April 1998

“Once more, ladies and gentlemen,” the Master of Ceremonies called out from the far edge of the stage, “let’s hear it for Johnny North and The Hamiltons.”

Applause filled the Blue Diamond Lounge as the band’s middle-aged frontman stepped to the front to acknowledge the accolade. At sixty-two, Johnny North, better known these days as John Robert North Sr., little resembled the up-and-coming artist who had seen a couple of singles make it to the charts back in the early sixties. His hair was thinner and mostly gray, plus he weighed a good forty pounds more than in his prime. But he still loved to play, and now, having taken an early retirement package, he’d gotten the band back together. Well, maybe not exactly.

Back in the summer of sixty-one, when they’d first appeared here at the Blue Diamond, it had been himself, Tony Collins, Eddie Carrington, Carl Grant, and Steve Walsh, all recent graduates of Fort Hamilton High School. Now it was just him and Eddie Carrington. They’d lost Carl in Vietnam, and a heart attack had taken Steve Walsh a decade ago. Tony Collins moved out of Brooklyn after getting married, and no one was quite sure where he lived now.

So, playing aside from him and Eddie, were a bunch of kids who hadn’t even been born when The Hamiltons were in their heyday. At times, that made Johnny feel like an old man, but he balanced that with the thought that without them, there wouldn’t be a band at all. And wasn’t that what was really important — that the music went on?

As the crowd began to break up into smaller groups and the band started to gather up their gear, Johnny stood at the edge of the stage and thought back to what once almost was. It had been the fall of ‘63, and all of their hard work, coupled with a stroke of luck, had finally led to their big break. A friend of a friend had managed to interest the producer of a popular television variety show in one of their songs, and he had liked it enough to book them as a replacement act for the weekend before Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, history had other plans, and their appearance, along with everything else that weekend, was preempted by the non-stop coverage of President Kennedy’s funeral. It was tough luck, the producer had said, promising to see what he could do about rescheduling them later in the season. But then came the British Invasion in early ‘64, changing the face of music and sweeping away a number of promising groups — The Hamiltons among them.

“Good set, Johnny,” Bobby Tyler said as he came up to the band’s founder, handing him a bottle of beer he’d picked up from the bar.

The blond-haired twenty-year-old, dressed in the same black T-shirt and jeans as the rest of the band, played bass guitar and was quite good at it. So good, in fact, that Johnny had wondered during his audition why he wanted to waste his talent with a band that was just an imitation of the original, instead of one that might go places. Bobby’s answer was that he loved the music. His Aunt Nina, he added, had been one of the band’s early fans and played their records so often that she wore them out. But not before Bobby had learned to play along with all of them.

Johnny had laughed when the young man had said that, pointing out that the band’s entire discography consisted only of six songs, only three of which had charted. Still, behind that smile, he had been impressed.

“Thanks, kid,” Johnny said as he took a sip from the bottle, falling back on his old habit of calling nearly everyone under fifty a kid. “You going to hang around for the party?”

Johnny had arranged a party in the back room to celebrate the band’s return to the Blue Diamond. A celebration he was looking forward to more than his retirement party of a few months before.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Bobby replied. “It’s been a long day, and I’m a bit tired.”

“Suite yourself, but think about what you might be missing,” the singer said with a broad grin. “There’ll be a lot of women there, some of whom still get turned on by the old music. A good-looking kid like you probably wouldn’t have a hard time getting laid.”

Bobby agreed that the crowd had been quite enthusiastic, but while he’d heard of wild things happening at afterparties, he somehow doubted that would be the case with this one. Looking out at the crowd during the performance, he had seen a great many female faces, but few under thirty. In fact, if he were to hazard a guess, he’d have put the average age of the audience at around fifty.

“I still think I’ll pass,” Bobby repeated.

“Suit yourself, kid, but...” Johnny started to say, only to be interrupted as someone called his name from the bottom of the steps at the left side of the stage.

The reaction on Johnny’s face as he turned in that direction suggested that he knew the woman standing there. In any event, he cut his discussion with Bobby short and bounced down the steps to greet the apparent fan.

Bobby watched as the redheaded woman, who like so many of Johnny’s fans was also middle-aged, threw her arms around the singer and gave him a kiss. Johnny then slipped his arm around her waist, and together they walked off in the direction of the back room where the party was going to be held.

“Maybe Johnny at least is going to get lucky,” Bobby chuckled as, after taking a last taste of his beer, he laid the still half-full bottle on a nearby box and headed for the small staircase himself.

Bobby had meant it when he’d said it’d been a long day. Before coming down to the lounge to play with the band, he’d spent eight hours putting up sheetrock at his day job. Crashing in front of the television might not be the most exciting way to end a Friday night, but it beat spending his time searching for something that wasn’t going to happen.

The Blue Diamond had been pretty much filled to capacity, and it took a bit of effort on Bobby’s part to make his way to the front door. He’d just about gotten there when he caught sight of a face in the crowd that looked familiar. He couldn’t be sure; it had only been a quick glimpse, but the possibility was enough for him to turn back for a second look. With the crowd constantly shifting, that proved easier said than done, but he finally spotted her again, at least from the back, and made his way toward the short-haired brunette.

“Mrs. Davenport?” he said, making it a question in case he’d been wrong.

The woman, her back still to him, stood three inches shorter than his own five ten and weighed around a hundred and fifty pounds. Turning in response to his inquiry, she seemed confused as to who the young man calling her name was, at least initially.

“Oh my lord, Bobby Tyler,” she then said in surprise as she recognized him.

Cora Davenport had been his Aunt Nina’s best friend, or — as they liked to refer to each other — her partner in crime. They had grown up on the same block and had been practically inseparable until Nina’s death two years ago. Bobby hadn’t seen Cora since the funeral.

“I almost didn’t recognize you, what with the beard and all,” Cora said, “but I like it; it suits you. Makes you look even more handsome.”

Bobby smiled, thinking as he reflexively ran a hand across his tightly trimmed facial hair that she still looked pretty good herself. Cora and his aunt had been the same age, so that made her fifty-four now. There were a few gray strands in her light brown hair and a couple of new age lines, but overall she was just like he remembered. The green print blouse she was wearing was cut just low enough to show off a remarkable bust without being too scandalous, and the just-below-the-knees black skirt only added to the effect.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m in the band,” he said, surprised that she hadn’t seen him on the stage.

“Really?” she said, only now noticing the black shirt he was wearing. “That’s wonderful. Your aunt would’ve been so proud; she really loved The Hamiltons back in the day.”

Cora went on to say that she’d arrived late, thus missing the introductions, and had only been able to find a seat all the way in the back. It was close enough to enjoy the music but not to get a good look at the performers.

“How have you been?” Bobby asked after saying that at least she got to hear them play.

“Oh, hanging in there,” Cora smiled. “You know what they say, any day above ground...”

Her face suddenly turned white as she paused in mid-sentence, realizing what a terrible thing that had been to say.

“Oh Bobby, I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me,” she apologized.

“It’s okay,” Bobby accepted. “Sometimes I forget that she’s gone too.”

They shared a moment of reflection. Then Cora lightened the mood, saying again how impressed she was that Bobby was in the band.

“Little Bobby Hamilton,” she said, “well, maybe not so little anymore.”

“Well, it’s only a part-time gig, really,” he noted. “The band only plays on weekends.”

“Still...” Cora said, pausing for a breath as she recalled a memory. “Did Nina ever tell you that she and I were at the Blue Diamond the night The Hamiltons first played here? We had to sneak in because we were underage. Johnny was already a neighborhood legend, and everyone thought he was going to be the next Bobby Darin or Neil Sedaka.”

Bobby laughed, pointing out that to hear Johnny tell it, he was on his way to being the next Elvis Presley.

“Wait a second, let’s not get crazy now,” Cora said a bit more seriously. “Elvis was, and always will be ... the King.”

That Bobby had to agree with.

“But you should’ve seen him back then, movie star handsome and thin as a rake,” Cora went on, “and his voice, the effect it had on you, oh how can I describe it?”

“Wait a second, you’re talking about Johnny North, right?” Bobby interjected, thinking for a moment she might’ve been referring to Elvis.

“Of course I am,” Cora replied. “Those old pictures they have of him out by the entranceway really don’t do him justice. And when he sang, well, let me put it this way, half the girls in the audience had to change their panties after the show.”

Bobby chuckled, at least until he realized that his aunt had been one of those girls in the audience. Then again, so had Cora.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Cora asked, drawing attention to the bottle in her own hand.

“I won’t be twenty-one until next month,” Bobby replied, something the bartender who had slipped him drinks for Johnny and himself hadn’t bothered to verify, but hey, he was in the band.

“Well, I won’t tell if you don’t,” Cora replied, her smile growing broader.

“Thanks, but I had one already,” Bobby said quietly.

“Just one?” Cora repeated, her tone giving the impression that the one in her hand hadn’t been her first.

That Cora had been drinking shouldn’t have been a surprise — after all, they were in a bar — but her demeanor made him wonder how much. Not enough to get drunk, he decided, but she did seem a bit tipsy.

“Cora, did you come with someone?” he asked. “I mean, do you have a ride home?”

“A friend dropped me off, but she couldn’t stay,” she replied. “Don’t worry, if I can’t find someone to give me a ride later, I’ll call for a cab.”

“Well, the show is already over, so why don’t I give you a ride?” Bobby found himself asking, suddenly feeling a sense of responsibility for his aunt’s old friend. “I was just about to leave anyway.”

“Isn’t the band having some sort of party?” Cora asked, adding when Bobby nodded his head, “I wouldn’t want to take you away from that.”

“I wasn’t going to the party,” Bobby said.

“Why not?” Cora asked, “I thought that was one of the best things about being in a band — the fangirls.”

“I’m just not in the mood,” Bobby replied, thinking to himself that he’d hardly call the women that made up the majority of the audience girls.

“Well, if you were leaving anyway,” Cora said after a moment’s thought, “sure, why not?”

One plus to having had to arrive at the Blue Diamond before most of the patrons showed up was that it allowed Bobby to secure a prime parking spot just across the street. As they crossed over to the car, he confirmed with Cora that she still lived in the same apartment he remembered. After closing the passenger side door behind her, Bobby realized he hadn’t asked how her husband was. An omission he corrected once he’d settled into the driver’s seat and started up the car.

“How is Mr. Davenport doing?” he asked as they pulled out of the parking spot and started down the avenue.

“Mr. Davenport has been gone pretty much over a year now,” Cora said unemotionally.

“I’m so sorry,” Bobby quickly said, having had no idea he’d also passed away.

“Oh, he’s not dead, just gone,” Cora said, a sly smile on her face as she turned in Bobby’s direction. “We had a parting of the ways shortly after your aunt passed. As you know, we got married late in life and never had kids, so the divorce was relatively simple. We just divided everything up and called it a day. He went his way and I went mine. The apartment was part of mine.”

“Do you know where he went?” Bobby asked out of curiosity.

“Not specifically, but if he was dead, I’m sure someone would call, or at least write me a letter,” she deadpanned. “The last I heard, he was somewhere down in the Caribbean on that boat of his, running chartered tours.”

Bobby hadn’t known Frank Davenport well, but he did remember he used to love to talk about his boat. It seemed the only thing he really cared about.

Cora’s building was only a few miles from the club, and with little traffic this time of night, it only took about ten minutes to reach. Bobby found a parking spot by the side entrance, one that couldn’t have been more perfect as, looking up, he could see they were directly under Cora’s second-floor apartment.

“Oh dear,” he heard her say as she too looked up.

“Something wrong?” Bobby asked.

“Whenever I go out at night, I leave one of the living-room lamps on, just so I don’t have to come home to a dark apartment,” she explained. “But as you can see, there’s no light. Yet I’m sure I turned it on.”

“Maybe the bulb burned out,” Bobby suggested. “How old was it?”

“No idea,” Cora laughed. “I mean, who pays any attention to light bulbs except when they go out?”

‘That was true,’ Bobby thought, then said, “If you’re really worried about it, I could walk you up.”

“Oh, I’ve put you out too much already,” Cora insisted. “It’ll be fine.”

Nevertheless, Bobby shut off the engine and unlocked his seat belt, insisting as he did that it was no trouble at all. Entering the side door, they climbed the stairway to the second floor, stopping just outside Cora’s apartment.