“Ladies and Gentlemen of the audience,” The gravelly voice announced over the microphone.
It was Mad Dog Malone.
“We have one hour left of two thousand and eight and if the world goes boom at the stroke of midnight none of you will die with any regrets. For this final hour, we have a very special treat for you. A very good friend of mine is going to blow you away with his Blues Guitar. Let the man towards the stage. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Wizard of Oz himself, the one and only, Jason Smith.”
“No pressure then?” Whitton smiled as Smith rose to his feet.
Smith laughed.
“I might need this though,” he said and poured a full glass of Jack Daniels and took it with him to the stage.
He picked his Fender off the stand and plugged it into the amp.
“I’ve figured out a new one,” he said to the bass player, “Tea for One, the Joe Bonamassa version. Do you know it?”
The bass player nodded. His name was Jim and Smith reckoned he had emerged from the womb playing the bass, he could play anything.
Smith turned up the volume control and sat in the chair that had been provided for him. He always preferred to play sitting down.
The crowd was eerily quiet as Smith got comfortable. He then launched into the first chords of Tea for One. The music slowed and the deep voice of Jim, the bass player sang the first few words.
“How come twenty four hours, seem to slip into days?”
The crowd went wild. Whitton was transfixed. She could not take her eyes off Smith. He began the guitar solo and closed his eyes as his fingers ran up and down the frets as though they were possessed. It was only when the song drew to a close that he opened his eyes again and stared at something in the distance like a man bewitched.
“Anybody in the mood for a bit of Hendrix?” Smith screamed into the mike.
The audience cheered.
“A bit of Voodoo?” he added.
He played the wah wah intro and the cheering got louder. There were people filling the dance area. Smith looked over to where Whitton was sitting. She was not alone anymore; someone was sitting in Smith’s seat. It was a man who looked older than Smith but he seemed very familiar. The man and Whitton were talking but Whitton seemed very uncomfortable. The song was about to end but Smith nodded to Jim to tell him to carry on playing, Smith felt like jamming. The harmonica player joined in and Smith slowed things down a bit. He played slow, gritty blues, no fancy scales, just haunting soul wrenching sounds. The crowd were mesmerised. Smith was not sure how long he had been playing but the sudden increase in tempo from Mad Dog on the drums told him it was time to wrap it up. Smith stood up, nodded to Mad Dog and played his signature finale, a slow minor run down the frets that ended in a continuous chord with an accompanying drum roll and crash of the cymbals. Smith turned off the amp, unplugged his guitar and replaced it on its stand.
The audience cheered as he walked back to his seat. A few of them patted him on the back.
“Wow,” Whitton said as he sat down, “you’re in the wrong job.”
“The force pay better,” he said and finished his drink, “besides, being in the Police is much better for your health.”
Whitton laughed.
“If you say so,” she said.
“Who was that guy who was sitting here while I was up there?” Smith asked.
“Getting jealous were you?”
“It’s not like that.” Smith had a serious expression on his face.
“I was joking,” Whitton said, “he just came and sat down, he said he saw us come in. He was very unnerving actually.”
“What did he want?”
“He says he knows you, or he used to. He needs to talk to you.”
“Where is he now?”
“He had to go; he wanted to see the New Year in somewhere else.”
“What time is it now?”
Whitton checked her watch. “Ten to twelve,” she said, “he left a business card.” She handed the card to Smith.
“White and White exporting,” Smith read from the card, “David and Lucy White. Perth Australia.”
“Do you know him?”
“David White,” Smith thought out loud, “Jesus Christ, Whitey.”
“So you do know him?”
“A long time ago. He was a real arsehole.”
“He said something else,” Whitton added, “something strange. That’s why he needs to talk to you.”
“What was that Whitton?”
“He told me to tell you that your sister is still alive.”