The King of Swing -Chapter 1 (in part)

I apologize for the length! Thank you very much for reading.

“What’s his deal?” Oliver said, gesturing his drink towards the crowd. Jack leaned with his back against the bar, a cigar in the side of his mouth.

“It’s almost like he has no idea why he’s here,” Jack answered with a smirk on his face. Oliver chuckled.

“Should we go get him?”

Jack shrugged and tugged at the knot of his tie. Their wanderer, Scott Hardly, was meandering his way through the hotel bar timidly, yet to notice his debt collectors deciding his fate at the bar.

“Nah. He’ll notice,” Jack said. “He might bolt, though.”

“I got the guys on the doors.”

“Which guys?”

Oliver glanced at his friend and rolled his eyes. “The good ones, Jack. A guy got away once it’s not going to happen again.”

“I’m not taking that heat again.”

“And you won’t. Relax.”

At this point, Scott had noticed the two twenty-year olds staring at him from a distance. His blood ran cold.

“Hardly!” Oliver said, his face smug. “Long time no see.” He didn’t put his hand out. Jack sat up and tried not to smile at the color draining out of Scott’s face. He puffed smoke out the side of his mouth.

“How did you guys-”

“We know that you’re not a bad guy. Golf team, perfect grades, nice girlfriend. It’d be a shame if you turned out to be one of those guys we get tired of chasing,” Oliver said, having mastered the effect of his voice being dangerous and casual at the same time.

“I have rent to pay guys, it was stupid of me to make the date when it was, I’m sorry-”

“What’s sorry going for nowadays, Jack? Three hundred? Four hundred?”

“The apology seems to be all we need for now, Hardly, thanks for talking with us-”
“Guys I-”

Oliver grabbed the collar of Scott’s shirt, his demeanor quickly changing. “You’re going to pay, and you’re going to pay now. Capeesh?”

Scott swallowed loudly and nodded. Oliver let him go. “Go to the back of the building in ten minutes.”

Scott nodded again and quickly shuffled away.

“You didn’t have to do that, people noticed,” Jack mumbled.
“Fucker has been avoiding us for weeks, I’m sick of it.”

Jack sighed and pulled out his phone which had been vibrating for ten minutes now. He silenced it and stood up.

“We’re late, I can’t be late again,” Jack said. The bartender watch the two boys leave, two tall college students dressed pretty nicely for a hotel. Even though they looked familiar somehow, he couldn’t place them.

Scott Hardly paid up, but not to Jack and Oliver. His hands were freezing in the Boston September air as he gave his last hundred dollars to an unnamed man with a particularly sharp pocket knife.

Jack Evans and Oliver Spitziconni took their time parking their cars, pulling two guitars and a saxophone out their trunks. They chucked their keys to the young valet who tipped his hat at them and said “evening fellas”.

“Walter,” they answered.

The Snow Hotel was an old restaurant plus upscale hotel in the North End of Boston, tinged with elegance and ancient plumbing. It wasn’t the nicest place in the city but it was one of the only place who wanted Jack to play. Their suits kept the scent of smoke in the fabric, Jack still having the cigar clenched between his teeth.

They hurried into the kitchen, where Oliver slid a custard off the counter. They burst into the backstage of the restaurant where Tyler, the stage hand and Greg the band leader threw their hands up.

“Put that fuckin thing out Jack, for the love of God-”

“You two were on three minutes ago-”

Jack smushed out his cigar in the ashtray and clear his throat, ignoring Greg and Tyler.

“Put a damn tie on Oliver, this is a black tie event-” Tyler said, throwing him a spare.

“For what?” Jack asked, checking his bronze hair in the mirror on the wall. The band on stage started playing.

“The president Jack-it’s another fuckin benefit what do you think? Go guys, go.”

Jack was a natural on stage. A confident ease came over him as he grinning easily at the crowd of old people and rich elites of Boston. They clapped immensely when he sat down, adjusting the mike stand to fit his tall height. He squinted in the bright lights and grinned.

“How ya doin tonight folks, I apologize for the delay…” he said, his low voice rattling the speakers.

Half way into the night Jack’s voice was raspy from singing so he took a break, letting the band play its usual crowd favorites. He grabbed a water from the bin and cracked it open.

“You guys can’t be late again,” Tyler said. He was the grandson of the owner, so Jack was forced to comply with his comments.

“We can do our best. Traffic, ya know-”

A small man in horn-rimmed glasses trotted up to Jack mid eye roll.

“Sir we don’t allow patrons backstage-” Tyler started.

“Jack Evans? Norman Marsh, Boston Globe,” the man said, putting out his hand. Jack practically spit his water all over the man.

“Mr. Marsh, it’s a pleasure-” Jack said, his thick Boston accent slurring his words.

“I just wanted to personally say how much I enjoyed your show, Jack, I have to take off at this point. But the Globe is very happy to feature you and Mr. Spitziconni this weekend. Frank Sinatra is alive and well, Mr. Evans, I’m tellin ya,” he said.

Jack grinned. “I appreciate that very much sir, I’ll tell Oliver-”

“Jack go,” Tyler grunted. Jack shook Mr. Marsh’s hand again and returned the stage, the lights making him feel suffocated by the heat. The picture used for the Boston Globe was a handsome shot of Jack smirking and tugging at his collar. The accompanied article sung the most praises it ever had of a young band in years:
20 year-old Jack Evans of Hartwick College delighted the patrons of The Snow Hotel on Friday night with the sounds of the forties and fifties. This young student pleasantly surprised everyone with his mature, Sinatra-esque voice as he did giants like Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, and Bobby Darin justice. His well-dressed backup band complimented him to a T, along with co-bandleader and saxophonist Oliver Spitziconni, also of Hartwick College. In a world of tired rap and hip hop, to have a young man with great talent to bring back the music of another era is refreshing, exciting, and entertaining…
Jack eased himself into his car at the Snow parking garage, taking a deep breath. Oliver’s reaction to the article had been to punch his arm and say “no way” more times than he was strong enough to take. This was the few minutes he got tonight to himself. He leaned the back of his head on the headrest and closed his eyes, pushing a speed dial on his phone.

“Hey how’d the show go?” Melissa asked. The tiny girl had snatched up the phone so quickly it barely had time to ring but she didn’t want him to know she’d been sitting up all night in his sweatshirt waiting for him to come back. Two years was enough time to know what turned Jack off.

“It was fine until Norman Marsh came backstage and said he’s running a story about us, it’s pretty cool. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be back late. Guys want to do something, I don’t know. Should I even come over?”

“Only if you want,” she said lightly.

“I’ll let you know...you okay? You sound upset.”

She hesitated. “You’ve just been out late after every show this week, I thought you’d want to spend some time together since-”

Oliver had backed up his car up to block Jack’s and honked the horn loud enough for Jack to jump.

“Shit, I’m sorry Mel, put a pin in that, I’ll talk to you tonight, okay? Love you a lot.”

He hung up and turn the car on, the brand new engine revving.

A ten minute drive later a tiny Italian restaurant was still packed with hungry Boston nightlife, even at twelve-thirty in the morning. It was the perfect out of the way place to run a business selling alcohol to minors in. Jack and Oliver answered to the man himself, Henry Banks once a month, where they got their cut for finding the debtors and occasionally selling. Not only was Banks a senior at the same college, he was the dean’s son. The boys were let in right away, making their way to the back, where an eager busboy grinned at them.

“Fellas.”

“Duke,” they answered.

“You guys are a little late don’t ya think?” he asked. Jack smirked and rolled his eyes.

“Aren’t we always?” he said.

In a hot, stuffy back room of the restaurant sat Banks who was growing impatient, and his cigarette was burning up fast. There were two chairs in front of him, both of which had a white envelope on them. When the door opened, Jack Evans had a smirk on his face and a matching Marlboro in his mouth. He smiled apologetically and shook Banks’ hand.

“I’m sorry we’re late, show went for a while-”

“Sit down, Jack,” he sighed dramatically. “Did you guys get Hardly?” Henry asked sharply.

“He paid our guy at the Seasons,” Oliver said, tucking his envelope into his jacket pocket.

“Which guy?”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Which. Guy,” Banks prompted.

“Fiscal.”

Banks seemed happy enough with this answer and moved on.
“I don’t want you guys getting too aggressive with these guys anymore, it’s starting to get a word out that we’re tougher than other people-”

“Then don’t sell to high schoolers,” Oliver said. Banks rolled his eyes.

“High schoolers need alcohol, Spitz, that’s what they live off of. And your greasy overly aggressive ass wouldn’t have a job if we didn’t sell to guys like Hardly.”

“We’ve been chasing the same people around for weeks-”

“And you got your pay for doing so…” he started, his phone buzzing. He glanced at the message and his head snapped up at them. Jack puffed his cigarette lazily.

“One of your guys had a knife? What the hell did I say about-” Banks started.

“Our guys don’t have knives-” Jack said, sitting on the edge of his seat. “Fiscal doesn’t carry-”

“Hardly paid someone else. Where the heck were your guys?” Banks said.

“Jesus christ,” Oliver mumbled, crossing his arms.

“This is the second time this month you guys let him pay someone else. There’s someone watching you two, and it’s pissing me off.”

Jack winced. “So we go places more discreet, that’s it-”

“That’s not fucking it, Jack. Someone knows who we’re selling to and is collecting our cash-”

“Are any of the other guys being followed?” Oliver asked.

“Not that I know of. My other guys actually get the person to pay the right guy-”

“It’s not our fault-” Jack started.

“It’s your sale. If you guys fuck up again you can go work for someone else, because you guys are more trouble than you’re worth. I’ll text you, Jack. It’ll be a busy month with the start of school and all the freshmen wanting to get hammered. Or just you guys-”

“We don’t take that much stock,” Jack said, puffing smoke out of the side of his mouth.

“Don’t take any this month,” Banks said with a sharp look.

When they shut the door, Oliver walked fast in front of Jack, pushing past Duke. Jack gave him a look.

“What’s your problem, Spitz?” Jack called to him on the street.

“My problem is that we’re being followed, Jack. If it ends up being someone who’s mad we’re on their territory-”

Jack caught up with him, pulling his coat closer to his ears in the cold breeze.

“What is this, a gang reality show? The guys who are selling the hard stuff don’t give a shit about a few people selling alcohol. And they’re not messing with Banks.”

“It just falls on us. What if they stabbed that kid or something? I don’t want to-”

“Calm down, please. Banks wasn’t even that mad. What’s your problem, you’re on edge today-”

“It’s hockey season,” Oliver said.

“Oh right I forgot, the months where you turn into a crazy angry meat head and smash people walls,” Jack said, smiling.

“Very funny. Very funny. You should be a comedian, we can put that into the show.” He put on a fake announcer voice. “And now presenting Jack Evans, who will delight us with Sinatra and then be a pretentious fuck for the rest of his life-”

Jack grinned and stamped out his cigarette next to his car. “I’ll be back later. Don’t pout too much, will ya?”

“Tell the ol’ ball-and-chain I say hi.”