“Never underestimate the power of money,” Finn warned. “Most people’s principles go out the door when a bunch of sugar is poured out on their desks.”
“He’s right, lassie,” Joe said. “It’s a buy-and-sell world now. As proved by this Fife fella.”
Finn cupped a hand behind his ear. “Say who again?”
Joe shook his head. “I’ll tell ya later.”
Finn placed a hand against his chest. “Oh, I do not like the sound of that.”
17
At midnight on the dot, the cab dropped Dash off in front of Flo’s building. She stood there in an emerald-green dress with sparkling fringe. A yellow sunflower had been clipped to the side of her hair.
“Miss Russell,” Dash said as he walked up. “You look ravishing.”
Flo rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
They walked to 135th and Seventh in silence, earning a few curious glances. A white downtowner and a black woman wasn’t an entirely unusual sight, but could, in some neighborhoods, get one or both of them physically assaulted. Luckily for them, this part of Harlem saw its fair share of downtowners.
The Harlem streets were teaming with people, all done up in dresses and hats and suits and ties. Laughter ricocheted off the sides of the brick buildings. Windows on the upper floors were wide open, and the sensuous sounds of jazz and blues floated down to the pavement, following them as they walked. The moaning vocals, the piercing cornets, the low boom of the bass blended in with the purr of motor cars and the brass of their horns. The marquee of the Cotton Club flashed its bright neon, making it almost as bright as day. To Dash, it felt like being in the center of a Christmas tree, all that glitter and tinsel and lighting surrounding them.
The foot traffic flowed as fast as the Hudson, an aggressive current of black citizens and a few white downtowners quickly moving across the blocks. Flo and Dash headed east at a clip.
While the Hot Cha was a new club to Dash, he knew of several in this neighborhood, thanks to some of his band members. There was Small’s Paradise, which featured café au lait girls and dancing waiters. Across the street was the Yeah Man!, a downstairs bar that always answered the question “Is there anything going on tonight?” (“Yeah, man!”). Nearby was the Log Cabin, a small, intimate space perfect for romance or its facsimile; Tillies, which his drummer Calvin claimed had some of the best fried chicken in Harlem; and the Theatrical Grill, which gave you Broadway performances without the inconvenience of having to go to Broadway. Dash had to admit that while the Village was a hopping spot, it couldn’t compare to the red-hot sizzle of Harlem.
Once Dash and Flo hit their cross street, they left the river of excitable, loud-talking young people.
Soon they descended the steps on the corner of 134th and Seventh towards the basement. The door of the Hot Cha had no sign, no marquee, no indication of what lay behind these walls. Flo rang the buzzer and they waited for the eye slot to open. It did with a bang. Brown eyes—and nothing else—stared back at them.
Flo said the code words: “I’m here to walk Clarence’s dog.”
“Step to the side,” said the voice, male and deep.
She did as instructed.
The eyes narrowed. “He with you?” the voice asked.
Flo replied, “Don’t mind him, he just the dog walker.”
The secret code for white downtowners.
The eye slot slammed closed. Then there was the sound of a series of locks being undone. The door opened slightly, and Dash and Flo stepped into the darkened corridor.
The doorman was a tall black man, fittingly dressed in a tuxedo, all long arms and long legs. Dark hair cropped close to his skull shimmered with some kind of oil. His hands and feet were incredibly large, almost a caricature, like when a child draws a full-grown man. There was a wooden stool behind him and what might’ve been a jug of liquor resting behind it.
The man closed and relocked the door, not saying a word. Then again, he wasn’t paid to socialize, just to keep watch and make sure no men in blue barged in here.
Regardless of his silent state, Flo thanked him and walked down the darkened hallway. Dash followed. The music was muffled at first, but slowly intensified the closer they got to the entryway. They turned a corner and stepped through the archway into another world.
Men—gorgeous black men—were everywhere. On the dance floor, sitting at the round tables, or serving drinks. All dressed to impress. Tuxedos and pinstripe suits, checkered and houndstooth jackets, bow ties and long ties, shoes as shiny as freshly polished motorcars. Women were dotted about like daisies in a field. Most were dressed in white, shimmering in silk chiffon and sleeveless cotton blouses or dresses. Above them all—besides the cigarette smoke—was the sweet voice of Jimmie Daniels and the rhythmic pounding of Garland Wilson on his upright piano. Dash had heard of them through the grapevine but had never seen them perform. A chill went up his spine as his ears were tickled by the music. Jimmie and Garland were that good.
A thin man in black pants and a white jacket appeared in front of them. “How many, sugars?” he asked, his voice high and smooth.
“Just two,” replied Flo.
“You together?”
“No, just acquaintances.”
“Two fine dinners like you?” The maître d’ looked at Flo, then Dash. “What’s the holdup?”
Dash smiled. “Different tastes.”
The man nodded, understanding the situation. “I’ll seat you two at the bar. With luck, someone will strike your fancy. Let’s see.” He pointed at Dash. “A buddy ghee for you.” He then pointed at Flo. “And a barbecutie for you?”
Flo nodded.
The man smiled, ivory glittering between his lips. “Right this way.”
They followed him as they meandered around the haphazard seating arrangement, tables and chairs seemingly plopped down at random. Glasses clinked as waiters whizzed by with cocktails spilling over the brim. Laughter, light and breezy like a chandelier
