Moses Winston was second on the bill at the Checkerboard that night. He came in through the back and stepped out from behind the stage and into the bar. The joint was nearly full, and smoke—some tobacco, some mesca—was heavy in air that carried dozens of conversations, threatening to overwhelm the duo on the stage, a skinny cracker with round glasses playing the house piano while a big woman with her hair piled on top of her head caterwauled her way through some jazz number.
Winston scanned the crowd and saw more Negro faces than he’d seen here before, though that number seemed to grow a little each night. He was used to being popular, even revered in some small towns that he’d played. But he hadn’t known how things would work out in the City. Now he was beginning to see.
He left his guitar case by the stage where he could keep an eye on it and maneuvered his way to the bar, aware of people pointing at him, feeling the occasional clap on his back. He’d smoked some mesca that Billy Lambert had bought off kids who’d starting hanging around the perimeter of the shanties, offering wares of this sort and that. It had been good smoke. Winston felt it in his body, and the crowd seemed somehow like a single, huge organism, the faces and bodies blended together, the place pulsing.
The bartender had a glass of water with a brownish lime waiting for him. Winston’s shirt was unbuttoned but clung damply to his back. Cephus was behind the bar, too, dripping perspiration into the drinks that he was imprecisely preparing, looking up now and then as if to assure himself that this crowd was, in fact, really there.
Winston leaned against the bar, listening to the girl onstage as she struggled with the realization that the crowd mostly wanted her to finish up. The crowd cheered a little, jeered some more, but mostly ignored her. He felt bad for her in a way. But it wasn’t often that white people had given way to him, and though it didn’t exactly give him plea sure, there did seem to be some kind of justice.
He felt a paw of a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Cephus’s enormous face beaming at him through the rivulets of sweat.
“You see this crowd, Moses?” Cephus was nearly yelling so that Winston could hear him over the crowd.
Winston nodded, looking into the crowd, roiling like the sea.
“They’re here to see you. Do you see what we’ve done?”
This was something that Winston was familiar with in dealing with white people, too. As far as he could tell, Cephus’s role in “their” success was simply to own this broken-down joint. Winston’s playing had brought people into this oven to drink Cephus’s shitty drinks and listen to the music. It was really what Winston had done for Cephus.
Winston smiled at Cephus, but not particularly kindly.
“I’m going to have them off the stage after their next number. You going to be ready to go?”
Winston nodded. “Sure.”
Cephus turned to walk away, then turned back to Winston, putting his hand on Winston’s shoulder again.
“Moses?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you two are friends. You seen Lenore lately? She hasn’t shown up around here.”
Winston felt a tingle in his hands and legs. He stared at Cephus until Cephus became uncomfortable and said, “I guess not,” and went back to making drinks.