The Jazz Palace (24 page)

When he glanced up, Opal was cutting up the floor in her indigo flapper dress. A young man with thin brownish hair whipped her out and pulled her back, but he could hardly keep up with her. Napoleon blew louder as if music could break a spell. He pierced the high notes he'd been able to reach with his scar. But he couldn't take his eyes off of Opal.

Rhythm streamed out of the piano, and the beat emerged from the bass, but it was lust that came from the trumpet. The mouth that closed around it, the tongue that worked its way in, the horn itself like that private part of a man, rising up for the high notes, burrowing into a woman, then coming back down. Napoleon was sweating from head to foot. His eyes had that dreamy bedtime look of a satisfied man. He gazed out into the audience, looking for his beacon of light. He looked for her the way he'd looked for fireflies on a summer's night.

When he spotted her, he ran his tongue across his scar. Opal danced with her hand wrapped around a whiskey sour. She'd lost count of how many she'd had. Napoleon was hoping she'd pull herself together and go home. He'd told Benny he'd meet him after hours for a little jam session. But it was past midnight, and Opal wasn't making any attempts at heading home. She was going to close the place.

When the set was over, Napoleon put his horn away. Without looking up, he slipped out the side door. He was heading down the alleyway when he saw that beacon of light coming toward him. He saw her before he heard her call his name. She caught up with him, clasping him by the arm. At first Napoleon resisted. He didn't really know her that well, but he doubted that she was even eighteen. He didn't know that she was as hungry for men as he was for pale women who wouldn't leave him on a delta porch. When he felt her mouth smash against his, he kissed her back.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she bit into the ridge of his scar. Suddenly he was fumbling with her skirts, pressing up against her big and hard, so big she wondered if she could even take
him in when, with his enormous hands, he lifted her into the air against the brick wall and sank her onto his pulsating member from which he exploded like a firecracker and, just when Opal assumed that this was done, he got down on his knees, raised her skirts, and proved to Opal that what she'd heard about his lips wasn't just a rumor. It was true.

The recording studio was in a run-down warehouse on a South Side street. Its windows were smashed or boarded up, and it looked abandoned as Napoleon made his way there. He stood on the dark, slick sidewalk, wondering what to do. He glimpsed one dim bulb, shining through some wooden slats. Otherwise the building was silent and dark. But Napoleon had told Benny and the rest of the band to meet him here. He checked the slip of paper where he'd written the address. This was the place.

Instead of going inside he stood in front of the door, unable to move. He'd woken that morning, knowing that he'd just made the second-worst decision of his life—the worst being defying the mob. The second was making love to his best friend's girl, and a white girl at that. In the South he'd be swinging from a chinaberry tree. In the North he just had to face his friend.

He had never been a good liar. He tended to drop his eyes to the ground. The one or two times he'd tried to lie to his grandmother, she pinched his cheeks and told him to look at her. She'd terrified him so much that he'd never mastered the art of telling a fib. Even with Maddy the few times he thought it would hurt her less if he didn't tell her the truth, she knew right away. So now he was preparing to lie to his friend. Liars like cowards look away, so Napoleon told himself that he'd better look Benny in the eye.

He knew that the first thing Benny would ask when he saw him was where he had been last night. They were supposed to rehearse for the record. Napoleon thought of how he'd answer. He forgot, which he never did. He was sick, which he probably wasn't. Something came up. He chuckled to himself. Yes, indeed. Something did come up. And now Napoleon cursed, wondering how he'd managed to get himself into these things. It was as if they came looking for him.

A few weeks before, Benny had shown up at a gig where Napoleon was playing and told him, “I want to form a band with you.”

Napoleon was wiping the sweat from his face. “Oh, that's great, Moon. You tell that to my union. Who's going to pay my salary? You play good for an ofay, but I ain't playing with you.”

“We could try it…”

“There aren't going to be any black-and-white bands earning a living,” Napoleon replied. “Not in this city, or any other city, for a long time.” He pointed at his lips. “And I'd still like to live to see tomorrow.”

Still they jammed on off-nights. They played breakfast dances and rent parties. And on Monday nights when the Rooster was closed, they played the Jazz Palace. They never had to set it up. They just showed. And in fact they were expected. The week before during a break Napoleon, wiping his brow, turned to Benny. “So I got an offer to make a record with Gennett.”

“I thought you weren't going to record.”

“Well, this guy is willing to pay for the next Negro music and apparently that's what we're playing.” Napoleon shined his trumpet with a cloth. “And I've seen the light. It's the only way I'll ever make a living.”

“Well, you could hold down a day job like me.”

“I've had a day job,” Napoleon said, “and it didn't pay the bills. The recording session is tomorrow night. I want you on keyboard.”

Benny looked at him, surprised. “What about the Judge? He does your keyboard.”

Napoleon shook his head. “I can't count on the Judge anymore…”

“I don't know…Would they let me sit in?”

“Why wouldn't they? No one knows what color you are on a record. Besides”—Napoleon had paused—“I need you.” And he'd given him the address.

Now Napoleon had to face his friend. He went inside to a large, cold room. It was illumined by a single overhead bulb. Thick curtains covered the windows and walls. They would keep the street noises out. In the middle of the room sat a large cone-shaped horn, and it was hooked up to a wax disk. His bass player and drummer were already there. Through the boarded-up windows and curtains, Napoleon hadn't been able to hear them from the street.

Only Benny was missing. This troubled Napoleon more than it should. Perhaps he'd forgotten. Perhaps he'd lost the address. He could be angry that Napoleon missed their rehearsal, or maybe somehow he knew. Napoleon decided he deserved this and more. Still he'd wait and see. He wouldn't bet money on it, but he believed that Benny would show.

I
n the cold evening Benny was walking toward the studio, hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, but he was taking his time. He ignored the music that poured out of every door and the girls in blue fox coats who called. Something was bothering Benny. It had been bothering him all the way here like a seed caught in a tooth, something you can't quite reach. He couldn't name it, but it was there. He felt empty, let down, as if he needed something to eat, and maybe he did, but it wasn't just about food. Napoleon hadn't shown up the night before for their rehearsal. They were going to go over the new songs. Benny had waited for him until almost 2:00 a.m. Then he'd gone back to his room. It wasn't like Napoleon not to show. It wasn't like him at all. When it came to his music, he was all business.

Benny reached the recording studio. It was a dreary, abandoned-looking place, but it suited his mood. Hesitating on the steps, Benny heard laughter and the sound of a standing bass, tuning up. Inside, the other musicians were waiting for him. They were fiddling with their instruments, adjusting their strings, and they were restless as Benny walked in. “Hey, Moon, you're late,” Napoleon said.

“I wasn't sure if this was the place.”

“Well, it is, and you're late.”

Benny shrugged. “Yeah, and where were you last night?”

Napoleon tried to look Benny in the eyes. “I got held up.”

Benny shrugged. “Yeah, sure you did.” He sat down at the rickety upright and ran a few scales. It was out of tune so he'd have to play above the band. “Anyone I know?”

Napoleon frowned, then looked away. “You need a few moments, Moon?” Napoleon asked.

“No, I'm ready…”

“Okay,” Napoleon said, snapping his fingers together, “ ‘Night Owl Blues.' Let's take it from the top.” And he counted out one-two-three-four. Then he blew a pig's squeal on the upper register and a horse's neighs, all the funny sounds that had amused Pearl when she was a girl. It slipped into a lullaby, and Benny carried the melody, soft and lilting, as the other musicians nodded as if they were going to drift off to sleep. Then Napoleon brought it back and the drummer picked up the tempo, and soon they were swinging. They went through a few choruses and everyone took a solo. They were laughing and sweating when they were done.

After “Night Owl Blues” and “Rags 'n' Bones,” Napoleon looked over at Benny. “Moon, you pick one.”

Benny thought for a moment. “ ‘Wild Boy Stomp'?”

“Naw.” Napoleon shook his head. “Not some old standard everyone knows.” He paused for effect. “Let's do one of yours.”

“Are you sure?” Benny was stunned. “I thought this record was yours.”

“I'm asking you, aren't I?” Napoleon nodded.

“Okay,” Benny said. And he called out “ ‘Twilight Blue,' ” which a few of them already knew. He roughed out the melody, gave the other musicians the chords. Benny started with an intro. It was slow as a Monday morning when you had to drag yourself out of bed to a job you didn't like. He thought about all those days at his father's caps factory. When he'd rather be playing ball or hanging out with his friends. That was where this tune began for him. But he had other places to be, other things to do.

Benny snapped his fingers, and let it roll over into his “State Street Shuffle” and the musicians followed. He was moving away on a train, heading south. Down to St. Louis, to New Orleans. He could almost see the cotton fields and dusty roads zipping past. He tucked his chin into his chest so that the spot where his hair was thinning showed, and hit the keys with everything he had. Laughing, Napoleon picked up his horn, and blew hard enough to blow his brains out, and the band did whatever they could to keep up.

W
hen they finished, Napoleon told them to go ahead. He'd close up. His lips throbbed the way Maddy's knees throbbed when it was going to rain. Something was going to happen soon. He had a funny feeling in his gut. The boys were heading to one of the downtown clubs, and Napoleon said he'd catch up with them there. He stayed behind, trying to tease out a song from a stubborn tune. He was content with the session. It had gone well. Still, he was left with a sense of unease.

It was later than he'd expected when he was locking up. He shivered, but it wasn't because of the cold. Fear was rustling deep inside. Napoleon felt the men behind him before he heard them. He didn't even turn when they touched him on the elbow and invited him to take a ride that he assumed would be one-way. “Hello, gentlemen,” Napoleon said. “I've been expecting you.” His lips throbbed as if they had a pulse, and he ran his tongue along his scar.

The men looked at each other, perplexed, then back at him. They said nothing as they led him into the chilly winter's night. Pausing in the back alley, he took a deep breath that he assumed would be one of his last. But they weren't in a hurry. These men were going to take their time. His teeth chattered as he buttoned up his overcoat. He felt bad for Maddy and hoped she'd find someone to care for her. A black limo was waiting. Napoleon resisted the urge to laugh as a uniformed chauffeur opened the door.

The limo smelled of new leather, smoke, and booze. The men offered him a brandy that they poured from a cut-glass decanter. Napoleon sipped it slowly. He wanted to savor every moment, extend
every final pleasure. If he were in prison, he'd order fried chicken and collards for his last meal. But given that this was Chicago and he was in a gangster's car, brandy would have to do. As he finished his drink, one of the men pulled something out of his pocket. Napoleon flinched. The man looked at him with eyes that displayed a hint of regret. “Sorry, buddy, but I've got to do this.”

Napoleon nodded, but his heart was pounding so hard in his chest. “You gotta do what you gotta do.” With that the man placed a hood over his head. It was scratchy, and at first he couldn't breathe. Sweat poured down his brow. He wondered if they planned to suffocate him first. It was no longer a matter of when they were going to kill him but how. He wanted it to be quick. He knew that begging was no use with these men. He'd defied them too many times.

They drove for a long time on what seemed to be a highway. Then they slowed down, turning right and left. They must have been on streets with traffic lights now because it was stop and go. No one spoke. Where were they taking him? A vacant lot? A frozen lake with a hole carved in the ice? A garbage dump where it would be easy to leave a body? He had no idea. He lost track of the time. It could be an hour. Three hours. He had no idea how far they'd gone or in what direction. His head was spinning. The silence in the car was deafening. For all he knew they'd been driving around in circles. He heard a train whistle and felt the car rumble as it drove over some tracks. A car backfired. Somewhere there was a siren. A dog barked. But nothing told him where he was going on his final journey.

Then they stopped. Car doors opened and slammed shut, and he sensed that he was alone in the car. Then the door beside him opened, and along with the cold air there was the scent of oil and rancid meat. Was this the stockyards? His hands were shaking. He shouldn't have been surprised that his defiant actions would lead him to this place. And yet he could do nothing to stop the fear that rose from his flesh and his bones. His body was not ready to die. He wanted to pray. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg for more time.

They ordered him out of the car and led him through a door. “Watch your step,” one of them said politely. The door creaked.
They dragged him into a room where there was noise and light. He heard voices, laughter. Someone pulled the hood off his head. He blinked in the brightness. As his eyes came into focus, he saw streamers and a bar, filled with booze. Men were dressed in suits of shiny silk. Girls wore short skirts and flapper dresses. Everyone was smoking cigarettes. People milled around, laughing.