'Get Paine ready. I want him first. And make sure his hat is on straight.' He loosened one of the ropes coiled on his belt. A hangman's noose was knotted at the end of the rope, and with a graceful swing of his arm, he tossed it over the arc of the lamp. The noose danced in the pale light.
'Okay, slide it over his neck, and make sure his name tag doesn't come off.'
The tall man lifted the body and worked the noose over the head. When it was tight, he reached into Paine's vest, pulled out a three-cornered hat, and fit it firmly over his head. The other man, meanwhile, had scaled the lamp post, and now raised the body into place. He deftly tied the rope, then dropped to the ground.
'Hey, he looks great. Now, just three more to go.'
The tall man tipped the flask to his mouth, once more and again, he gestured with it to his partner.
'We'll do Georgie next,' the rope man said in response. 'God, I can't wait to see the reaction tomorrow morning.'
A headless figure wriggled beneath a dark gown like a magician struggling to free himself from chains and locks. Then the top of a head, a brow, and a face emerged from the dark cocoon. He straightened the gown over his bare legs, and gazed at himself in a full-length mirror. He ran a hand through his thick hair, which was parted in the center, then placed his mortarboard and tassel on top of his head.
The intricate lithographic lettering on his diploma would say he was Henry Jones, Jr. But those who knew him called him Indy—short for Indiana, a name he'd used since his early teens. 'Henry Jr.' was consigned to use on official documents, and by his father, who still called him Junior.
In fact, the only visible remainder of his childhood was a scar on his jaw, which he'd gotten in a scrap with thieves he'd stumbled on in a desert cavern as they uncovered a relic of the Spanish conquest.
But even his father, if he were here, would see that he was no longer a kid. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with clear, determined hazel eyes and the broad shoulders and musculature of a halfback. But he wasn't a football player. Although he was well coordinated, he preferred horseback riding and skiing to sports like foot ball or baseball. He was also proficient at the use of a whip, an odd skill he rarely talked much about. Not that any of that mattered today.
'I'm a college graduate,' he said to himself, and smiled at the image those words conjured, but his smile revealed more than a hint of irony. He was graduating in spite of everything. He'd missed so many classes last fall, his grades had nose-dived and he'd nearly been expelled. For several weeks, he'd simply lost interest in his formal education while he was attaining another sort on the street.
He and Jack Shannon, his wily roommate, had spent their
nights at barrelhouse piano saloons on the South Side, listening to musicians with names like Pine Top Smith, Cripple Clarence Lofton, Speckled Red, and Cow Cow Davenport pound the keys on their uprights.
The music was called barrelhouse piano because the small bars where it was played served liquor directly out of kegs. At least, they had until Prohibition started a few months back.
Most of the jazzmen had come up from New Orleans, the hometown of jazz, in the last five years, and more were arriving every week. Living conditions for Negroes were better in Chicago; there were jobs in clubs where they could make fifty dollars a week compared to a dollar a night in New Orleans. And Chicago was where the record ing studios were making jazz records.
When the bars closed, Indy and Shannon often headed to freewheeling rent parties where the music continued until dawn. Shannon would bring his cornet and play along with the likes of Johnny Dunn and Jabbo Smith. Not only was Shannon one of the few whites Indy had seen play jazz, but he was undoubtedly the only economics student playing the music. Most of the jazzmen in the barrelhouse saloons were uneducated. They didn't read music, didn't follow the rules, didn't know the rules, and didn't care. They didn't even know their music was unusu al, and all of that contributed to its power and integrity.
'Hey, you ready? You said you wanted to get there early, right?'
He looked up, snapping out of his reverie. Shannon's red hair looked as wild as ever. His gown was draped over his arm, and he wore a coat and tie. The coat was too short in the sleeves, but he knew Shannon didn't give a damn about it. He had a habit of nodding his head when he was excited or nervous and he was doing it now. But Shannon always seemed a bit edgy, as though he weren't really made for this world. The only time he ever seemed perfectly at ease was when he was playing his cornet. Then his lanky body seemed
to flow with the music and you no longer noticed his size twelve feet or his long neck with its bulging Adam's apple.
Indy glanced once more at himself, then removed the mortarboard. They were only a couple of blocks from the grassy mall where the ceremony was being held. They'd be there in a few minutes.
'Okay. Let me get dressed. I don't have my pants on yet.'
'Dare you to go just like that. Graduate without your pants, kiddo.'
'No thanks. Don't see any reason to do it.' He watched Shannon through the mirror, knowing that he would make an offer.
'Tell you what. I'll buy you a bottle of hooch. We'll get plastered.'
Indy shrugged. Hell, with the gown on, no one would know the difference. 'All right.' He wasn't exactly looking forward to the ceremony; he just wanted to be done with it. Not wearing any pants would at least make it somewhat interesting.
'I can just hear ol' Mulhouse now,' he said as they left the house. ''You are a new generation, a generation of hope.'' His voice was deep, authoritative, mimicking the university president. ' 'The war is over. Go out into the world and show others who are less fortunate that America's young people are hardworking, productive individuals who get the job done, whatever that job may be.''
Something like that, he thought. No, the ceremony wasn't the reason Indy wanted to arrive early.
'How is it with no pants?' Shannon asked as they headed down an oak-shrouded street.
'Cool and breezy. You should try it.'
Indy expected him to laugh and make a joke, but Shannon wore a pensive expression. 'Is your father going to be here?'
Indy shook his head. 'He's busy. Hell, he didn't even bother to apologize.'
'Really?'
'Yeah. That's how he is. My father, the esteemed expert on grail lore, is a man with little time for anything or anyone outside of his scholarly pursuits.'
'He always been like that?'
'Only after my mother died when I was young. Ever since then he's become more distant from me, no matter what I do. I guess I majored in linguistics just to get his attention.'
Shannon glanced at him. 'How would linguistics get his attention?'
'For as long as I can remember, he's said that language is the key to understanding mankind. But so what? How can he expect me to understand mankind when I can't even understand him?'
'I wish
'What're you talking about, Jack? You've got a job and you'll be making good money.' Shannon had been hired as an accountant with a Chicago trucking company for the salary of two hundred fifty dollars a month, a sum that seemed astonishingly high. When Indy asked how he'd gotten it, Shannon's only response was 'family connections.'
'And you'll still have time to play in the clubs,' Indy continued. 'Hey, remember that night we went down to the Royal Gardens and saw King Oliver? Authentic New Orleans Creole jazz. It's all moving right up here into your own backyard. What more could you ask for?'
Shannon didn't say anything as they crossed the street. 'You
'I made a deal.'
Indy noted the dour expression on his face. 'What kind of deal?'
'I have to stop playing jazz. That's the price of the job.'
'That's crazy. Why?'
'It's not 'respectable' music, Indy.'
Indy knew that jazz was slow to catch on. And many
whites thought the syncopated beat—accenting notes when it wasn't expected—and improvisational style
