's the cat?"
Rath glanced at the curve in the bar. The big tabby was gone.
"I-I don't know," he stuttered. He felt as though someone threw
magic into the air and was trying to suffocate him with it.
"He's probably under a table," Steve sneered. "Or someone
dropped him out the door."
"Hey, look at the cat!" someone yelled.
Jeff and Steve whirled. Rath grinned in relief as the bar's
proprietor lost his chin somewhere around his knees.
"Way to go, Satch," Rath whispered.
Satchmo stood with the trio, his attention on the guitar, the
tip of his upright tail dipping to the strong beats. Round and intent,
his eyes looked greener than normal in the spotlights. The tabby's
gaze switched to the bassist and he paced over to the big
instrument as if assessing its vibrations.
"Looky there," Gloria said. "You've lost this bet, Steve."
Jeff squinted at his feline. "He's not smiling."
Steve frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The guitar player barely passed. Satch smiles when he
really likes something." Jeff finished his coffee, feeling somewhat
better. "I think the bassist'll pass, too. But I really want to see
Satchmo with the pianist, the make-or-break man."
"Explain that."
"He's cueing the leads and setting the pace. And Satch saved
him for last."
"Two more, Gloria," Steve ordered, sounding sour.
Satchmo disappeared behind the upright piano while the
group played "Ain't Misbehavin'" and "St. James Infirmary". He
sat close to the pedals during "Honeysuckle Rose", his striped head
tipped to the left. The intent pianist didn't notice. When the trio
began their hot version of "Mack the Knife" led by the bassist,
Satch leaped to the top of the upright and stayed there, the upward
quirk of his mouth plain to see.
"That's his seal of approval," Jeff announced, reveling in the
cat's magic.
The young keyboard player struck the last chord and looked
up, straight into Satchmo's wide green eyes. Neither moved for
long moments. The pianist finally broke the stare and turned to his
cohorts.
"Game to try a new tune?"
"Sure," grinned the guitarist. "If it goes as well as the rest of
this gig." The bassist nodded.
"You'll pick it up easy." The crowd quieted as he held up a
hand for attention. "One, two, one, two, three, four!"
He slapped down a few chords, broke the pattern with a short
run, and returned to chords again. The rhythm resembled a cat's
prowl. The bassist came in smoothly with a walking bass, and the
guitarist found his part high in the soprano. The sound solidified
as the musicians played off one another. People in the coffee bar
jumped up to dance or sat clapping in time, thoroughly enjoying
themselves and the original music.
The set ended. Wild applause followed the trio as they
stumbled to the bar, drunk with the heady mixture of good music
and appreciation. Steve ordered coffees.
"Wow," the guitarist said. "It's never happened like that
before."
"No kidding," agreed the bassist.
"It was the cat," said the pianist. "The piece seemed to jump
out of his eyes right into my head. Who does he belong to?"
"Me," said Jeff proudly, putting an arm around Satchmo after
the tabby leaped onto the bar.
"Will you bring him for next Friday's jam?" The keyboardist
grinned. "I'll throw in some tuna. That cat's fine, he's one with
jazz, man."
Steve nodded. "You win. Give me a few days to set up the
meeting, all right?"
"Sure. We'll be here on Fridays." Jeff looked down at his
purring buddy. The room was upright again and the fog gone, but
everything sparkled. The tabby tickled him in the ear with his tail
and blinked slowly as if to say "See? Nothing at all to worry
about."
* * *
Several days later Jeff's phone rang, startling him awake in
the easy chair. He dumped Satchmo off his lap and rose to answer,
feeling lonely and achingly weary. "Yeah?" His voice was
raspy with sleep.
"Rath, this is Steve. I'm paying off our bet. Can you get here
right away?"
"I've got to work, sorry."
"Tell them you quit. And bring the cat."
Reality skewed suddenly. "What?"
"Terry McCormack's here. See you in a few minutes." The
line clicked dead.
Jeff stood looking at the handset for some time before
movement caught his eye. Satchmo hit the "Play" button on the
boom box and Louis Armstrong's graveley "What a Wonderful
World" floated out.
"I really ought to quit?" Rath asked. The cat danced. Feeling
silly about taking advice from a feline, Jeff made the call.
Distinctly light-headed, he took a quick shower before zipping
Satchmo into his jacket and heading for the Jazz House.
He pushed open the door with sudden jitters. The interior
sparkled with phantom glitter. "Steve?"
A single light gleamed over the far side of the bar. One
person sat there, facing away from the entrance with a steaming
mug, disguised by a hat and raincoat. Les Paul's "Moonglow"
wafted everywhere, cloaking the figure in magic.
"Jeff Rath?" A melodious voice, definitely female, cut
through the music. It sent goosebumps up his arms and neck. His
world tilted. "Did you bring Satchmo?"
"Yes."
The figure turned, taking off the hat. Though not pretty, her
face was striking, all pale angles under a wild tumble of auburn
hair. "I'm Terry McCormack, producer of Top o' the World
Recordings. I've heard good things about you and your cat."
Satch squirmed. Jeff unzipped his jacket, letting the feline
hop onto the bar. "From Steve, I suppose."
She watched as the tabby stared her direction, flipping his
tail. "To tell you the truth, I checked with your current employers.
They say you're overqualified, but conscientious. I'm offering you
something better."
Jeff's breath deserted him. "What?" he croaked.
"Talent scout for my company."
Rath dipped his head as Satchmo's tail began switching in
huge arcs. "It's not me that has the talent. It's my cat. He hears
something special in certain musicians. And he loves music,
especially jazz." Jeff patted Satch's back. "So it's really the cat
you want, not me." A chill sluiced through him. Would this be the
second time in less than a week he could lose Satchmo?
"If the cat becomes the scout, he'll need a keeper. You're
experienced." She smiled slightly, just the corners of her mouth
and eyes turning up. The expression reminded Jeff strongly of
Satchmo's smile. The tabby was already strolling down the bar
toward her waiting hand. "I've heard that you two make such a
great team that I'd be reluctant to take one without the other." She
listened to the music for a couple of seconds as she scratched the
cat's chin. He purred. "Are you free for dinner?"
"As long as Satchmo comes with us."
"Of course."
Paced by Satch, Terry McCormack rose and strode along the
bar. She started to take Jeff's arm. For the first time he looked into
her face. Shock staggered him. Terry's eyes were the same vivid
peridot-green as the cat's.
She ignored his discomfort. "I know a little place not far
from here."
He took a deep stabilizing breath. The sense of magic did not
dissipate. "Great. C'mon, Satch."
Zipping the tabby securely into his jacket, Jeff offered his
arm to Terry. She curled her hand through his elbow, and the three
of them walked out of the Jazz House into chill mist.
The door closed, cutting off the remainder of Louis
Armstrong's "I Get Ideas".
©Janet Pack 1996
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