Thank God the sun was finally getting ready to knock off. Talkabout a hot time in the Mission. It didn't seem there was anything I could doto beat the heat. A whole pint of Haagen-Dazs. A cold shower. Ice cubes allover my body. Nothing seemed to work. If you said "Black Tar Coffee" right now,I'd probably break out in another sweat and turn to candle wax. The only thingthat was going to save me was some ice-blue jazz. John Coltrane to be exact.Ain't nothin' cooler than that.

Thought about taking a trip down to North Beach to check out my buddy's group-- BLUETRAIN -- at The Gathering Caffé. That's another one of myhangouts where I get away for cheap. No cover. No two drink minimum. Hip crowd,too. Why, I bet they won't even bat an eye if I sit there in nothing but theseboxers.

I heard the gate down the alleyway open. Figured to be the Old Man, aterminable chalkplayer and habitual loser at the racetrack. Seems like the onlytime he wins or breaks even is when I'm there with him to bail his ass out.Maybe that's why, on his good days, he lets me slide a little on the rent.

I'd already paid half the rent for June. Now he was looking for the otherhalf. He threw his Racing Form and program down in disgust. Somethingtold me he'd taken one-too-many headers on Hollendorfer and Baze at 6-to-5.Normally, I just shake my head and laugh. But this time, things were different.By the looks of it, I'd say he dropped close to five bills.

Tempest In A Teapot stood there fuming, steam whistling out his ears. Threatsand epithets flew at me like daggers. Had to make tracks -- fast.

"Where you think you're goin'?" Volcano About To Erupt spewed.

"Gotta go cover my beat," I said, pulling on a harried pants leg. I threw on adress shirt, leaving the buttons for later. I had just enough time to grab myshoulder bag. First though, I took out the old Form and a beat-upExaminer.

"You say you gotta write a story. Fine. Where's the money?"

"You know how it works. I never get nothin' up front." Didn't have the heartto tellum the truth: probably wouldn't get paid jack.

"What kinda bullshit is this! You know how much you owe me?!" Flashbackto The Gambler, the original, where James Caan is into the mob forforty-four grand, and Paul Sorvino explains the gravity of the situation,saying, "Forty-four G's, Axel -- it ain't just numbers."

Up in North Beach, thought I might get lucky and spy my muse hanging out nextto the Last Saloon. She likes blues. Me, I'm more hardcore jazz. The Rebirth ofCool, that sort of thing. Thought we could make it work.

What happened to her, anyway? We had a pretty good thing going there for awhile. Didn't even need no Jim Beam or off-brand scotch. Probably took up withsome other hotshot writer with a superslick agent. Editors working overtime. Ormaybe she run off with some guy sporting a big, fat bankroll. Wears Gucciloafers and drives a Lexus. Gets a window table at Esperpento any time hewants.

Can't say as I blame her. We both know all she's gonna get outta me is a cheapnight out. Two for one dinner with a coupon, no dessert. For entertainment, acouple games of pool at fifty cents a pop. But screw the romance, I gotDelahoussaye comin' to town to ride the big race! He's my all-time favoritejock. Prized, Nikishka, Risen Star -- cashed tickets on all of `em.

Outside the jazz club, I flung my bag over a parking meter, and stood close tothe curb to avoid the tourists making their way up Grant. Inside, my buddy,Richie O' Connell, was going to town on the snare. Ratta-tat-tat psssstdat-n-dat. David Buuke was in full flight on the piano, his hands going allover like five-legged spiders over-amping on a jar of Mexican jumping beans.The bass player, Todd Richmond, was laying down a funky groove. Richie glancedout the window and waved "hello."

All of the sudden, a cool breeze made its way up the street and hit me in theface. There was a strange presence. Although I could neither see nor hear him,I knew he was there. Coltrane's Spirit was right by my side.

"So Hoops, you wanna know how it really was in San Francisco in `55.Wanna know what it sounded like when I knocked `em out at the Blackhawk and BopCity, huh? Diggit, man."

Just then, Tracy McMullen, the sax player, showed why she's in a league allher own. She was giving me the straight dope, no wimpy Kenny G shit. Love itwhen she goes down to the basement for really deep notes. Sounds like thefoghorn on Alcatraz at four in the morning.

BLUETRAIN finished out the set, and `Trane and I shared a private moment; toldme something I'll never forget. He said not to worry about only having fivebucks, and to never mind when people treat me like Little Orphan Child. "You'vegot will and spirit -- the two qualities I admire most in a man. They may havemore money than you, but I guarantee there isn't one person in that club whowouldn't trade for what you've got."

The night took shape, the sky long since fading from aqua blue to black. Imade the walk back to Market Street through Chinatown. Along the way, there wasthis other sax player--a white guy with a sweatstained T-shirt, throwing hissoul out in the street for anyone to hear. Couldn't a been for the money. Mostof the tourists were long gone, headed back to their comfy hotels. We weren'trelated by blood (at least I don't thin so), but he was my brother, so I tosseda bus token into his coffee can and listened. After, I was the only oneclapping. Coltrane looked on, nodded his head -- and smiled. Pretty hip for awhite dude, he thought.

Hoops McCann

MS "switch" nonsense

Death of the commons?