When the cymbal-crashing crescendo finally came, Dash strolled up behind the drummer and whispered into his ear. The drummer, a black man shimmering with sweat, nodded. Dash went to the front of the band and held up his hands, waiting for the applause to die down.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! (And those somewhere in between.) May I have your attention, please!”
Finn yelled, “Yessir, missus sir, yessir!”
The crowd quieted.
Dash grinned, his teeth flashing like headlights. “Thank you for coming to Pinstripes. We are so glad you chose to celebrate with us.”
“I’ll celebrate with you anytime!” called out a flute-like voice from the shadows.
The crowd responded with laughter and whistles.
Dash gave a wink. “You wouldn’t be able to last five seconds, my dear.”
“Five seconds is all I’ll need!” a different, deeper voice replied amidst more laughter.
Dash pretended to fan himself. “Such men! Such offers! How can I refuse? But business first. As many of you know, there’s a little knock you need to enter our humble club. From time to time, we may change it for security reasons. And tonight, tragically, we need to do just that.”
The crowd booed.
Dash waited for them to finish cursing the nannies, then said, “I know, but some things can’t be helped. Now Calvin here will demonstrate for you just what our new knock will be. Mister Calvin!”
Calvin did a rat-a-tat-tat on the snare, a short but complicated series of hits. The crowd applauded.
Dash waited for them to quiet down. “All right? Let’s see if you can do it with Calvin. Get ready to knock on your tables or on the bar. And please, be careful not to spill any precious drops from your drinks. Everyone ready?”
Finn, with more voices joining him this time, responded with an excited “Yessir, missus sir, yessir!”
For the next few moments, the drummer and the crowd did a call and response until the knocks and the snare were in solid unison.
“Beautiful!” Dash said. “I believe you’ve got it. Carry on!”
The band began another fast number, which caused everyone to rush to the dance floor. Out of the corner of Dash’s eye, he saw Karl smiling as he danced. So innocent. So free. The way they were all supposed to be.
Dash returned to the bar. Joe came up and handed him a much-needed Gin Rickey.
“What are ya going to do with the brother?” he asked. When Dash told him his plan, Joe scoffed. “Good luck, lassie.”
Dash raised his glass to his lips. “Thank you, Joe. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the luck in the world.”
An hour later—when they were sure Walter was really gone—Dash and Karl grabbed a cab at the corner of Sixth Avenue and West Fourth and rode uptown in conspiratorial silence until the driver dumped them at their destination, 133rd and Lexington.
Dash led the way towards a club called the Oyster House, their pale skin earning them a few wary looks. Whites were often called “downtowners” up here, but the Oyster House allowed a mixed audience. Which apparently was a large audience. Already a line formed down the street to get into the infamous speak. Luckily, they didn’t have to wait, as Dash knew the doorman.
Horace was a giant black man with a square-shaped face that always wore a mean expression. His broad shoulders and bulging arms, crossed over a massive chest, threatened to tear the fabric of his shiny, black coat. Despite this intimidating presence, he smiled when he saw Dash and Karl walk up.
“Evening, Mr. Parker,” he said, his voice surprisingly fey.
“Evening, Horace.”
“Big crowd tonight. El should be happy.”
“And if El is happy—”
“—then everybody else is miserable.” A good-natured laugh followed.
“You are absolutely right about that, sir.” Dash introduced Horace to Karl, then said, “Hot as Hades out here.”
“Now that’s the truth. I’m melting like a candle in this jacket. Wool don’t breathe.”
“Bet you’re jealous of your lady’s sleeveless dress right about now.” Dash winked.
Horace laughed again. “I’m not man enough to try it on just yet.”
“She over her cold?”
“That she is, thank you for asking.”
“Summer colds are beastly. Tell her I’m happy she’s feeling better.” Dash nodded towards the speak. “Want me to get you a drink?”
Horace shook his head. “I go on break in half a chime. You two get on in there and grab something cold.”
Dash slipped a bill into Horace’s hand, saying “thank you, Horace, stay jake out here.” Then he and Karl ducked underneath the doorway.
They were greeted by the smell of spilled gin, pungent but sweet, reminding Dash of early-morning kisses from last night’s passions. Walls painted deep red surrounded the mostly black patrons, a mix of male and female dressed in either fashion, with a few downtowners sticking out like white hairs. Conversations crashed around them like cymbals and snares, punctuated by sudden laughs echoing off the silver tin ceiling. One would never know it was a Sunday night.
Dash and Karl found a spot at the end of the bar nearest the stage. A beat-up brown upright piano stood at the center.
Dash ordered their libations and turned to see Karl glancing around the room in childlike wonder, his eyes wide opened, a half-grin tickling his lips.
Hang onto that joy, my boy, Dash thought. And don’t let this world take it from you.
Rickeys in hand, they touched rims and took some much-needed sips.
“Alright, kid,” Dash said, setting his glass onto the bar. “What’s your story?”
5
Karl hesitated, clearly not comfortable being asked about himself.
“I was born in Germany. Berlin. I do not remember it. My brother does. He often talks of the countryside villages, the lush green hillsides covered with blue cornflowers and bright yellow chamomile. And the city rising upwards with tall buildings brushing against the giant blue sky. A lot like here.”
Dash smiled, then nodded for Karl to continue.
“He said the country was
