Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-one

The outside of the Chicago Tribune is a lot more impressive than the inside. I'm no expert, but in my opinion, the Tribune Tower, as the local's call it, is one of the architectural must-see's when in Chicago. Forget the Hancock, forget the Sears Tower, forget the Amoco building: they're just big, tall, fucking buildings with views of Lake Michigan and parts of Indiana (the ugly parts.) Who cares about America's modern obsession with "bigger is better" ... "taller is terrific"? Give me details, give me craftsmanship, give me real stone for God's sake, and I'll be happy (at least about building quality, that is.)

I walked right past the twenty-something receptionist who was busy with some sort of makeup application, her left eye, and a compact. My search began.

I've only been in one other newsroom before, and that was on a field trip in fifth grade. But after walking around this one, and from what I remember of that one, I can probably sum up the journalistic experience in one word—messy. Maybe filthy. Journalists seem to like piles of paper, and books, and fast-food bags.

Probably looking too much like I was lost and completely without a clue, a gaunt looking man with very short patches of hair, large glasses, and several scabs on his face asked if he could be of some assistance.

"Uh, yeah, sure. I'm looking for Kate ..." I blanked on Kate's last name. Just plain forgot. I'm not sure if I got distracted by wondering if the gaunt man's scabs had to do with AIDS, the constant clickety-click of several hundred keyboards, or the video bank of TV's playing CNN, MSNBC, CSPAN, and The Rosie O'Donnell Show. But I began to cough so I could both buy time to think and try to cover up that I forgot Kate's last name.

Was it Hennessey? No, I think it started with a B, but all of a sudden, I wasn't sure. I knew it was two syllables. Barron? Barry? Bernstein ... Bernstein? Maybe it was the newsroom influence, but it definitely wasn't Bernstein.

My coughing suddenly got too much attention. People looked up from their terminals, more out of curiosity, as it turned out, than annoyance, because they all went right back to work.

"Are you all right?" the gaunt man asked.

In between coughs, I said, "Do have a water fountain?"

"Sure, down that hall and to the left, and Kate's last name is Buckley. She's sitting right there, against the window."

My coughing fit stopped as soon as I saw Kate. She sat across the table from a large man with his keyboard resting half on his belly and half on the table in front of him. Kate was reading through some papers with her beautiful hair highlighted by the sun.

"Kate's the smaller one," the gaunt man offered as a joke.

I smiled.

"Hey, your cough's better ..."

"So, it is. Thanks for helping me get over it."

Kate was so engrossed in what she was reading, she didn't hear me approach or notice that I was standing right next to her. For some reason, I couldn't speak. She looked so content and peaceful reading whatever it was that she was reading—I didn't want to bother her. The large man across from her didn't give a shit. He got her attention.

"Psst. Kate ... hey, Kate."

"Yeah?" she answered without looking up.

"Kate ..." The guy persisted.

"Dash, what the hell do you want?" She looked over her papers at the man named Dash.

"I don't want anything, but I think the guy staring at you might."

It was as though she turned in slow motion. I could see every strand of hair fly through the air as she turned toward me. I could see her eyelashes gently touch each other as she blinked. Her expression changed from one of consternation to one of familiarity—again, the crooked smile.

"Are you still mad at me?" was all I could muster.

"I was never mad, just hurt."

She pulled out a chair next to her and motioned for me to have a seat.

I didn't know what to say. I still didn't know what to do with the Ben tapes—now I was calling them the Ben tapes, and at the same time, I didn't want her to be right for some reason.

"It was a weird night ..." I said.

She looked deep into my eyes, trying to read me with her dreamy brown eyes. I motioned to the papers on her keyboard. "What's so important?"

Her concentration broke.

"I'm not sure if I should tell you ... You might get mad."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

She looked at me again, this time assessing me, much like the guard did before he told me where the bathroom was, to determine if I was in the right frame of mind be told about the stack of papers.

"What the hell ... It's a music review."

"Yeah, any good?"

"Actually, stunning. Would you care to take a look?" Not waiting for, or apparently wanting, a reply, she handed the papers to me.

I began to read—to myself, of course. The review was three years old, and an area highlighted with bright yellow fluorescent marker what caught my eye. It read:

"There were highlights and their were surprises at Ben Webster's going-away gig Sunday night at the Jazz Showcase, and one of the highlights and surprises was a young pianist by the name of Sam Greene, who played note for note, strain for strain, and lick for lick with the great pianist from Chicago, Ben Webster, as the two did a breathtaking duet for thirty minutes ..."

The article went on. I looked up and threw the papers back where they came from. "What are you reading this garbage for?"

She changed the subject. "Let's go have lunch." She was getting too good at that.

"You changed the subject."

"I'm hungry. We can talk at lunch."

"I'm supposed to have lunch with Max."

"How is Max?"

I shrugged my shoulders like a teenager. "The same, I suppose."

"Can I tag along, or are you guys going to talk about girls."

She flashed that damn crooked smile.

"I need to make a phone call first ... besides, we, you and I, do have a lot to talk about. Or at least, I have some questions to ask. But first, where's a phone?"

She pointed to another pile of paper. I looked, but didn't get it.

"Under there."

As I gently moved the mountainous pile of paper off the phone, I noticed the pile was Ben's life. Enough to write a book. Articles, downloaded material from the Internet, and other hardcopies from magazine and newspaper archives. For some odd reason, it felt as though I was looking fear right in the face, namely, the eyes. My stomach began to cramp. I felt emotional. I didn't need this right now. As a matter of fact, I didn't need it ever.

"You writing a miniseries?"

"I believe in being thorough."

"There's a difference between thorough and anal, isn't there?"

"Not much."

I dialed Chad.