Skeleton Crew

'I brought some chaperones,' he said, 'don't worry.

Outside.' The redhead took another look. I pointed at Scollay and shrugged. She sniffed and turned her back.

'There,' I said. 'You queered that.'

'Bimbos like that are a penny a bushel in Chi,' he said. 'I didn't want a bushel.'

'Outside.' I followed him out. The air was cool on my skin after the smoky atmosphere of the club, sweet with fresh-cut alfalfa. The stars were out, soft and flickering. The hoods were out, too, but they didn't look soft, and the only things flickering were their cigarettes.

'I got a job for you,' Scollay said.

'Is that so.'

'Pays two C's. Split it with the band or hold back hundred for yourself.'

'What is it?'

'A gig, what else? My sis is tying the knot. I want you to play for the reception. She likes Dixieland.

Two of my boys say you play good Dixieland.' I told you Englander was good to work for. He was paying ins eighty bucks a week. This guy was offering over twice that for one gig.

'It's from five to eight, next Friday,' Scollay said. 'At Che Sons of Erin Hall on Graver Street.'

'It's too much,' I said. 'How come?'

'There's two reasons,' Scollay said. He puffed on his pipe. It looked out of place in the middle of that yegg's face. He should have had a Lucky Strike Green dangling from that mouth, or maybe a Sweet Caporal.

The Cigarette of Bums. With the pipe he didn't look like a bum. The pipe made him look sad and funny.

'Two reasons,' he repeated. 'Maybe you heard the Greek tried to rub me out.'

'I saw your picture in the paper,' I said. 'You were the guy trying to crawl into the sidewalk.'

'Smart guy,' he growled, but with no real force. 'I'm getting too big for him. The Greek is getting old.

He thinks small. He ought to be back in the old country, drinking olive oil and looking at the Pacific.'

'I think it's the Aegean,' I said.

'I don't give a tin shit if it's Lake Huron,' he said. 'Point is, he don't want to be old. He still wants to get me. He don't know the coming thing when he sees it.'

'That's you.'

'You're fucking-A.'

'In other words, you're paying two C's because our last number might be arranged for Enfield rifle accompaniment. ' Anger flashed in his face, but there was something else there, as well. I didn't know what it was then, but I think I do mow. I think it was sorrow. 'Buddy Gee, I got the best protection money can buy. If anyone funny sticks his nose in, he won't get a chance to sniff twice.'

'What's the other thing?' He spoke softly. 'My sister's marrying an Italian.'

'A good Catholic like you,' I sneered softly. The anger flashed again, white-hot, and for a minute I thought I'd pushed him too far. 'A good mick! A good old shanty-Irish mick. Sonny, and you better not forget it!' To that he added, almost too low to be heard, 'Even if I did lose most of my hair, it was red.' I started to say something, but he didn't give me the chance. He swung me around and pressed his face down until our noses almost touched. I have never seen such anger and humiliation and rage and determination in a man's face. You never see that look on a white face these days, how it is to be hurt and made to feel small.

All that love and hate. But I saw it on his face that night and knew I could crack wise a few more times and get my ass killed.

'She's fat,' he half-whispered, and I could smell checker-berry mints on his breath. 'A lot of people have been laughing at me while my back was turned. They don't do it when 1 can see them, though, I'll tell you that, Cornet Player. Because maybe this dago was all she could get. But you're not gonna laugh at me or her or the dago. And nobody else is, either. Because you're gonna play too loud. No one is going to laugh at my sis.'

'We never laugh when we play our gigs. Makes it too hard to pucker.' That relieved the tension. He laughed—a short, barking laugh. 'You be there, ready to play at five. The Sons of Erin on Grover Street. I'll pay your expenses both ways, too.' He wasn't asking. I felt railroaded into the decision, but he wasn't giving me time to talk it over. He was already striding away, and one of his chaperones was holding open the back door of a Packard coupe.

They drove away. I stayed out awhile longer and had a smoke. The evening was soft and fine and Scollay seemed more and more like something I might have dreamed. I was just wishing we could bring the bandstand out to the parking lot and play when Biff tapped me on the shoulder. 'Time,' he said. 'Okay.' We went back in. The redhead had picked up some salt-and-pepper sailor who looked twice her age. I don't know what a member of the U.S. Navy was doing in Illinois, but as far as I was concerned, she could have him if her taste was that bad. I didn't feel so good. The rye had gone to my head, and Scollay seemed a lot more real in here, where the fumes of what he and his kind sold were strong enough to float on.

'We had a request for 'Camptown Races,' ' Charlie said.

'Forget it,' I said curtly. 'We don't play that nigger stuff till after midnight.' I could see Billy-Boy stiffen as he was sitting down to the piano, and then his face was smooth again. I could have kicked myself around the.block, but, goddammit, a man can't shift gears on his mouth overnight, or in a year, or maybe even in ten. In those days nigger was a word I hated and kept saying.

I went over to him. 'I'm sorry, Bill—I haven't been myself tonight.'

'Sure,' he said, but his eyes looked over my shoulder and I knew my apology wasn't accepted. That was bad,