Nine Fingers by Thom August Page A

and nuts and crackers on the table. Glass bowl. Do not touch.
    Cannot see the face of the guy tuning the piano. Just hear the sound. Hypnotic. Easy to get lost in.
    Know something about this. Studied music, when I was a kid. The clarinet. Couple a years is all. Remember a little bit about
     it.
    8:10 A . M. : Early yet. Band starts at nine. Scan the room. Thirty-five people. A handful of couples. A scattering of middle-aged men,
     having a few pops. One table of noisy twenty-somethings. Talking too loud. This is not their kind of music—they will be gone
     as soon as it starts. Two bartenders behind the long bar, one male, chunky, five-ten, thirty-five-ish, one female, stringy
     hair, forty-five-ish, working steady. Three waitresses, including size-eleven-in-a-size-eight. One guy, the corner of the
     bar, clear drink with a wedge of lime, also scanning the room—the bouncer. Suit a little too tight around the shoulders. Hair
     a little too short. Neck a seventeen-and-a-half. Gray slacks, blue blazer, black mock turtleneck, gold chain. Does not appear
     to be armed. Makes two of us.
    Tuning guy also dressed up—suit, shirt, tie. Hair a touch too long, beard.
    Remove the gloves, tuck them into the coat along with the scarf. One sip of the ginger ale. Cold, nice, brings on memories.
    8:15 A . M. : Tuning guy almost done. Plays a few chords, tweaks one or two strings. Plays some…what is the word? Arpeggios. Guy does
     a thorough piece of work—this I can appreciate. Not something I could do—had an ear for rhythm but not for pitch. One reason
     I stopped.
    Turns around behind him, turns back to the piano, plays a few chords. Nothing to tap your foot to. Gets up, starts to walk
     around.
    Thin, wiry guy, late twenties, early thirties, six feet or so. The guy the papers said was the real piano player? Who was
     taking a break when I showed up? Could be him, doing double duty. Must not be very good. Doubt if Ellington tuned his own
     piano.
    8:30 A . M. : Still waiting, watching. Amatucci, if that is who it is, still playing with the speakers. Same chords, over and over. Dedicated
     to his work. You can tell it is sounding better. The loud twenty-somethings are making wisecracks—“Hey. Dig the chops on this
     guy,” “A freaking Elton John,” “Did he go to Juilliard for this?”
    8:45 A . M. : Waitress circles behind me. Reach for the glass. Take another sip. Place it on the table in the same wet circle it has already
     made on the coaster. She sees this. She veers off.
    Time to count the house again.
    Ninety-one patrons, staff of six. Make that seven. Guy in a tux. Black guy. Light-skinned. Slacks pressed like knife edges.
     Right shoes for it, what do they call them? Patent leather. A bow tie, a cummerbund, the whole rig. Looks at his watch twice
     a minute. Checks the room. He is counting the house, too. Checks in with a few tables, smiling, hey-how-ya-doing, can-I-get-ya-something?
     Shakes the hands, pats the shoulders, air-kisses the ladies. Maybe the lounge manager? Could be.
    8:55 A . M. : Tuner is done, heads out of the room. Reaching in his right front pocket. Pack of smokes. Guys starting to come in with suitcases,
     instrument cases, whatever. Sit up in the chair, try to get comfortable. One good belch. Thank you.
    One last look around the room.
    Show time.

CHAPTER 11
    Vinnie Amatucci
    Airport Marriott—The Gig—First Set
    Saturday, January 11
    Paul shows up about twenty minutes early and hands out copies of the set list to everyone, on three-by-five cards. I put mine
     down on the piano, like I’m in no hurry to see what we’re playing, and say hello. He hangs up his coat, unpacks his trumpet,
     a gleaming brass King, a classic. He reaches into his case for some valve oil; he’s like these people who put salt on everything
     before they taste it, whether it needs it or not. It’s not the valves that need oiling, just his routine that needs to be
     fed. I look away and scan the list.
    It’s typical