The crowd applauded with anticipation, then quieted down as El began to play. The music belonged to “Alice Blue Gown,” a well-known song often performed in cabarets, rumored to be inspired by Alice Roosevelt’s signature dress. To the Roosevelts’ chagrin—or horror, more likely—El had rewritten the lyrics to be about something entirely different.
The intro was slow and teasing, full of dramatic pauses. She sang in her full, husky voice:
I once had a gown, it was almost new
Oh, the daintiest thing, it was sweet Alice blue
With little forget-me-nots placed here . . . and here . . .
To the crowd’s giggles, El paused to point to either side of her substantial bosom.
When I had it on, my love I just had to share . . .
Then I whored and whored and whored
’Til it ripped and it wasn’t no more!
The music then changed to a more stomping blues number, El’s voice guttural and full of power, her fingers flying over the piano keys.
In my sweet little Alice blue gown
When I first let my panties down
He was so proud inside
As I ground his gospel pipe
He shouted “Mama, mama!” as he shuddered and closed his eyes
Then he said, “Dearie, please turn around”
And he shoved that thing right up my brown!
He tore it, I bored it, Lord, how I adored it
My sweet little Alice Blue Gown!
The room gasped, whooped, and hollered in response to the new lyrics. Several women in the crowd laughed so hard, tears streamed down their faces. The men doubled over as well, some even stamping the floor in a fit. Dash looked over at Karl, whose face was bright red.
The song concluded with a trilling flourish on the piano keys, and the audience applauded enthusiastically. El beamed, taking it all in.
She played songs in that profane vein for the next hour. When she finished, she took a bow, saying, “Well shee-it, I guess y’all weren’t a bad crowd after all!”
As she strolled off the stage, she said over her shoulder to Dash, “You’re just going to stand there and gawk? Or are you going to get some stones and come on back?”
Dash smiled. He patted Karl on the shoulder, and they followed El’s imposing frame into the back office.
The room was a cramped affair with a desk right next to the door. The three of them squeezed past it and the man sitting in the chair as they entered. The man was talking on the telephone. Karl’s eyes flashed when he saw the contraption. Dash regarded the kid with a quizzical look.
I wonder what that’s about?
The three of them gathered in an open space on the other side of the desk by a half-opened window. The man on the phone—Leslie Charles, the club’s owner—finished his conversation with a “I told you I would, now leave well enough alone!” and then slammed the receiver down. He shook his head to himself, muttering, “Goddamn, nobody has patience anymore,” then swerved around in the swivel chair with an ear-piercing squeak and looked up.
Every time Dash saw Leslie, he was always shocked by the man’s appearance. Dash had never seen such bright blue eyes on a dark man. They were like the fake sapphire jewelry dancers and actresses wear on stage.
“Mr. Parker,” Leslie said, his voice flat, his expression bored. “What brings you back here?” He looked Karl up and down. “And why’d you bring a friend?”
El rolled her eyes. “They’re not here for you, fromby, they’re here to talk to me. And judging by that bruise on Dash’s face, it’s a fraughty issue, isn’t it?”
Dash nodded. “We are in a bit of a situation.”
El shook her head. “You downtowners sure know how to get into trouble. Les.”
The man flicked his sapphires to her. “What, girl?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you ‘what girl’ me. Do I have to teach you manners? We have to talk about something private.”
Leslie pointed at his chest. “You want me to leave my own office?”
“Considering all those ladies and gents out there came to see me, and all their sugar is going into your cash drawer, honey, this might as well be my office.”
He stood up, though there wasn’t much height difference from when he was sitting down. Leslie Charles was a short man who desperately wanted to be tall. Dash had heard he added inches to his shoes’ heels. He also coiffed his hair high, a thick black valance over a window display of a face. El once said, “God spent extra time on him, and he knows it.” An accurate assessment in Dash’s view. But even with the tall hair and the tall shoes, he was still dwarfed by the formidable frame of El Train.
“El,” Leslie said, “you gotta learn to respect a man. This is my club, that is my money, and this is my office. And I am not going to be run out of it by a she-he like you and two pale, pasty white boys like them. We clear?”
When Leslie paused to take a breath, El said, “You done?”
Her lack of reaction flustered the angry man. “El, I swear to God—”
“Be a dear and bring us some refreshments. I’m parched and this boy—what’s your name?”
The kid stammered at first, then managed to get out “Karl.”
“Right. Karl here looks like he could use some liquid nerve.”
She and Leslie stared at each other for a moment, Leslie’s face scrunched with anger, El’s face uncreased with angelic patience. Leslie lost the standoff—as if he could ever have won it in the first place—and left the office, slamming the door.
El chuckled. “I guess he had to have the last word.”
She took his seat at the desk and gestured towards the half-opened window overlooking the small alleyway. Dash sat on the sill, grateful for the breeze coming through the opening. He swore August got worse with every passing year, the air thick and heavy with the smells of sweating bodies, urine-filled alleyways,
