The lights dimmed. The audience, which had up to this point been chattering happily, quickly quieted, the only sound being the thudding of glasses as drinks were put down upon the rickety tables they sat around. They gazed towards the front of the club, where, in the darkness, several musicians had silently approached their instruments: a drummer, a pianist, and a bassist. Suddenly, an ethereal blue light enveloped the stage, and out stepped the main attraction, holding a gleaming silver saxophone. There was a slight round of applause, but the man held out his hand and lowered it, commanding silence. He briefly glanced at his supporting band, gave a nod, and raised the instrument to his lips.
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“The Hepcat Lounge?” Julius Randle was looking at the flickering blue neon sign with distrust, as he and two of his Lakers teammates stood in a grimy alley in a less-than-ideal part of Los Angeles. “You sure this is the place?”
“Yeah, this is the place, I’m sure of it.” Nick Young responded.
“I mean, I know you know all the craziest nightclubs in the city, Nick, but this doesn’t seem like it’s, uh, down your alley.” said Brandon Ingram, scrunching his hoodie closer to his face as a slightly chilly rain fell.
“I keep my ear close to the ground. But, in this case, Lou recommended this place to me. Said it was the hottest new place in town. He said he’d be here too, but if he is, he’s inside. Has anyone heard from him?” Nick asked.
“Who cares? I’m frickin’ freezing.” Brandon complained.
“Yeah, let’s check it out. How bad can it be, anyway? I’m sure they have booze, at least.” Julius walked down the stairs and opened the door. “And no bouncers, either!”
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“It’s like a maze in here.” Brandon whined, trying to navigate the pitch-black hallway with his hands.
“You sure this isn’t a setup, Nick? There are dudes out there who would like nothing more than to lure unsuspecting NBA players to an abandoned warehouse, rob them, kill them, and rape their plundered corpses.” Julius joked.
Nick looked nervous, though his teammates couldn’t notice. “Very funny. I’m sure we’ll get somewhere eventually. Just keep walking, and let’s not get separated.”
“Should we hold hands?” Brandon flailed his arms blindly, smacking Nick in the face.
“Dammit, Brandon. Just keep walking.”
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After what seemed like an eternity, the three Lakers stumbled into the main room, snapping at each other. They were met with disapproving glares and a few sharp “shhhhh”s from the audience members in the back. Their annoyed voices quickly ceased, not because of the disapproval of the patrons, but because of the sound coming from the stage.
It looked like a normal jazz performance; the drummer was keeping a good beat, the pianist was competently plunking his chords, and the upright bass was twanging away up and down the fretboard. But the saxophonist, though looking the part, swaying and bobbing with eyes closed in ecstasy, was creating nothing that could be termed music. Only occasionally was a stray note or sequence appearing in the cacophony of screeches and blats. It sounded like a man who had never played before had picked up the instrument and tried to emulate the one performance he had seen in his life.
The audience didn’t seem to mind the unlistenable racket coming forth from the stage, still lit in ghostly blue. They all were looking intently at the performer, slightly bobbing their head or tapping their feet.
“Is that Lou?” Julius whispered.
Nick looked stunned, and didn’t respond.
Brandon covered his ears over his hoodie, now scrunched to its fullest extent. “It is! I know that dude anywhere.”
“No wonder he invited you, Nick, of course he wants his teammates to know what an artist he is!” Julius laughed, pushing Nick in the shoulder.
Nick remained silent for a while, staring at the stage disbelievingly. Then, he turned around and grabbed his teammates. “Let’s get out of here.”
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They stood outside in the alley again, looking back at “The Hepcat Lounge”.
“Well that sucked.” Julius stated flatly. “I couldn’t even find where they kept the booze!”
“Yeah, that really sucked Nick.” Brandon agreed. “You should feel bad for wasting our time like that.”
Nick looked sadly at the wet pavement. “Blame Lou. It’s his fault, he didn’t tell me it would be a lame jazz club! How did he get that gig anyway, did he give a BJ to the… wait a minute, what’s that?” He had noticed a flyer posted on the brick wall of an adjoining building. He walked over and ripped it down.
“Tonight only!” He read aloud. “Louis Williams, world famous jazz saxophonist?”
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