“I saw him play once at the Green Mill. If anyone were going to give Jelly a run for his money, it would definitely be that kid. He’s got music in every inch of his fingers.”
“I, uh, haven’t seen him in a while,” Vera said.
“Jerome Johnson?” called a chorus girl in an elaborate headdress from a few feet away. “Boy came in here a couple of weeks ago looking for a job. We’ve already got a pianist, so we all recommended he try Connie’s. I heard their player quit to look for something more steady.”
Connie’s Inn. That was one place Vera hadn’t looked yet. “Oh, thank you!” she said. “Any chance a singer named Gloria Rose was with him when he stopped by? Pretty white girl with red hair?”
The chorus girl’s eyes widened. “A white girl? No, it was just Jerome. Owney would never let a white singer audition. He wants his chocolate on the stage and his milk in the audience.”
Glad to have another lead, Vera went back to listening to the music. She heard another trumpet solo, then said goodbye to Louis, rose from her seat, and went back to the wings to get a better look at the band.
After Evan’s second solo ended, her eyes strayed to the audience. Smiling face after smiling face, all beaming at Evan and the band. And then she saw a familiar bobbed red head at the front of the crowd: Gloria.
She still looked a bit thin, but much more put together than she had at the post office a week earlier. She was decked out in a breathtaking gold dress that fell in layers of fringe over her body. She looked almost happy.
This was it: Vera’s chance to save her brother.
Without a second thought, Vera dashed from the wings and onto the stage. A part of her noticed how every eye in the club turned toward her, but she couldn’t stop now. “Gloria!” she shouted.
Gloria’s green eyes widened with pure and total shock. But instead of running toward Vera, she darted the other way, into the crowd.
Ever the professional, Fletcher continued to conduct his orchestra without missing a beat.
Vera leaped from the stage and somehow managed to land on her feet, despite the crowd and her heels.
She tried to follow Gloria through the swarms of complaining white people, but she quickly lost sight of the girl. “Gloria!” she yelled again. “Come back!”
Before Vera could call Gloria’s name a third time, two muscular white men grabbed her arms and dragged her toward a side exit. “You are in the wrong place to be lookin’ like you do,” one of them said.
“If you know what’s good for you, girlie, you won’t set foot in this place ever again. We won’t be anywhere near as polite next time,” the other bouncer said as he pushed her out the door and slammed it in her face.
Thwarted. Again.
Why had Gloria fled instead of waiting to meet up with her? Vera was here in New York to save her, not to hurt her.
Vera walked out of the alley and stared at the club. She considered waiting out front for Gloria to emerge, but then one of the bouncers stepped outside and stood on the sidewalk with his arms crossed.
So she walked away, defeated. She would explain to Evan later. She just hoped she hadn’t cost him his job. And she hadn’t even seen Ethel Waters perform.
So far her time in New York had been one failure after another. But how many chances would she get? If she didn’t find her brother soon, Carlito—or the killer—most certainly would.
GLORIA
Gloria didn’t want to make a scene.
But she was desperate to get away from Vera.
She shoved through the crowd on the dance floor and into the dining area, trying to avoid taking down one of the artificial palm trees that contributed to the club’s “jungle” décor.
It was only after she had slipped inside the door to the kitchen that she remembered to breathe.
What if the gangsters who ran the Cotton Club noticed her? What if they had one of those LOST GIRL flyers hung up in their back office? How many redheads turned up in these jazz clubs? Who knew how far Carlito’s influence reached?
In the kitchen, some servers called orders through a pass-through window while others fed dirty dishes through another. Others stood at metal tables arranging plates and glasses on serving trays before sweeping through the double doors and back into the bustle of the club proper.
“Uh, ma’am, I don’t think you’re supposed to be back here,” a sweet-looking black man said quietly. Three other black men in servers’ tails looked up from the metal prep table, and one rushed over: Jerome.
He tapped the man on the shoulder. “It’s all right, boys, Robbie—Gloria’s here with me. She took in the show from the floor while I watched from back here.” His grin faded as he registered Gloria’s distressed expression.
“You should explain things better, Jerome. Before you get us all into trouble,” Robbie said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …” He lifted his tray high and exited through the double doors.
“Jerome, you’ll never guess who’s—” Gloria started, but he shushed her.
“This ain’t the place for idle chatter, Gloria. People are working here. Come on.” Without touching her, Jerome led her into a corner, as far as they could get from the bustling workers.
Since the Harlem nightclub was segregated, they’d split up and come in through different entrances. Gloria had dressed up and sweet-talked her way through the front door; Jerome had put on an old suit of tails and joined his friend Robbie’s waitstaff at the back.
Gloria had been surprised when Jerome had proposed making a visit to the Cotton Club. “It’s Ethel Waters’s debut there. If you’re going to sing jazz in New York City,” he’d said, “then you need to see the hottest acts. And Ethel is one of the best.”
Gloria had never heard so many top-quality musicians playing together. It made her all the more thankful to be here, in New York, following her dream.
Jerome put a calming hand on her arm. “What’s wrong, Glo? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No, not a ghost—your sister. She’s here.”
Jerome gaped. He didn’t talk about Vera much, but Gloria knew he missed his little sister. “Where?”
“Onstage,” Gloria said. “I have no idea why. I got scared and ran and I think she came after me.”
Jerome glanced over at Robbie, who’d just returned from the bar. “Is there a way to get backstage without going through the bar?”
Robbie laughed and pointed to a door on the far wall. “Course there is. How do you think we get the hooch to the band?”
Jerome led Gloria through the door. They rushed down a grimy hallway and suddenly found themselves backstage.
For a moment, Gloria let herself take everything in: the men and women busying themselves with their costumes and instruments, pitchers of water and glasses of gin and whiskey strewn everywhere, cables and wires and lights and curtains and ropes, the hardwood floor—everything about it was beautiful. Dirty, sure, and sort of cluttered, but glorious nonetheless.
This was where music was being made. Where stars were being born.
A young black man with wavy hair and a big jaw immediately approached them. Jerome laughed and swept up the man in a hug. “Jimmy Roads—how are you?”
“Good, good, and great. Laverne and Juicy let me know you stopped by a few weeks ago—why didn’t you tell me you were in town?” Jimmy took in Jerome’s outfit and whistled. “A master like you certainly doesn’t need to stoop to a waiter job.”
“Naw, this is just for tonight,” Jerome replied. “Wanted to see Ethel perform. Gloria, this is Jimmy—we used to play together at the Checkered Lounge before I ended up at the Green Mill.”
Gloria smiled, but she was distracted, looking for Vera. “It’s nice to meet you, Jimmy. It doesn’t look like she’s still here, Jerome.”
Jimmy whistled low again and said, “You mean that black girl who threw herself into the audience? She was standing right where you’re standing now, and then she just hopped off the stage like a crazy bearcat.”
“That was my sister,” Jerome said.
“Well, your sister got thrown out.”
“Damn,” Jerome said. He turned and glanced at the stage. “But look!” he said, motioning to Gloria. “Isn’t that Evan?”
Gloria put her hand to her chest as she recognized Evan in the trumpet section. She was surprised she hadn’t noticed him before. He was the only member of the band at the Green Mill who’d worked to make her feel welcome. At least until the band found out about her true identity. Then he hadn’t been so friendly.
Evan looked over and saw Jerome. Gloria expected him to do something crazy—wasn’t he shocked they were there?—but all Evan did was nod.
Gloria and Jerome stepped back into the chaos of musicians milling around backstage. “Didn’t it look like he expected to see you?” Gloria asked Jerome.
“Yeah. But he’s playing—there’s not much he can tell us until his set is over.” Jerome chuckled. “Only a girl like Vera would be dumb enough—and brave enough—to do what she did. Interrupt a show! Leap into the all-white audience!”
Gloria frowned. What were Vera and Evan doing here? If it had been Evan alone, she might have understood—plenty of musicians moved from Chicago to New York. But there was nothing to bring Vera here. Nothing except Jerome. But why now? And how had Vera and Evan even known where to find them? It was a strict rule between Gloria and Jerome: They didn’t let anyone know where they were. But it seemed Jerome had told Vera and Evan all about what he and Gloria had been up to.
A mustachioed white man puffing a cigar came through the door. “This ain’t a farmyard. We’ve got an audience trying to hear the music out there, so all of you shut up.”
The clump of musicians and chorus girls stopped talking and moved back toward the chairs against the backstage wall, leaving Jerome and Gloria standing alone. The man took a long look at Jerome, scratching his chin. Then he pointed. “Hey, I know you! You’re that punk piano player that Carlito Macharelli is looking for.”
The man stepped forward and tried to catch Jerome’s collar. But suddenly Jimmy and a slew of other musicians came between them. “Go,” Jimmy whispered to Gloria and Jerome, “get outta here. Now.”
Jerome grabbed Gloria’s hand and pulled her across the backstage area and out a door that opened onto an alleyway—into the darkness, into the night.
The subway ride home wasn’t long at all, but to Gloria it felt like hours.
Jerome sat a seat away from her and said nothing. She glanced over at him a few times but eventually stared at the floor in angry silence. It wasn’t her fault that Vera was in New York and that they’d possibly missed their only chance to talk to her.
But they couldn’t have hung around. Any mobsters who laid eyes on them would’ve sent them right to Carlito.
The silence continued as they walked home. At Park Avenue, Jerome turned the corner on his own, while Gloria had to go through with the usual charade. She went to the basement and shuffled through the boiler room, pulling the stifling coat over her beautiful dress.
The last time she’d worn this dress, she’d been planning to run away with the love of her life to New York. Now she was wearing it while sneaking through a broken fence just to get into her tiny, third-rate apartment. How quickly life can change, she thought. How easily the dreams of a starry-eyed girl can turn into a murky sort of reality.
She climbed up the back stairway of their building and banged on the door to their apartment.
Jerome opened it quickly, his black jacket already off and his bow tie loosened. “You want to try to be a little louder? I don’t think the entire building heard you hammering.”
Gloria slipped off her monstrosity of a coat and flung her hat on one of the kitchen chairs. “Don’t you lecture me,” she said, taking off her earrings. “I wasn’t the one who suggested we go to a club full of Carlito’s cronies.”
“I didn’t know the gangsters at the Cotton Club were friends with Carlito.”
“He’s Ernesto Macharelli’s son—every gangster is ‘friends’ with him somehow,” Gloria replied.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you were the expert on the Mob. Miss Zuleika Rose!” Jerome called out, his forehead creasing with angry lines. “Gangster Know-It-All! Where’d you find that out about Carlito’s father, anyway—one of your society columns?”
“Who cares where I got my information?” Gloria said. Reading the society columns was exactly how she’d learned all she knew about Ernesto Macharelli—but she wasn’t going to give Jerome the satisfaction of being right. “At least I actually read the papers instead of sulking all day.”
His nostrils flared. “You think I sit here sulking? You know I’m lying low when I’m not looking for work.”
“Right. I’ve learned a thing or two about lying low these past six months. I’ve climbed through that ridiculous fence every day while you just waltz right through the front door.”
“Oh, you’re going to preach to me about the places I can go and you can’t?” Jerome asked, yanking his bow tie off and throwing it on the floor.
“I’m not talking about a nightclub or the movies, Jerome,” she replied, stepping out of her heels. “This is our apartment. Our home.” She clenched her fists, trying to keep her anger in check, but it wasn’t really working. “I’ve given up everything for you! And now I find out that you’ve been telling your sister and your band and God knows who else about what we’ve been doing, putting us both in danger.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t you think I would’ve liked to write my mother or father or my friends to let them know I’m alive? But no! You said I couldn’t!”
“But you’ve got it all wrong,” he said.
Gloria wasn’t listening. She looked at their shabby surroundings in disgust. “You already have all your friends here. All I have is you, and this dingy apartment.” She banged a fist on the piano, and there was a muddy jangle. “If I’d known you were telling everything to your old band buddies behind my back, I would’ve at least sent my mother a letter. Or sent Clara a postcard.”
Clara. Just saying her name made Gloria feel guilty about ignoring her cousin, who had been so kind to her those last days in Chicago.
Gloria stopped, out of breath, willing herself to calm down. But then she looked up at Jerome—handsome, strong-willed Jerome—and everything, the anger and the frustration and the sadness, came rushing out in a torrent: She complained about the stealing, the constant rejection at auditions, the endless chores she performed to take care of their atrociously tiny home. After so many months of grinning and bearing this sad excuse for a life, she let all her frustration out. She couldn’t stop herself. At last she lowered her voice, her throat scratchy and raw. “I killed a man for you, Jerome.” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “That’s supposed to mean no secrets between us. Don’t you get it?”
Jerome’s eyes were wet and glistening. “For your information, Gloria, I have not been in contact with Vera or my band. I sent Vera a postcard when we first got here so she would have our post office box number in case of an emergency, but that’s it. I was as surprised as you were tonight—I’ve got no idea what she and Evan are doing here.”
He cast his gaze around their squalid little home, finally letting his eyes rest on the scarred wooden floor. “As for the other stuff, well, I thought you did all those things—leaving home, sneaking into our apartment every day—because … you wanted to.”
Then he lifted his head and pierced her with cold, dark eyes. It was strange, Gloria thought, how the same eyes she looked into so lovingly could at times be so hurtful.
“I didn’t know you thought you were making some high-and-mighty sacrifice for me,” Jerome said. “I don’t need your charity, all right? I don’t need your accusations. You think I love this life any more than you do?”
Gloria blinked. “Of course I know you don’t love it, but—”
“But what? You think the poor black boy likes this because he’s u
sed to it?”
She paled, suddenly lost for words. “No, Jerome, that’s not what I—”
He put his hand up to stop her. “Save it. You are not the only one who had to leave Chicago. You are not the only person all of this happened to. I’ve been fighting my whole life for what I want. You do it for a few months and think you deserve some kind of medal.” He didn’t look angry anymore, just hurt. “I thought us being together made all this worth it. I guess you don’t feel the same way.”
He stalked into the bedroom.
Gloria sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs, breathing hard.
Jerome was right—he had spent his life fighting. He’d fought his father’s disapproval of his career choice, fought to stay alive among the gangsters who ran the clubs. Fought through the grief at the death of his mother—the person who’d taught him to play piano in the first place. Fought discrimination every single day of his life from the people who thought they knew what he was because of the color of his skin.
Gloria had never gone through anything remotely like that.
She looked up in surprise as Jerome walked back into the kitchen. He’d changed into a blue shirt and gray trousers. He wore a newsboy cap and held his beat-up briefcase in one hand. In the other hand, he had a small velvet box.
He held the black box out to Gloria. “Here. Maybe you can pawn this for some money.”
Gloria stood still and stared at him in wide-eyed confusion. “What …?”
“It’s your engagement ring,” Jerome said. “I bought it with the advance from the Opera House. That’s why I wanted to see Ethel Waters at the Cotton Club. They want to have the same sort of thing at the Opera House and they want me to accompany you.” He walked over to the piano and set the velvet box on top.
He straightened his cap and picked up his briefcase. “I’ll see you at rehearsal. Take some time to think about what you really want, and then we’ll decide what to do.”
He opened the door and walked out, leaving her alone.
After a few shocked moments, she went over to the piano and picked up the small box. She opened it and stared at the simple ring inside: an unadorned gold band with a tiny diamond.
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