Moses Winston couldn’t see the crowd—the stage lights hit him in the eyes, everyone behind the lights was invisible—but he could hear them and he could feel them, the place shaking. He had his head tilted back, squinting against the sweat flowing into his eyes. Behind him, a fat white cat played a stand-up bass. The guy had shown up with his instrument earlier; asked if he could back Winston up. Winston had said, “Show me,” and damned if the cracker didn’t play a hell of a bass. Winston didn’t change it up for the bassist, just playing like hell. But the cat went with it. No problems.
They’d smoked some mesca back in the alley. There must have been something in it or it was some kind he hadn’t smoked before, because his thoughts seemed to fray, even as he played. He closed his eyes and saw a newsreel he’d caught at a picture show years ago: bombs exploding one after another somewhere in Germany, the perspective from above, in an airplane. He played in rhythm to the bombs in his head, each pick of a string another detonation. He was playing the music of violence, of destruction. He played different kinds of music: desire, violence, despair, pain. He played devotion sometimes when he was playing at a church or, lately, the Community. Tonight there were explosions in his head and he broadcast them into the world with his guitar.
Winston didn’t see Cephus giving him the signal to end the set, so the bassist gave him a little tap on the shoulder and Winston stopped almost immediately. The cheering came to him as an almost physical thing; a wave of sound. The stage lights were dimmed and the house lights turned up and the crowd was suddenly visible. Winston gazed out over the faces, Negro and white intermixed. Each face seemed to stand out to him through the smoke, though one more than the rest. His breathing went shallow. He heard the bassist behind him, saying his name. He turned away from the crowd, felt some of the tension ease.
The bassist said, “Look over there at the bar. You see that guy, nice clothes, between those two lookers?”
Winston took in the bar, letting his eyes glide down the people sitting there, until he thought he saw the right cat.
“Negro, got some salt in his hair?”
“That’s right. You know who he is?”
Winston shook his head, still staring at the man as he talked to one of the ladies sitting next to him.
“That’s Floyd Christian, Moses. He owns the Palace. You heard of it?”
Winston had heard of the Palace from other musicians. It was the pinnacle of the City’s Negro music scene. Yeah, he’d heard of it—his destination, eventually. He was confident of that.
The bassist continued, “He’s here to see you, Moses. Word about you is spreading around. If he likes what he sees, you could be playing the Palace this time tomorrow.”
“You think he likes what he sees so far?” Winston asked. But he knew the answer. He’d had cats like Christian catch his act before and they never left disappointed.
“You joking?” the bassist said.
They were silent for a moment; the question unspoken.
The bassist said, “You don’t need me at the Palace. You need to do for yourself.”
Winston nodded, shook the bassist’s hand. He felt the man’s respect and returned it.
The bassist said, “Cephus is going to try to talk you out of leaving, maybe say some shit about the Palace. Don’t listen to him.”
Winston looked at Cephus behind the bar, slinging drinks, his face like a goddamn tomato.
“Hey,” the bassist said, stepping down from the stage to get a drink. “Looks like you got a friend wants to talk to you.”
Winston turned and saw a huge cracker with a blond army cut and a scar on his upper lip. Lenore had pointed him out one time on the street. Koss. Winston had remembered that, thinking if someone mentioned that name, he’d want to know they were talking about this enormous man with the leopard tattoo.
He walked to the edge of the stage, knelt down so that his face was closer to Koss’s. Too loud to hear otherwise.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah, I think you can,” Koss said.
“Okay.”
“You seen Lenore lately, Moses?”
Winston felt the chill. “No,” and cut himself off before he said sir, a habit he was trying to break.
“I think maybe you did about a week ago. Am I right about that?”
Winston stared at him, too high to really feel the impact the words.
Koss kept on. “But you haven’t seen her since, have you?”
Winston had nothing to say.
“I’ve seen her, though. Keep that in mind.”
Koss walked away with a grin. Winston shook his head, wondering if that really hadn’t made sense, or if it was the mesca. He looked up and lost himself in the sea of faces.