The Last Jukebox Heroes

By Stefan Schutte

Chris Coltrane is a successful businessman, and an alcoholic whose life has collided – sometimes disastrously – with many people. A failed intervention by his company's board led Chris to storm off and find solace in Dimitri T's, a neat but struggling little cocktail bar in the Cape Town suburb of Oaksworth.

Julie Ross, the owner of Dimitri T's, is doing her damnedest to crawl out from under her father's problematic legacy. She gambles her last hope on a Christmas lunch special and happy hour trying to rake in some money before the rent becomes due in a week, and she is left without a business.
Through the soundtrack of songs played on the jukebox, the intertwined backstories of Julie and six of her broken barroom heroes are revealed before the night ends unexpectedly, changing their lives forever.

The Last Jukebox Heroes is a character-driven literary fiction novel infused with music that explores human connections, the influence people have on those around them and the power the past has on the present. It's a story of choices and the flawed nature of humans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firebrick Books
• Release date: Dec 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9780639783697

Book preview

THE LAST JUKEBOX HEROES

STEFAN SCHUTTE

FIREBRICK BOOKS

Copyright © 2023 Stefan Schutte

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case where brief embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All songs and movies cited in this work of fiction remain the property of their respective owners.

ISBN 978-0-6397-8369-7

Cover design by Andrea Panizzolo

Typeset in Bembo by Firebrick Books

Cover font and special text: Outrunner 80's Retro Script by TSVcreative & Action Hero - An 80s Movie Title Poster Font by wingsart both licensed under Envato

www.firebrickbooks.com

For Annelie, Daniell and Emma

This doesn’t exist without you

The songs that inspired this work can be listened to on Spotify under a shared playlist titled:

The Last Jukebox Heroes – the inspiration behind the Stefan Schutte novel.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

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CHRIS COLTRANE

CHAPTER 1

SIX MONTHS TO CHRISTMAS

I take out the important bits from young Hellermann’s file. Heather is on point – everything’s been laid out chronologically and rounded off with impeccable neatness. A sense of guilt wells up inside of me – the file is a reminder that I don’t appreciate her enough. There’s a picture of the young man stapled neatly into the file’s inner left corner. A covering letter signed off by HR Manager Gary Venter confirming Mr Hellermann’s job title and -description and the reason for his imminent disciplinary hearing. The letter is backed by his original job application, his resume, and the dually signed employment offer. I skip past his employment contract and his leave records but pause when I reach his performance appraisals and copies of warnings served. The written warnings bear the employee’s acknowledging signature. The overall assessments speak of a skilled, punctual employee, but the contrasting list of complaints by co-workers paints a picture of a short-fused staff member. That’s a tough one to bat – things are not looking rosy for the kid. But I’ll use the remainder of my prep work to dig up something to tip the scales in his favour. There must be something in here to give the man one final chance – there always is.

This younger, rudderless generation often needs a bit of guidance to bring them back to the straight and narrow. Being involved from a high level and not stuck in the trenches with the kid makes it a bit easier to try and find a reason to keep rather than dismiss. Nonetheless, it makes for a healthy debate between myself and my subordinates before we reach our conclusion. Worst case, I’ll just pull rank and cut the boy some slack – there’ll be little opposition from the rest of the Board if I choose the right words. Hellermann should walk out with a final, final warning.

I’ll be chairing the hearing, with Hellermann, his direct supervisor and our HR Manager present. Heather will be on her post, quietly taking minutes. 

I pick up the poison-chaliced pen – and look at the iridescent diamond embedded into the ridiculously expensive writing instrument. I still can’t believe someone would be idiotic enough to put a real diamond in a pen. I’ve wondered often if I could dig it out of there if I tried. Not to get my hands on the gem, but to somehow reverse the ridiculousness of it. Silver, cursively engraved letters flaunt the words: Chris Coltrane – 20 August 2015. It was the day of my 65th birthday, and must’ve cost the company a small fortune. Of course, our cash flow could absorb the lavishness of it all – and Ntombi would’ve found some creative way to make the expense tax-deductible.

Admittedly, a part of me couldn’t help but wonder if they had quietly hoped I would take the pen and sign my retirement notice with it. Was that the subliminal hint from my trusted team? Ridiculousness and thinly veiled hints aside, it was a heartfelt gesture. Regardless, I wasn’t quite ready to hand over the reins of the company I took charge of just before the turn of the century.

Wasn’t then, still not now.

A soft knock on the door, and Heather enters with a second cup of steaming coffee. Is there a hint of a tremble in her hand as she puts the cup down on the desk? There sure is – a ripple disturbs the smoothness of the cup’s black surface. The unusual nervousness about her wasn’t there when she brought the first cup.

Mr Coltrane… I have been asked if you could please join the rest of the directors in the boardroom, she stutters apologetically.

What for? We don’t have a meeting scheduled?

I’m not sure, sir. I’ve just been asked—

Asked by who? Who called it? I feel a tingling spike in my blood pressure.

Oscar sent me Mr Coltrane. They’re in the six-seater, says a now visibly shaking Heather. That’s the thing with assistants – especially the good ones. They’re not just excellent gatekeepers and guardians of their executives’ space and time, they’re all equipped with a sixth sense which gives them the superpower to smell a shitstorm before the rise of the first dust puff.

Very well. I’ll be there in a sec. Let me just finish my coffee.

I’ll let them know Mr Coltrane, says a relieved-looking Heather, closing the door behind her.

What the hell could this meeting be about? I know it can’t be to bounce ideas for our year-end function – Christmas is still six months away! The coffee is still piping hot, but I finish it in just two long gulps. The searing throat roasting spurs me into action. I grab my pen and notepad and take the short walk to the intimate six-seater boardroom neighbouring my office. I’ve had it furnished as a smaller meeting room where, as directors, we hold our quarterly executive committee meetings and as shareholders our annual general meetings. But today, there’s no AGM, exco or board meeting scheduled, and as controlling shareholder and Chairman of the Board, I’m dying to be enlightened as to what the assembly is all about.

This unexpected situation has all the markings of a coup d’état.

My throat’s still burning as I grab the door handle and barge in without knocking. My bombastic entrance stuns the occupants into silence. Whatever discussion had been going on has abruptly died down. There’s a sludge-thick atmosphere as I enter with the slammed door reverberating behind me. Oscar, suddenly looking like a shop steward instead of director, jumps to his feet. He beckons me to my empty seat. I drop my yellow notepad in the vacant space with a thud, the pen rebounding off the pad before rolling to a halt on the boardroom table, the sun’s early morning rays shimmering off the Montblanc’s diamond.

I hope they all noticed that.

They’re all here, and I sit down before addressing them one by one with the silent death stare that I know they’re petrified of. Oscar hurriedly takes his place to my right, but I ignore him.

He’ll get his turn.

Angelique is up first. Our Marketing Director instinctively shies away and hangs her head, her eyes turning towards her lap. Something big must be up if not even the normally bubbly chief of marketing can bear to look me in the eye.

Across from her, Ntombi is the exact opposite: she’s looking straight at me, pokerfaced. She’s giving nothing away. This doesn’t surprise me, as she’s endured many an uncomfortable stare when she’s had to bring tax bill payments to me for authorisation. Over the years, she’s built up a steely façade, and she never flinches. Never. I’m not expecting her to spill the beans, even in this tense situation we find ourselves in. I swiftly move on to the next one.

My eyes blitz around the table and come to rest where Sibongile sits between Ntombi and I. Sibo’s weather-beaten face pleads silently for mercy. His soft eyes are begging me not to judge him too harshly for being here, and for siding with the rest of the group in whatever they’ve got up their sleeve.

Satisfied that everyone else around the table has felt my presence, I finally turn to Oscar. He’s been holding his tongue, riding the protracted silence. I think he knew he had to bide his time. To keep him off-balance, I break the silence and speak first – I want to first take, then keep control of the situation.

What is this? This isn’t board meeting time, is it? It isn’t AGM time, and I certainly didn’t get a request for an emergency exco? Truth is, if there was any electronic notification or request, I wouldn’t have seen it as I don’t own a computer, but Heather would’ve let me know. So, I keep going.

Got to stay on the front foot here.

No, sir. This is none of those, says Oscar, the spokesman who’s found his voice again. We’re all here because we’re concerned. We’re concerned about Elephant Tusk, but even more, we’re concerned about you, Mr Coltrane.

What? This is an intervention. It’s a fucking intervention! My blood pressure rises at the realisation, with flames crawling out from under my collar like a cat rushing up a tree. Everyone here knows it’s the first visible sign that I’m about to lose my shit.

We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t concerned, sir, splutters Oscar.

What exactly is your concern, Oscar? And why isn’t Heather here to minute your ‘intervention’?

We weren’t sure if you’d approve, sir.

"Of the meeting, or of Heather sitting in? You know bloody well we don’t hold meetings without Heather first sending notices, then minuting them, don’t you Oscar?"

Of course, sir, says Oscar as he shrinks, violetly, into his chair. I lean forward, press the buzzer, and tell Heather to join us. She enters a few seconds later and takes her seat directly opposite me, at the far end of the table. She’s got her laptop open with a Dictaphone ready to record the rest of the meeting. The latter is a useful tool to refer to when finalising the minutes before distribution. People tend to only remember the parts of meetings that suit them, but it’s tough to argue against cold, hard audio evidence.

Heather, make sure you get this down. Firstly, there was no proper notice of this intervention or so-called meeting. Secondly, there was no agenda sent out, so I don’t know what the hell this is about. I’m dying in anticipation of Oscar’s impending enlightenment. I watch a tiny ball of spit fly from my mouth and land on the table, but I couldn’t care. Not now.

Oscar rises up in his chair. Sir, we’re considering the sustainability and succession procedures to ensure Elephant Tusk’s continued existence.

And this couldn’t wait until next month’s exco meeting?

I’m afraid not, sir. I… all of us… have been concerned for a while now. Nobody likes to talk about these things. We’ve been hoping you would perhaps come up with a solution yourself – you’ve always been such a visionary, especially when it comes to the company.

Oscar, do me a favour and spare me the fucking honey brush. The last thing I want to hear from you is how ‘visionary’ I am when I couldn’t even envisage this damn meeting! It’s sneaky, and I’m worried about what this’ll do to our trust relationship.

Sir, please don’t see it that way.

What way Oscar? This smacks of that birthday when you guys tried to convince me to retire. I don’t care how many diamond pens you give me – it still hurts. If you guys want to tell me something, then spit it out!

Sir, that’s why this is more difficult for us than it is for you.

Bullshit, Oscar! The flames have reached my face and are threatening to seep through my cheeks and burst through my eyes. "How long have you guys known me – did I not make each and every one of you into what you are today?!"

Mr Coltrane, we are eternally grateful for that. But we need to ensure that the company is looked after in case something should happen to you one day. Oscar now looks more wilted violet than designated spokesman.

I am still not exactly sure what they’re playing at, but sensing the upper hand, I decide to drive the momentum home. Like what? I’m 68 years old Oscar! I haven’t spent my life chasing after fast cars and loose women. I’m healthy as a horse!

We agree, sir. But with respect, anything can happen to anyone of us any day. Only we’re not the company’s kingpin. If, God forbid, something was to happen to you, what would become of us?

What do you mean? My wife will inherit the 52% I own, and you guys can either have her as a silent partner, or you can buy her out. There’re more than enough reserves.

That’s the problem, Mr Coltrane, continued Oscar: the value of the company is way too high for us remaining shareholders to buy Mrs Coltrane out. And having her as a silent partner, with all due respect sir, won’t do the company or us any good. You are the key man. You built this company, and no one knows how to steer it like you do.

Key man. As in key man policy. Those are the keywords. So, this is what this is all about. I get it now, but I want to hear Oscar say it. That’s the first sensible argument you’ve aired all day, Oscar. Why do I feel there’s a ‘but’ coming next?

"There is something else, sir. But before we get to that – I’ve drawn up a proposal that I want to ask you to please have a look at."

What’s it about? I feel the tension in my neck, starting to subside for a moment, the flames dropping towards my shoulders.

It’s a key man insurance policy. However, there are a few obstacles, like—

For how much?

R60-million. Fifty-two to buy your shares from Mrs Coltrane, and eight million to cover operational working capital while your estate is being wrapped up.

The meeting’s movement to the more numerical side of things prompts Ntombi to join the discussion: That is based on a R100m valuation of Elephant Tusk, Mr Coltrane. The auditors have assisted with the valuation. And the premiums will be tax deductible, sir.

Angelique and Sibo quietly stare back at me, their eyes screaming their desire to be anywhere but between these four walls.

And you guys all agree with this? My eyes glide across the room’s occupants. Heather’s eyes are fixed to her laptop screen as her manicured fingers type away while all the others nod in agreement. I’ve got a tinge of embarrassment at my slight overreaction, but I won’t show it. It’s a sign of weakness that I can’t allow into the room at this point of the fight.

I lean back in my chair: Very well, then. It makes sense in the bigger scheme, and it’s for the good of not only the company but also you guys who I know have poured your souls into Elephant Tusk’s rise over the past two decades.

There is one more thing Mr Coltrane, interjected Oscar nervously.

I know, Oscar, my age. We should’ve done this a long time ago – before I hit the 65-year mark. I presume you’ve made provision for a solution in your proposal?

Yes, sir, I did. But it’s not that. The problem is the medical side of things, sir.

What do you mean? Told you already – I’m healthy as a horse!

We know, Mr Coltrane. And we take your word for it. Still, we need to convince the medical people.

My rage has vanished, and Oscar’s silliness brings a deepening smile to my face: There’s not a lot of convincing to do Oscar.

Sir, we wanted to have this chat before scheduling the appointment for your medical with the insurance people. There’s a couple of days lead time to consider.

Very well – that’s more than enough time. Speak to Heather, she’ll check my diary. Now, if there’s nothing else, there’s a young man’s hearing that I need to prepare for. My smile is not reciprocated, which means we may have just hit the crux of their reason for calling me here.

Sir, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. We’re worried about your drinking, Mr Coltrane.

What? The neck flames return, fuelled by my rising blood pressure: Are you nuts? Are you calling me an alcoholic?

Sir, we’ve received a complaint from the last hearing you attended. The dismissed employee has taken us to the Commission for Conciliation, Mediation and Arbitration.

The CCMA?! What for – the guy had arrived at the factory pissed as a lord! He was three times over the legal limit, confirmed by the factory’s mandatory breathalyser system! It was an open-and-shut case – I was there, Oscar.

That’s the problem, sir. The employee had admitted to having an alcohol problem. Labour laws dictate that we were supposed to have enrolled him in a rehab program and tried to help him before we dismissed him.

I didn’t know that. So, is it necessary for him to take us to the damn CCMA? We could’ve resolved that like adults!

The problem is the contents of his statement to the CCMA. He’d self-isolated for two weeks before his final hearing to try and wean himself off the drink. In his complaint, he claimed that he’d been sober when he came in for the hearing.

Doesn’t matter, the damage was already done by then.

"No sir, it had only started. He claimed in the report that you had smelled of alcohol during the hearing."

Has he got a death wish? What’s his name again, I’ll deal with him myself!

Please don’t, Mr Coltrane. He also stated he saw you walking out of some bar called Legends the morning before the hearing. There’s a cell phone video doing the rounds of you stumbling to your car before lunchtime on that Monday morning. We haven’t seen it, but we’re told it’s part of the case against us. Our problem is word travels, and word on ground level is that our chief is a high functioning alcoholic.

I’ll prove all of you wrong! Heather, call the factory and get me that breathalyser from the floor. One of Sibo’s drivers can bring it over. We do it right here, right now!

Mr Coltrane, please. That won’t be necessary – I’m merely asking you to prepare accordingly for your upcoming medical. A week would give you more than enough time to ensure there’s no problem when all the blood tests are done.

Heather excuses herself and leaves to arrange the test kit. I’m ready as can be. I haven’t been drinking out of the ordinary and have of course been dry since I woke up this morning. There’s absolutely no reason to worry. We await Heather’s return. The factory’s only ten minutes away, and we sit with bated breath.

***

Oscar jumps up to grab the kit from a returning Heather – and approaches me like he must’ve done thousands of times during his rise from floor manager to the coveted director’s position he presently holds. I blow all my frustration and anger into the pipe.

Oscar waits for the reading to register. His brow furrows as he turns the reading over to Sibongile. Sibo’s drivers’ alcohol levels are also tested daily – he knows the exact legal limit. They look at each other, before turning their eyes to me as Oscar shows me the reading. I don’t need to see it – the look in their eyes speak volumes. But how can this be? I haven’t had anything to drink since late lunch yesterday.

Oscar turns to Heather, indicating to her to stop minuting the next passage. She obliges. Whatever he’s about to say will stay off the record.

I’m sorry, Mr Coltrane. If you were a regular employee, you’d be receiving a written warning, even perhaps an instant dismissal.

What are you saying, Oscar?

We have prepared a second proposal for you, Mr Coltrane. You don’t have to respond now, our focus should be the key man policy first, then we can deal with the other matter.

I’m not gonna read it, Oscar. Tell me what you guys want from me?

We want you to step down as chairman, Mr Coltrane.

"And leave you backstabbing lot in charge of my company?"

"Our company, Mr Coltrane sir. We own 48%."

Exactly, you guys can’t make me vacate – I’m still the majority shareholder.

The Companies Act makes particular provision for removing a director deemed ‘not fit for office’.

Not fit for… Fuck you, Oscar! my boiling blood erupts like a spewing volcano."

That’s not what we want, sir. You can remain as a non-executive director. Gary has proven himself as an excellent HR Manager. We can promote him to HR Director, and in doing so, keep the workforce calm and quash any rumours around the executive management of the company.

I think I’ve heard enough. You can take your proposals and shove them so deep up your ass that the paper shreds through your ears. Or if you’d like, I’d do it for you!

With that, I grab my keys, wallet and phone and storm out of the office. Through the corridor I charge – past Mandy our receptionist. Across from her, in a dark suit and glued to his phone, sits the young man whose disciplinary hearing I was supposed to chair. There goes that as well – he’s probably better off having Gary and one of the other directors taking charge of his case. Still fuming as I get in my car, I turn the key, ready to go anywhere but here.

I need a drink…

CHAPTER 2

The Jaguar’s engine roars through the frigid Cape Town air, towards the swiftly opened boom. Patrick, our office security guard, salutes me on the way through. I nod my head and return the gesture. He breathes a sigh of relief, having saved his boom in the nick of time. It might be the last time I see the dutiful stalwart for quite a while considering the shit that’s just gone down. The kind of shit that’ll keep me from returning to the office any time soon. My relentless rage robs me of the level-headedness needed to figure out where to go from here.

Home, I guess.

I slammed Oscar’s proposals so hard on the boardroom table that I’m sure the walls are still rattling. I was ready to shove the stapled pages and my disdain down his throat. The comfort in knowing Heather would later drop the tidied documents in my residential post-box relaxes my shoulders – my knuckles’ whiteness ease up as I lessen my grip on the steering wheel. 

The Jag instinctively slows down at the turnoff to Legends Pub & Grill, but Oscar’s accusations trigger a flick of the indicator lever back to its neutral position. I give the turnoff a miss and keep going. Driving past the old place feels awkwardly unfamiliar. I’ll just look for another watering hole – clearly things will never be the same from here on in. Legends is about as dead to me as my relationship with my company’s cunning board.

Is this my reward for taking this treacherous crew under my wing and rearing them to my hand? Without me they’d all still be lowly office employees. Oscar’s bewildered eyes flash through my memory banks until I recall Ntombi’s hazel gaze. It hits me like a shot: she’s the one – Oscar may have been the group’s frontman, but the whole intervention reeks of my CFO’s cold, calculated planning and execution. None of the others would’ve paid a succession plan any thought unless she made them aware of it. I headhunted her from Carrick & Company, our auditors. Had to fight old Mick Carrick for her as he had earmarked the brilliantly minded Ntombi as his long-term successor in his own business. I recall her being a close second on my list at the time, despite her achievements. Jason Clidaras, a Greek boy, had been the leading clerk on our audit for three years by the time he declined my job offer. He would’ve been the perfect fit for Elephant Tusk but decided to pack his bags for the UK instead. So, Ntombi got the nod and here we are today with her playing puppet master in a ploy to force me into an unwanted succession plan.

How the hell did I blow high on the breathalyser anyway? Wait a minute… there was that article in The Oaksworth Times. Must’ve been a few weeks (months?) back.