Billy Winstone was back in New York City, lame but alive. He had survived the hell of Omaha Beach and the sniper-infested hedgerows of Normandy, but finally took some shrapnel during the Liberation of Paris. The hitch it put in his step wasn’t all that noticeable. It was one of those million dollar wounds. He had earned a medal for it, something he could impress girls with. The first thing on his mind, though, was to go see Charlie Parker at The Downbeat Club on 52nd Street. Billy dug bebop and he hadn’t heard any in over two years. Just sitting with a beer and listening to Bird on a splendid October evening, that would be heaven after what he’d been through. He was glad to enter the club and leave noisy Manhattan behind him. Backfiring automobiles sounded too much like the front.
Inside Downbeat were mostly college kids. The place was filling up fast. Billy sat down and ordered a draft. Right away, a guy came up to him.
“Hey, soldier, come sit with us. Your drinks are on me.” The skinny young man wore thick black glasses and needed a haircut. Every civilian looked that way to Billy - he’d gotten so used to nothing but crew cuts. There were two women with him. One had hair like Rita Hayworth and wore a tight cardigan. The other was demure, with short, straight brown hair.
“I’m Jimmy Daugherty. This is Helen Lewis and Dot West.”
“I’m Corporal William Winstone, but Billy’s just fine. Pleased to meet you all.”
“When do you ship out?” asked Jimmy.
“I’ve already been and back.”
“No fooling? How’d you manage that?”
“Shrapnel in my leg. I’m slow getting around now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m home and I’m alive.”
“Well, let’s toast to that,” said Helen. She primped her hair a lot. Clearly she was proud of those auburn waves. Billy wondered if she were available. Helen would clearly be his pick of the two.
“Actually, we three used to be pacifists,” said Dot. “But Hitler burst our idealistic little bubbles. We realized he needed to be stopped.”
“You’re right about that,” said Billy. “Don’t worry, we’ll have der Fuhrer in our grasp before you can say Jack Robinson. With a little luck, it might all be over by Christmas.”
“That’s what everybody’s hoping for,” said Jimmy. “Did you get to celebrate in Paris?”
“I was laid up in England. High on morphine instead of champagne.”
“Where’s home?”
“Maryland. I’m with the 116th Regiment. We’re all Maryland boys.”
“Look, there he is,” said Dot. She was pointing at Charlie Parker, who was adjusting the mouthpiece on his horn. The band wasted no time getting into the lightning quick tempo of bebop. Billy’s thrill at being so near the legendary jazz man was quickly suppressed. The closeness of the instruments punched him in the chest; their loudness assaulted his ears. Each drum kick boomed like mortar landing. Parker’s highest sax runs sounded like artillery whistling. The relentless bass thumped like boots on the march. He got up from the table and left the club. Billy had hobbled half a block when someone grabbed him at the wrist. It was Dot. He stopped, turned and looked at her.
“I used to love bebop. But the drummer’s rim shots, they were like...” He wanted to say bullets but could not. Dot held on to his wrist.
“Billy, I don’t normally do this, but let’s get a nice quiet cab to my place in Brooklyn. It’s a peaceful neighborhood and you can relax.”
“That sounds good. Don’t worry, I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Right now, that’s about all I’m capable of being.”
“I can see that. Your hands are trembling.”
“Do you have “Moonlight Serenade” on record?”
“I do.”
“Good. I need to chase that daggone bebop out of my brain.”
“Okay. Glenn Miller it is.”
“Thanks. That’ll do the trick, I’m sure. Kinda like morphine. Isn’t that crazy?”