Jazz Moon Read Online Free Page A

had been so sure it would be published. When it wasn’t, he said he would give up writing. Angeline wouldn’t let him.
    â€œShut up with that nonsense,” she had said. “Work harder. Try again. And again. And again.”
    He did. Four months later, he had his first published poem.
    Angeline smiled bigger with each verse of her anniversary poem. “I love it, Benny.” She kissed him. “I love you .”
    She said it with a firmness that verged on a proclamation. Or a challenge he had to rise to. She awaited his response. Her tiny weight on his lap felt heavier, more intrusive than it should have. I love you, too, Angeline. The words should have come, and easily; she was his best friend after all. He wanted to be able to say the words, force them out if necessary, but they were thwarted by the tiny weight that threatened to crush him. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then went back to tracing the pattern on her thigh.
    Â 
    A battalion of chorines—all with café au lait complexions and good hair that fell about their shoulders like silk waterfalls—high-kicked a Tin Pan Alley number in front of the closed curtain. After their exit, the audience sat forward in their red velvet seats. A tall man in the balcony leaned over the gilded railing until threatened back into his chair by the woman behind him. Everyone awaited the main draw of the evening, what they’d endured the endless rounds of comedians and tap dancers and novelty acts to see.
    People mumbled and fidgeted. The tension tingled. When the curtain rose revealing Florence Mills, the audience went senseless. Small as a schoolgirl, delicious as a pixie, she was costumed as a hobo against the painted backdrop of an open road. Hitchhiking Florence stuck her thumb out and sang “I’m a Little Blackbird Looking for a Bluebird,” her voice as sweet as a cello. Later, she did “I’m Craving for That Kind of Love,” starting mid stage, then vamping to the footlights in a slinky dress with a slit all the way up the waist. The crowd almost rioted.
    Show over, the doors of the Lincoln Theater burst open and Ben, Angeline, and legions of folks splashed onto 132nd Street. Lights everywhere. Automobile headlights. Porch lights. Lights in store and restaurant windows and muted lights behind apartment drapes. Clara Bow’s name lit up a movie theater marquee. JELLY ROLL MORTON AND HIS RED HOT PEPPERS gleamed above a nightclub. The street glowed. Even the sidewalk seemed to glimmer. And people were everywhere, ready for the next phase of their Saturday night. Ben and Angeline walked to Seventh Avenue, he in his best suit, she in her brand-new dress and hanging on her husband’s arm. A flotilla of taxis streamed toward Jungle Alley, ferrying well-dressed whites from downtown, faces glued to the cab windows as they pointed and gawked at everything.
    Angeline laughed quietly, almost to herself.
    â€œWhat?” Ben said.
    â€œThinking about your poem:

    I got love runnin’ through me,
Like a river,
Like wine,
Like sweet jazz in an uptown dive.
Runs through me, and through me, and through me.

    It’s the best poem you ever wrote, Benny.”
    She made to kiss him, but he evaded her, deftly, took her hand and continued walking, swinging her hand playfully as if to repent for the evaded kiss.
    They meandered along 135th Street, undecided about where to go.
    â€œTeddy’s?” Ben said.
    â€œI don’t know. It’s all right, but—”
    â€œAngel, that hostess was a mess. And that band . . .” That trumpet player . Baby Back . “Come on, Angel. Teddy’s? Please? For me? ”
    Packed beyond capacity, beyond reason, Teddy’s convulsed with hepcat pandemonium. Guys shouted entire conversations to one another from opposite ends of the club. Waitresses scampered with trays overloaded with teacups. The hostess hustled and bustled her fat hips through the crowd,