Doctor Who_ Atom Bomb Blues - Andrew Cartmel [68]
‘Indeed not. Well done, Ace.’
Ace hopped off the hamper and joined the Doctor. ‘So are we going to the Pullman car?’
‘To the dining car, actually. I believe the Duke is just sitting down to his breakfast.’
‘Breakfast?’ said Ace, checking her watch. ‘It’s past noon.’
‘Jazz musicians, Ace. Jazz musicians.’
Ace soon realised why they called him the Duke. He was a large, dapper man with smooth café au lait skin. He wore a beautifully tailored Prince of Wales check jacket, comfortably cut to accommodate his ample contours. He was a man with considerable flesh on him, and unmarked by any outward signs of hardship or suffering, he looked as sleek as a seal. His eyes were sleepy yet alert and a gentle smile played on his lips, coming and going as he sat at the table in the dining car – a small table further dwarfed by his bulk – discussing with the Doctor the ramifications of the departure of someone called Juan Tizol from the Duke’s orchestra.
‘You need three men just to replace him,’ said the Doctor.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Duke Ellington, nodding graciously. ‘Very true, very true.’
He looked at Ace, who was sitting beside the Doctor. ‘Your friend is an astute scholar of the swing combo.’ He turned back to the Doctor. ‘Three men indeed. Sweetpea to help with the composing, Claude Jones to play the valve trombone and good old Tom Whaley to help copy the parts. It was one of those challenges that the Good Lord likes to send my way now and then.’ He smiled at Ace. ‘I don’t think He ever wants me to get too comfortable.’ The smile warmed his lazy eyes and Ace realised that, with that smile, those eyes 119
and his beautiful manners, the Duke must be something of a lady-killer. Then, of course, there was also the fact that he was a wealthy music star. That would be quite enough to offset the matter of the Duke’s considerable girth. He was a big man, and there was no mystery why.
When they had sat down to join the Duke, invited with a gracious wave of the hand after the Doctor had introduced himself, the Duke had been dining on scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, a dozen slices of hot buttered toast, hash fried potatoes, three muffins with jam, coffee and orange juice. In the course of their conversation he had managed to smoothly put most of this away without ever once talking with his mouth full or spilling a crumb on his immaculate clothing. He moved the knife and fork in his hands with the graceful dexterity of a world-class conductor waving his baton in front of a symphony orchestra. ‘Tricky Sam still hasn’t got over Juan’s departure,’ he added.
‘And that terrible thing with Blanton,’ said the Doctor as the Duke finished the last morsel of hash frieds, set his cutlery neatly on the plate and proceeded to address the muffins. ‘Such a tragedy.’
The Duke nodded, solemnly consuming the first of the three muffins. ‘Jimmy was so young,’ he said. ‘He had so much music in him. It was a terrible blow have all that music silenced, but the Lord sends these trials now and then to test our strength, and our faith.’ He dispatched the second muffin in a couple of swift but somehow unhurried bites and paused for a moment to look at the third muffin. It was the only piece of food on the table left undevoured, like the cornered, loan survivor of a massacre. ‘I never knew anybody could make an upright bass talk like that. And I don’t think anyone ever will again.’ He paused, sadness heavy in his eyes for a moment, then fading as he comforted himself with the final muffin.
‘And you’ve had some very interesting singers in the band over the years,’
said the Doctor, shooting Ace a glance.
‘Hmm, certainly. Very true, very true.’ A white-coated black waiter came up to their table, beamed a smile, and began removing the Duke’s plates.
Ellington smiled back at the man and said, ‘I’m ready now, thank you.’ Ready for what? thought Ace.
‘Ivy Anderson, Bing Crosby, the Mills Brothers, Herb Jeffries, Al Hibbler,’
said the Doctor. ‘And that girl who got into all the trouble.’
The waiter