Drumsticks Read Online Free Page A

else about ’em, baby. They only work when you ready for them to work. So you musta been ready.”
    As she talked, she was subtly moving a couple of the dolls forward on the table surface. “Of course, some are a little more special than others. Look at this one here.”
    â€œShe’s beautiful,” I said, “and she looks like she means business, too.”
    â€œShe” was a tall and lanky black one—a kind of mamba priestess in an intense blue sarong and orange headdress. There was a circle of wire at her neck and she wore an ankle bracelet. She, too, carried a little medicine pouch.
    Ida picked up the doll and pressed her into my hands. “Now I’m not saying the one you have can’t bring you what you need to be happy. But with this one, honey, you could rule the world.”
    Quite a claim.
    I had been playing my belief in Mama Lou for laughs, more or less. Even Justin’s credence seemed a bit tongue-in-cheek.
    Was it possible that Ida’s faith in her creations was the real thing—that she actually believed what she was saying?
    â€œHow much?” I asked.
    â€œShe’s a really special one, remember. But for you … eighteen-fifty.”
    Ida couldn’t possibly support herself by selling these, I was thinking; I mean, realistically, even on the best day, how big is the demand for voodoo picaninnies? But on the other hand, she was a very smooth saleswoman. If she was able to play everybody else as deftly as she was handling me—well, maybe there was enough in it to cover the rent.
    I pulled a twenty from my money belt and told her to keep the change.
    â€œYou are a sweet thing,” she crooned. “Just you wait and see what kinds of good things are gon’ come to you.”
    I was halfway across the park. But then I turned back and ran over to her table again. “I want to invite you someplace, Ida. I’d like you to come as my guest.”
    â€œMe? Where you want to invite me?”
    â€œTo hear me play. You like music, don’t you?”
    â€œDo I look like I don’t? We wouldn’t be nothing without music.”
    I wrote down the address of the restaurant where my three-day-a-week gig was to take place and told Ida I would leave her name with the host up front.
    â€œThis sounds like a pretty fancy place.”
    I shrugged and made a motion with my hand that signified “Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œThat’s okay with me, girl. I got a dress that’ll knock ’em out.”
    I laughed. “Cool, Ida. I can’t wait to see it.”
    â€œWhat kind of music you play—piano?”
    â€œNo. Sax. I’m in this trio.”
    â€œLord, if that don’t beat all. I bet your mama and daddy real proud of you. Will they be there?” she asked.
    I smiled. “Not this time.”
    I put the second doll in my case, so that Mama Lou wouldn’t be lonely. I just hoped she wouldn’t be jealous.
    I took pains, usually, to avoid Soho.
    But I did have that $350 windfall, and the restaurant where I was going to be playing was kind of grownup/dress-up, and there was that one nice shop on Prince Street that sold some of the world’s greatest black skirts—black chiffon skirts with lace overlays; black wool skirts slit up to where even your doctor shouldn’t be looking; ballgown-length black taffeta skirts; tight ones, long ones, short ones. I like them all. So when I left Ida, I set off straight down Broadway to find something to wear to the gig.
    My luck was holding. I even found a quarter on the ground.
    I didn’t hang on to it for very long, though. Before I reached 8th Street, an aged, pitiful-looking drag queen with big old feet hit me for money. It didn’t even occur to me not to comply. I gave her the quarter and all the rest of the change I had in my pockets.
    I was getting arrogant—spreading my good luck around.

CHAPTER 3
    Repetition
    The audience at