he'd taken from the trash somewhere. He fell asleep reading and came awake a few hours later because of the smell. Not the sharp scent of spiced meat but a sweet odor.
It was Lavant Hill's cologne in the fabric of his clothes. Socrates smelled the hand that Lavant clasped while saying good-bye.
There was a car service garage not far from Socrates' alley. Cigar-smoking Pete Roman ran the graveyard shift. Roman had Lamont Taylor drive Socrates to out near the Pink Lady for four thirty-five plus a one-dollar tip.
There was the sound of drums and strings coming out from the space between the condemned building, with the clown face on the door, and its neighbor. The passageway between the buildings was so narrow that Socrates had to hold his shoulders at an angle to make it down to the source of the music?a tin-plated door.
The man who answered Socrates' knock was six six at least. He wore black pants and a red vest with no shirt. His head was woolly and his hands were large. His arms were thin bands of steel.
?Who the hell you think you is?? the man demanded.
?Lavant invited me,? Socrates said. He didn't want to hurt a man just because he didn't know how to talk.
?Lavant who??
?Hall,? Socrates said. ?He said that he work here. He said I should come by.?
?He went out,? the man said searching Socrates face for signs. ?But, uh, I guess you could come in if he invited ya. I mean, most of the people is regular but you don't look like no cop.?
?Cop,? Socrates sputtered and then he laughed.
The giant got the joke and backed away to let the new man in.
It was a big room filled with music and people. All kinds of people. Mexicans and blacks, whites and Asians. Men and women, young and old. There was a bar run out of a black trunk that stood on two tripods. There was also a white banner, with the bright red words
printed across it, hanging down from the rafters.
The music was fiddle, clarinet, guitar and drums accompanied by three singers. It was rock and roll, kind of, and soul and blues for sure; improvisation from musicians who knew each other well.
It was truly a condemned building. Linoleum was ripped up to reveal the unfinished wood of the floor. Walls were broken out so that there was just one big room between rotted timbers. It had been dusty but someone had gone through the place with a heavy-duty vacuum and a broom. In some places Socrates thought he could see where water had been sprayed to keep the dust down. There were jury-rigged overhead lamps like the one Lavant had used to illuminate the yellow broadside on his desk.
Many of the people were dancing wildly. Two women had taken off their blouses and were dancing, bare breasted, close to one another. There were lovers in the corners and lively conversations going on at makeshift tables and chairs.
?Drink?? asked a blond-haired black woman with three silver studs in her left nostril. She was standing next to the elevated trunk that was filled with bottles of liquor and wine.
?How much for a shot'a JD?? Socrates said, looking over the labels displayed.
The woman's wide face became a question. ?You somebody's guest??
?Lavant Hall invited me.?
?Oh,? she said, happy again. ?This is Click's Club. All drinks one dollar. Everything else is free once you walk in the door.?
The woman poured Socrates' drink in a paper cup and he handed her his dollar. She was young looking but in her forties, Socrates could tell by the lines near her eyes. She was heavy but shapely, responsible at her job but ready to laugh.
?How long you been here?? he asked the woman.
?My name is Venus,? she replied.
?Socrates. How long this place been here, Venus??
