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es for them now。） There was a curfew requiring them to be off the street by eleven P。M。； so unless they wanted to risk arrest or worse； the band had to be finished and packed up by ten…thirty。 There was no hotel in Jackson that would admit them； so the musicians were farmed out to various shabby boardinghouses and private homes。
Bird and the singer； honky…tonk bluesman Walter Brown； drew cots on the screened porch of someone's house。 They were out of the converted barn where they had played and back at the house by eleven； but since their usual lifestyle kept them up until the small hours； the musicians were far from sleepy。 They lay on their cots under the meager yellow glow of the porch light； passing a flask and sweating the liquor from their pores as fast as they swallowed it in the sodden Mississippi heat； slapping at the mosquitoes that slipped through holes in the screen； shooting the shit； talking of music or beautiful women or perhaps just how far they were from Kansas City。
At midnight the police showed up； four beefy good old boys with guns and nightsticks and necks as red as the blood they were itching to spill。 The burning porch light was a violation of the 〃nigger curfew；〃 they said； and Bird and Brown could e along to the station with them； and if they didn't care to e peacefully like good boys； why then； they were wele to a few lumps on the head and a pair of steel bracelets。
Charlie Parker and Walter Brown spent three days in Jackson jail for sitting up talking with the porch light on。 Charlie had the sharpest tongue； and so came out of it the worst； when McShann was finally able to bail them out； Bird's close…cropped hair was still stiff with dried blood where the nightsticks had split the skin over his skull。 He had not been allowed enough water to wash the crust of blood away。 Brown claimed to have kept his mouth shut； but sported some lumps and bruises of his own。
Bird had posed a tune to memorate the incident； first called 〃What Price Love？〃 but later retitled 〃Yardbird Suite。〃 His fury and wounded pride wound through the song like a crimson thread； a sobbing； wailing undertone。
How to get all that into a single strip； a few pages of black…and…white drawings？ How to best show the tawdry tenement where they had been sequestered； the weathered wood and torn tarpaper houses； the narrow； muddy streets； the stupid malice on the faces of the cops？ It was the sort of thing Bobby had done effortlessly in the three issues of Birdland。 His stories had taken place mostly in the slums and beat sections of New York or New Orleans or Kansas City； not Jackson； Mississippi； and his human characters had been fictional junkies and street freaks and jazz musicians； not real ones。
But the mood of Birdland； the stark； slick； slightly hallucinatory drawings； the distorted reflections in puddles and the dark windows of bars； the constant low…key threat of violence； the feeling that everything in the strip was a little larger than life； and a little louder； and a little weirder… that was what Trevor wanted to capture here。
For now； though； he was just sketching in the panels and their contents； space for captions and word balloons； rough figures and backgrounds； the barest hints of gestures and expressions。 The faces and hands were his favorite part； he would linger over them later。 He had already drawn Bird hundreds of times。 The handsome fleshy features appeared on the margins of his pages and woven into his backgrounds nearly as often as the face of his father。
He reached the part on the porch； just before the police arrived； and the first time Walter Brown's face appeared in closeup。 His pencil slowed； then stopped； and he tapped the eraser against the page thoughtfully。 He realized he had never seen a picture of Brown； had no idea what the singer looked like。
No problem： he could wing it； improvise the man's face like a jazz solo。 He already had a hazy picture in his head； and even as he thought about it； the features grew clearer。 His fantasy Walter Brown was a very young man； about twenty…but then they had all been young； mostly younger than Trevor was now…and boyishly thin to Bird's fleshiness； with high cheekbones and slightly slanting dark…almond eyes。 Handsome。
This was how he usually worked： pondering an idea for months； turning it over and over in his head until he had nearly every panel and line worked out。 Only then did he put pencil or pen or brush to paper； and the thing spilled full…blown onto the page。 Bobby had been the same way； working in feverish bursts and starts。 And when the inspiration was gone； it was gone forever。
At least if that happens to me； Trevor reminded himself； I won't have anyone to kill。 There was no person he had cared that much about。 Incidents like the one with the art teacher were a different thing altogether。 You could cheerfully rip such people's heads off and drink the fountaining blood from the neck…stumps in those first few minutes of blind rage； if the fragile constraints of civilization and lack of physical power did not bind you。
But later； when you had time to think on it； you realized that nothing could be gained by hurting such people； that perhaps they were not even alive enough to feel pain。 You could make better use of your anger by keeping it to yourself； letting it grow until you needed it。
Still 。。。 if you loved someone； really loved them； wouldn't you want to take them with you when you died？ Trevor tried to imagine actually holding someone down and killing them； just breaking them apart； watching as the love in their face turned to agony or rage or confusion； feeling their bones crack and their blood flow over your hands； under the nails； greasing into the palms。
There was no one with whom he would want such intimacy。 Kinsey had hugged him last night in the club； had held him as naturally as one might hold a suffering child。 It had been the first time Trevor had cried in another person's presence in twenty years。 For that matter； it was as physically close to another person as he had been since the man with gentle hands carried him out of the house； since his last glimpse of his father's swollen face。 These two brief meetings of clothed skin were all he'd had。
No； he remembered。 Not quite all。
Once； when he was twelve； a slightly older boy at the Home had caught him alone in the shower and pushed him into a corner。 The boy's hands had scrabbled over his slick soapy skin； and Trevor had felt something in his head snap。 Next thing he knew three counselors were pulling him off the kid； who was curled in the fetal position on the stall floor； and the knuckles of his left hand were throbbing； bruised； and blood was streaking the white tiles； swirling down the silver drain 。 。 。
The older boy had a concussion； and Trevor was confined to his hall for a month。 His homework and meals were brought to him。 The solitude was wonderful。 He filled eighteen notebooks； and one of the things he drew over and over was the shower stall with the boy in it： head smacking the cold tiles at the precise moment of impact； skinny body curled in a half inch of water threaded with his own blood。 His blood that Trevo