Darby swallowed and tore off another piece of bread. “Not really.”
“Have you been out since last weekend?”
She hated to admit she hadn’t. It had taken all her energy to get to school and back each day, and although the other girls in her classes were friendly enough, she’d been too skittish to try in earnest.
Esme didn’t give her a chance to respond. “C’mon, Darby, live a little. Come out with me tonight. I’ll meet you outside. Don’t be late.” She walked over to Darby’s small closet and opened it, pulling out the black brocade dress she’d last worn at Daddy’s funeral. “And wear this.”
When Darby walked out of the Barbizon at nine thirty on the dot, Esme ran toward her, squealing. She’d changed into a bright red taffeta dress with a delicate scalloped trim around the neckline. Her hair, unleashed from its updo, fell in gentle curls around her head. She looked more fashionable than any of the girls on Darby’s floor.
As the cab ventured into the East Village, the street scene changed. The buildings were no higher than six stories, the sidewalks dirty with cigarette butts and crumpled newspapers. Darby almost gagged at the smell of urine as she stepped out of the taxi, but she followed Esme along a narrow alleyway between two buildings to a tiny, treeless courtyard at the back of the one of the tenements.
Esme smiled up at a black man smoking a cigarette outside a doorway and dragged Darby into the darkness.
“Where are we going? How do you know where to go?” Darby asked.
“I work here some nights as a hatcheck girl. Good tips, and it’s a wild scene.”
“What is it, exactly?”
“The Flatted Fifth. A jazz club. All the greats come here, after they’ve played at the posh places on Fifty-Second Street. It’s gritty and grubby and the best.”
She agreed with the first two adjectives. They walked through a tiny kitchen, where a cook stared hard at them as they breezed by.
“What are you doing, Esme?” he said. “You know he doesn’t like it when you bring in nonpayers.”
Esme thrust out her chin and put a hand on her hip. “Sam, meet Darby. Darby, this is Sam. He thinks he runs the place, but he doesn’t. Right, Sam?”
The cook scowled back. “If he catches you, you’ll get fired, Esme.”
Darby stared at him. While none of his features was remarkable on its own—the nose too large, the edges of his eyes sloped downward—he was oddly handsome, with a perfect dimpled chin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties but had a boyish frame, all long limbs and sharp points.
He turned back to the oven.
“Manners, Sam. I’ll have to talk to your dad about that.” Esme didn’t wait for a reply but pulled Darby farther into the bowels of the building, pushing past a swinging door.
They were in the basement of the tenement. The low-ceilinged main room was packed, a mixture of blacks and whites, young men and women posturing and smoking and talking over one another.
Esme squeezed Darby’s hand. “We’re waiting for Stick Hawkins. They say he’s coming tonight, but you never know with that cat.”
Stick? Cat? Darby looked at Esme, perplexed.
Esme laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on.”
Darby wasn’t so sure. The place was frightening, and she scanned the exits, wondering which was the quickest way out in case there was a fire or a fight. All these people pressed together, in the smoke and darkness, made her heart beat faster and her mouth grow dry in panic. She wanted to run away, go back to the lonely safety of her room. But she couldn’t bear another night of tossing and turning and ruminations.
“You look like you’re about to be sick.” Esme’s eyes were animated, slightly mocking.
“No. I’m fine. What do we do now?”
Esme pulled her to a table with a couple of free seats. A waiter wearing a long white apron, a white shirt, and a thin black tie whispered something in Esme’s ear. She touched the inside of his wrist with her finger, laughed at what he’d said, and ordered them a couple of whiskey sours.
“Now we drink. You’ll feel braver if you aren’t sober.”
The noise level in the room astounded Darby. Even though two walls of the room had been draped with Moroccan rugs to absorb the sound, they weren’t very effective. The two other patrons seated at the rickety table didn’t bother interrupting their loud conversation to acknowledge them. Darby took a sip of her drink and glanced around. The decor was minimal at best. One long wall consisted of exposed, chipped bricks. Behind the stage, old playbills had been plastered up as a kind of backdrop, their corners curling and frayed. A layer of dirt, grease, and cigarette ash covered the floor.
The audience began to complain, calling for Stick and slow-clapping. Finally, four musicians stepped onstage. One slid in behind a set of drums and took a seat, another hooked a saxophone to the cord around his neck, while the third heaved a bass upright. A trumpet player stepped up to the microphone.
“Sorry, Stick’s not here yet,” the trumpet player announced.
The audience booed, but the musician was undaunted. He held up a hand above his eyes, blocking the lights, and looked out into the audience. Beside her, Esme sat up tall, as if a jolt of electricity had suddenly passed through her.
“Where’s Esme?” the man called out.
Esme turned and smiled at Darby, and suddenly she was up onstage, adjusting the mic and smiling out over the crowd.
“I know you want your Stick,” she purred into the microphone, “but stick with me for now, all right?”
The audience gave an interested grumble. Then Esme began to sing. Her voice was edgy and low and at first Darby strained to hear, worried that Esme wouldn’t be able to fill the space. But after a crescendo at the end of the second verse, she let it rip and her voice soared out.
Esme had a smooth, sexual presence onstage, her hips moving in time with the music, and her shoulders responding a moment behind the beat, in a slinky, slippery motion. When she finished, the crowd clapped and whistled. Darby hoped she’d sing more, but a movement at the front door caught her eye. A man sauntered through the tables, shaking hands and nodding. Stick had arrived. Esme quickly jumped off the stage and slid back into her seat.
“You’re so talented, Esme,” said Darby. “You can really sing.”
“Wait until you hear this. My singing is nothing compared to this guy’s playing.”
A few moments later a waiter came over with a couple of drinks. “From the gentleman over there.” He pointed to a man sitting alone two tables away, his table an isolated island in the middle of a sea of people pontificating and gesticulating wildly, cigarettes in hand.
Darby took a sip of her drink. A martini. She’d never had one before, and only knew it from the shape of the glass.
“Don’t do that.” Esme grabbed the drink from her hands, spilling some on the floor.
Darby was too surprised to speak.
“Trust me, you don’t want to take anything from that guy.”
“Why?” She stole a glance in his direction. He watched them, an amused expression on his pockmarked face. His eyes were enormous, like a basset hound’s, with dark bags underneath. She’d never been sent a drink before and was unsure of the protocol.
“He’s an undercover cop. Named Quigley. He’s always sniffing around, trying to find out what’s going on.”
“Is something going on?”
“Of course not. It’s folks drinking and listening to music. What harm is there in that?”
“Then why is he here?”
“The cops are all over the jazz clubs, looking for horse. If you take a drink from him, he’ll think you’re willing to talk, and all the musicians will hate you.”
Darby didn’t understand what she meant. “Looking for a horse?”
“No, chica. Heroin.”
“Oh.”
“A lot of the musicians say that it’s the only way to channel the music. If it worked for Bird, they want to do it, too.”
The names were like a secret code. “Who’s Bird?”
“Charlie Parker, alto sax player. Got the nickname when he made his band stop a car on the way to a gig so he could chase a chicken. Ate it for dinner that night.”