The Jitterbug Man

By Billy Georgette

A saintly swindler befriends a young jazz pianist and together they pull off a financial sting operation against the mafia... With blessings from high levels of the United States government

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514410660

Billy Georgette

Billy Georgette is a Montreal jazz pianist with a taste for historical matters

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Copyright © 2015 by Billy Georgette.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/28/2015

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A SAINTLY SWINDLER BEFRIENDS A YOUNG JAZZ PIANIST AND TOGETHER THEY PULL OFF A FINANCIAL STING OPERATION AGAINST THE MAFIA… WITH BLESSINGS FROM HIGH LEVELS OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT

BIO-NOVEL BY BILLY GEORGETTE

MONTREAL 2010

MIAMI 2012

SHOULD YOU CATCH HIM BUZZIN’ ROUND YOU, JUST LOOK OUT FOR THE JITTERBUG

THE JIM JAM JUMP WITH THE SOLID JIVE… MAKES YOU FEEL

SEVEN FOOT TALL WHEN YOU’RE FOUR FOOT FIVE

HEP! HEP!

MAKES YOU GET YOUR KICKS ON THE MELLOW SIDE

HEP! HEP!

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I n 1948, when I was 12 years old, my dad brought me and my good buddy Webster out to see Louis Armstrong at a dancehall on the back river known as ‘Ideal Beach ‘. And so there we are, barreling down a narrow country road in the woods, with my dad at the wheel of his brand new Chrysler ‘Town and Country,’ dust flying, branches slapping the windshield as we headed on down to a rambling old wooden dance hall to hear the music of the great Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five. In those days Satchmo was well known, but not world famous as he was to become in his later years. Webster had been talking about the concert, which he had heard advertised on the radio and so it was absolutely amazing when my dad said that he was going to bring us to see him. The massive old wooden dance hall sat by the back river, the only place in a relatively unpopulated area. Even though we arrived early, the parking lot was already beginning to fill up on what was going to be a warm and sultry summer eve ning.

As we entered the dance hall, we could see high wooden rafters above an immense dance floor with a large cube shaped bandstand at the far end. There, by the right side of the stage stood Jack Teagarden, a large friendly man, oiling the slide of his trombone. Webster and I noticed a mickey sticking out of his back pocket and thought that was hep. Then Barney Bigard arrived, and with a warm creole accent, showed us his clarinet and offered us some of his used clarinet reeds, which he also signed. Famous drummer Cosy Cole was next to arrive, and with a huge smile, invited us to come sit up on the stage during the concert. We could hardly believe our good fortune as we sat there on wooden chairs at the side of the stage looking around as the crowd arrived, waiting for the show to begin. Soon, the legendary pianist Earl Hines took his place at the grand piano, so I went over hoping to talk with him. When I mentioned that I was taking piano lessons, he showed me some basic left hand licks which I’m still using today. Now the musicians began tuning their instruments so we knew that it wouldn’t be long before Satchmo himself would appear. And what an appearance he made.

He just walked right out of the dressing room connected to the back of the stage carrying his golden horn and a handful of white handkerchiefs, then started what can only be described as a jazz riot. Surrounded by his superb band, Louis blew his horn immediately sweeping us all the way down to New Orleans. Now, with the dance hall three quarters full, a great roar came up from the crowd as Louis Armstrong introduced the members of the Hot Five with his unique gravelly voice. The band then jumped into an up-tempo tune called That’s a’ Plenty. Webster and I felt as though we were being carried off into space. But then, Louis took the microphone and introduced Velma Middleton, a huge lady with a powerful voice as together they sang a lusty southern blues. Now the house was full and the heat was on. In spite of the fact that the doors had been all shut tight, late arrivals started climbing through windows to get in. Louis and Velma began singing the St. Louis Blues in duet, as the house went crazy. It seemed almost as though a tornado of music had descended upon the entire crowd. The old building creaked and swayed when suddenly without warning… the dance floor collapsed!

As it turned out, so many fans showed up that they had to close the doors to prevent people from getting in… as if that was going to work. But that didn’t stop the people as they soon began climbing in through the windows. Before we knew it, the entire hall was jammed with people. Suddenly the floor just caved in from the extra weight on its center, creating a big hole about four feet deep. People were all piled up on top of each other with arms and legs sticking out all over the place. It was quite a sight, but Louis and the band just kept on playing. It’s truly amazing to think about it now, because if such a thing had happened in today’s world, the whole place would have been hit with lawsuits. But it was a far more innocent time… people just got up and dusted themselves off and somehow managed to find a place in spite of the fact that the floor was now a big hole. People were laughing and having a great time as if it were part of the show… while the music just kept on getting hotter and hotter, even surpassing my limits of joy. But the best was yet to come. Just after the final of several finales, Velma Middleton, who had been keeping an eye on me and Webster, swept us up in the stardust and into the backstage dressing room of the maestro himself. Making us feel as if we were all part of the performance, he embraced us both with a hearty laugh and his warm gravelly voice. I can still remember his stack of spotless handkerchiefs on a table next to an ashtray, along with a strange odor in the air.

That night when we finally got home, my head was spinning around in a musical delirium that just wouldn’t quit… I began to realize that what had happened tonight would change my ultimate journey through life.

If you had a chance to do it all over, would you do it all over again?

Here’s an enquiry that professional musicians invariably ask each other, usually when they’re on a break. We’re talking about long hours, late nights, poor money, questionable working conditions and a general lack of appreciation on the part of the public. Plus when you factor in a slew of other variables, like trying to maintain a decent home life, or maybe dealing with the temptations that continually cross your path, you ultimately arrive at the conclusion that this is not a normal way to make a living. Yet pretty much every musician I’ve met, including myself, would do it all over again even though it’s a foolish career choice. But then again, being a musician is not so much a conscious choice as it is a ‘calling.’ I certainly had no inkling as to exactly what I was getting into by becoming a professional piano player, and yet, it was perhaps the best thing that I could have done with my life… given my nature and my personal circumstances.

That it turned out to be a grand adventure was akin to opening an unexpected treasure chest of musical delights. Playing piano also had much to do with how I happened to meet the person that I call The Jitterbug Man. As far as I know, no one else ever referred to him that way other than me, although many people began calling him The One-Armed Bandit a term suggesting a colorful criminal of repute.

The Jitterbug Man however, is my take on the musical The Wizard of Oz a story in which jitterbugs hang out in trees, scaring the daylights out of passerby’s and other unsuspecting innocents. Here we are talking about a common fear that many human beings experience when confronting that which contradicts normality as they understand it. Though scorned by some, for me and for many others, the JMan was a very special human event.

As a consequence of our friendship, I would get to meet a wide range of characters, some famous, some mostly not.

I’m not going to apologize for all the name-dropping as this is my ‘biostory ’ after all, and so I’ve gotta stick with it best I possibly can.

It all started out in Montreal, my birthplace, a unique city somewhat out of step with the rest of North America.

Founded and named by Jacques Cartier in 1535, it is one of the earliest communities in the western hemisphere. In today’s city, corruption and sedition seem almost normal, yet often overlooked by a population too busy to pay much attention to such matters. Good old laissez-faire a la français… alive and well and living in America.

I was eight years old when my parents sent me for piano lessons. My dad and I went over to an old Victorian house on Cote des Neiges Road where farmers sold delicious Montreal melons, sweet corn and rose tomatoes. We went on in and bought a Heinzman upright piano from an elderly couple. World War 2 was now in full swing with helmeted neighbors, armbands on their sleeves patrolling the streets each evening carrying flashlights and police whistles. We had Victory gardens, air raid warnings, sirens, rationing and lights out. At school, we brought blankets and canteens of water with us for our daily drills, and we got 25 cents more a week in our allowance for Victory stamps which we kept in booklets. We played a game called ‘leaners ’ with cards collected from cigarette packs which had detailed illustrations of both allied and enemy aircraft. Standing 20 feet or so back from a wall, we’d flip the cards in the air, trying to get them to lean as close as possible to the wall, determining the winner. We built models of fighter planes and bombers, becoming really good at identifying aircraft in the sky overhead. We played war every day, with nobody wanting to be nazis or japs, so we flipped for sides. Parents that went down to the States brought back Tootsie Rolls and comic books…. the Canadian versions of the same being pretty terrible, ... candy bars that tasted like soap, comics printed in blue and white. We all knew that we would win the war. We were the good guys after all. Plus we had Superman Captain Marvel and Commandoes who strike at dawn on our side. Our parents listened to Roosevelt’s fireside chats and Churchill’s speeches. My birthday happened to be on December 7th, which in 1941 came to become known as the Day of Infamy I can still remember parents coming over to pick up their children at my 6th birthday party, arriving with long grim faces, huddling together, talking quietly.

School was just down the street from our house in the well-off Circle Road district where I was brought up. My teacher’s name was Miss Legg. She was young, beautiful and liked me a lot. My mom, who had also been a school teacher, would occasionally have her over to our place for lunch and conversation. It was a very happy time for me, as I was doing well in school and with my homework. But all too soon, that was about to change…

My first piano teacher’s name was Miss MacNaught (MacNot… MacKnot) I knew right away that she was evil. But she was highly regarded in my parents social circle from families who had been sending their children to study the piano with her. She was also known to be a strict disciplinarian, something considered important during the war years when sacrifice was a virtue, a time when children were supposed to be seen, but not heard.

She was an old Scottish spinster, which made perfect sense to me that no man would want to marry her. You could smell whisky on her breath and she was downright mean. I felt as tho’ I’d been judged right away as some kind of useless contemptible waste of her precious time. She was hurting me and I couldn’t do anything about it. Sit up straight WHAM! Curl your fingers WHACK! and that was just for openers as things just got worse. The waiting room of her studio was a gruesome place with busts of classical masters on pedestals that looked down on me like insane crazy men that had been beheaded.

Somehow, I managed to put up with her insanity for about two years. I was just a child after all, and used to doing what I was told. I clearly wasn’t making musical progress and I hated practicing. At this point I was developing a great aversion to pianos, classical music, and nasty old ladies. One day, I just blurted out to my parents I don’t want to go for piano lessons anymore, She beats me up! My dad looked at me incredulously, What do you mean she beats you up? … but my mom seemed to understand right away, taking my father aside to talk. They came back and said You don’t have to go for lessons anymore

In spite of my relief of not having to put up with that abusive crazy old lady, there was more hurt waiting for me. It was mid-winter, we were on our first family trip to Miami, when the news arrived that my best friend had died. Danny Griffin and I had just turned eleven, and we were like brothers. We even had a small business making gadgets out of plexiglass in the basement of his house. We were inseparable buddies, I’d even tried to get his parent’s permission for him to come with us to Florida. He had health problems with his kidneys, I can always remembering how he would pull his belt tight around his waist. But he never complained about anything, and he always had a smile on his face. This was during a time when medical science had not yet introduced dialysis and so Danny didn’t stand a chance. In the sorrow that followed, the adults wanted me to have Danny’s bike. I still didn’t know what emotions are. I simply cried, but I sure didn’t want that bike.

The war and my piano lessons all ended about the same time. Suddenly all sorts of new consumer products started showing up. My dad got a new car, my mom got a new kitchen that was soon featured in a popular woman’s magazine, the family got a dog and a new house in the Laurentians. I got a new bike and got back to the serious business of riding it all over the place. I was also developing an above average skill at yo-yos and monopoly. I joined the scouts. Aside from a few bumps in the road, life was