10

KARISSA

The World Stage was a performance and educational art space in Leimert Park Village, located in the heart of LA’s African American community. Degnan Boulevard bisected the diamondshaped triangle that made up the area with 43rd Street running east-west at the top, Crenshaw Boulevard jogging down from the northeast corner, and Leimert Boulevard going from the northwest corner to a point at West Vernon Avenue. At the bottom tip of the “diamond” was small Leimert Park itself. Degnan sported an art gallery, a Jamaican restaurant, a bookstore, a foster youth support center that provided arts education and other activities, a parking lot, and the World Stage.

Karissa hadn’t been to the spot, even though it was about three miles away from her house in Sugar Hill. Over the past few years, much of her time in Hollywood had been spent in other areas. During her marriage to Willy, she had lived in Van Nuys and never had much opportunity to visit this side of Los Angeles with a majority black population. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t have felt at home, but that she knew from experience that color-ism factored into how she was viewed.

Willy, who was darker, once told her that she could “pass as white.” It wasn’t true at all. He’d said it to hurt her. It was an insulting comment, especially from her husband at the time. She fully acknowledged that she had grown up with a significant amount of privilege, considering that her adoptive parents had been white and had lived in a predominantly white upper-middleclass neighborhood. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still identify with the black community. Especially regarding civil rights, the Black Lives Matter movement, and other issues involving race relations, Karissa knew where she stood.

Even so, throughout her life she lived daily with questions from strangers like, “What are you, exactly?” They always wanted to touch her hair. She was asked which “side” she preferred. She’d become upset with the limited options of races from which to choose on forms. She was told countless times that she was “exotic.” She’d been asked if she was Middle Eastern. She perceived that some black people thought she was “stuck up,” believing that she “behaved” as if she were fully white, while white people presumed the opposite—that she viewed them from the point of view of a black person. This was nonsense, of course. These daily microaggressions were indicators of their prejudices, not hers.

Sometimes, Karissa felt caught in the middle, blocked from both communities and never fully accepted.

But there were positive aspects to her identity, too, such as being able to comfortably chat up members of either race. She was instinctively aware of interracial families or couples when she saw them on the street or in the media. She received—and presented—the “black nod,” that subtle acknowledgment African Americans gave to their peers, usually strangers on the street, to illustrate their shared solidarity. Karissa also typically felt comfortable in certain foreign countries where being biracial was a more accepted norm than in the United States.

Karissa and Marcello had dinner at Ackee Bamboo, just a few doors north of World Stage, prior to the nine-o’clock Friday night show. The jerk chicken was excellent, and Marcello devoured his ackee and salt-fish entrée. No alcohol was served, so they drank ginger beer.

“There’s no bar at World Stage, either,” Marcello said.

Karissa said, “I suppose we could go somewhere for a drink afterward if we want.”

He shrugged. “No party animal activity tonight, I’m afraid. Angelina gave me the stink eye when I said I was going with you to hear jazz.”

“I thought you were going to bring her.”

“Nah, she wasn’t interested. She thought it’d be more fun to take the twins to see the new Marvel superhero flick. Too bad we can’t produce one of those.”

“Tell Angelina I’ll have you both over for dinner as soon as my kitchen is up to snuff at the new house.”

“She’d like that.”

Karissa cocked her head. “Wait … she doesn’t know about … when we …?”

Marcello vehemently shook his head. “She does not.”

“That’s good.”

He looked at his watch. “Let’s get going.”

Karissa paid with the Stormglove credit card, and they walked over to World Stage, which looked more like a storefront for a dentist’s office than a nightclub. Inside, the space was long and narrow with fewer than a hundred folding chairs on the floor. The tiny stage held a baby grand piano, drums, a double bass, and gear for guitar, woodwinds, and vocalists. Charlie Parker tunes from a bygone age piped over the PA as the nearly all-black audience waited for the performance to begin. Karissa and Marcello found three empty seats near the front and took two. The last open chair was grabbed at the last minute by a bald white man in a suit and tie. He smiled at Karissa and said, “I know, I’m overdressed.” He loosened his tie and settled into his chair.

Karissa turned to Marcello. “How do you know these guys?”

“Butch is my man from San Diego. He’s the sax player. Through him I know Zach, the drummer, and Carl, the keyboard guy.”

“Think they’ll know anything about Hank Marley and Blair Kendrick?”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

The lights dimmed and the music faded out as a man wearing a kufi cap and caftan stepped onto the stage. He welcomed the audience to the show, made a plea for donations, and then introduced the band. “It is my pleasure to welcome to the World Stage once again—the Butch Johnson Hive.”

The seven musicians took the stage—all black men who appeared to be various ages from twenties to sixties—and picked up their instruments. Butch, perhaps the oldest member of the group, stood in front, eyed the drummer and bass player, and gave them a quiet count-off. The rhythm section burst into a swinging fast tempo that recalled the bebop style of the forties.

Karissa spent the entire evening with a smile on her face, swaying and bouncing in her chair. This was the real thing. For the next ninety minutes, old-school jazz was alive and well in Los Angeles, California.

When the show was over, the band greeted the audience members and signed CDs at the back of the house. Marcello embraced Butch and slapped hands with the other musicians, giving them dap. He then introduced Karissa and explained that they had questions about some musicians of yesteryear. Three of the guys left for home, while Butch, Carl, Zach, and the bass player, known as “Hero,” joined Karissa and Marcello as they walked out of the building. Mutually deciding there wasn’t enough time to find a place nearby to sit and have a drink, they strolled down Degnan to the park and found some benches. The four musicians lit cigarettes. One had a pint of bourbon in a paper bag, which was passed around. There were plenty of people in the surrounding areas, including a couple of LA’s finest sitting on police motorcycles on 43rd.

Karissa produced the photo of Blair Kendrick and Hank Marley, and the musicians took a look.

“I don’t know who the white woman is, but I know that’s Hank Marley,” Butch said. Hero murmured an acknowledgment. “He was a piano man, had his own band for a while. Fine player. Ray played with him.”

“Ray?” Karissa asked.

“Ray Webster,” Butch said. “Bass player. He played with us when we were first starting out. We were friends, I guess.”

Karissa and Marcello shared a look. “Is he … still around?” she asked.

“Yeah, but barely.”

Hero, who was probably around the same age as Butch, addressed him. “How old is Ray? Gotta be ninety, at least.”

Butch answered, “He turned ninety-four in February. He’s not in good shape. Ray’s in a nursing home. He’s had all kinds of health problems. Heart attack, stroke, a little of this and that …”

“Is he cognizant? Would he speak to me?”

“I don’t know. I suppose if he can speak then he might. Some days he speaks. Other days he doesn’t. I visit him when I can.”

“Did he ever mention Blair Kendrick?” Karissa tapped the photo as Butch handed it back to her. “That’s who the woman is.”

They all shook their heads. “Not that I recall,” Butch answered.

As they spoke, Karissa noticed a man watching them from a bench not too far away, also smoking a cigarette. It was the same guy wearing the suit who had sat next to her during the show. He appeared to be in his forties, was moderately heavyset, and his white skin stood out from those around him under the streetlamps. He was prematurely bald on top, with brown hair on the sides. He seemed to be glancing their way.

“When did Ray play with Hank Marley?” Marcello asked.

“In the forties. I think he was the youngest dude in Marley’s band. Didn’t something strange happen to Hank Marley?”

“He disappeared in 1949,” Karissa replied. “No one knows where he went.”

“I’m sure someone does,” Hero said. “I heard Hank was killed.”

“Murdered?”

Hero shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know much about it.”

“You think Ray would know?”

“Maybe.”

Karissa saw the man in the suit stand and walk back up Degnan toward the club. She indicated toward him and quietly asked, “Does anyone know that guy?”

The musicians squinted; the light wasn’t too good, but no one recognized him. “Never seen him before,” Hero said. “Why?”

“Nothing. He was at the show, and he’s been looking at us for a long time. So, where can we find Ray Webster?”

Butch replied, “The Vernon Healthcare place, not that far from here, over by the One-Ten.”

“Thanks.”

“One more thing …”

“Yes?”

Butch made a face and rubbed his chin. “Ray left some stuff with me. A couple of boxes of papers and things. I can see if there’s anything in ’em that might be of interest.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Marcello looked at his watch. “I better get going. Angelina will crack my head wide open if I don’t make it home before midnight.”

The others murmured other excuses. Karissa was feeling weary, too, especially after the stress she’d felt earlier that day when Willy had shown up at her door. She thanked the men, good nights were said all around, and everyone parted ways. Karissa walked up Degnan toward the parking lot across from the World Stage.

The bald man in the suit was standing in front of the World Stage, smoking another cigarette. “Hello again,” he said to her with a smile.

She nodded at him. “Do you work at the World Stage?”

“No, ma’am, I just like to come here for the music.”

She started to walk on. “Well, have a good evening.”

Karissa got about ten feet past him when he spoke up again. “Oh, pardon me?”

She stopped and turned. Karissa’s instincts kicked in. He liked to come for the music? The band had never seen him before.

Now on full red alert, she stepped back. “I have to go, I—”

“I have a message for you.”

“What?”

“About Blair Kendrick and Hank Marley.”

She felt a sudden, frightening adrenaline rush. “A message? From who?”

“Someone more important than you.”

“What the hell is this?”

The man said, “Forget about making the Blair Kendrick picture. Her story can’t be told because there is no story. Drop it and think of something else to do for your film project.”

“What do you know about it? Who do you work for?”

He held up a hand. “Friendly warning. Stop asking questions about Blair Kendrick and Hank Marley.”

“That’s not very friendly. Go to hell.” She swung around and continued walking toward her car in the lot, deftly pulling her car keys from her purse. She dared not look back. Shaken, she remotely unlocked her Murano, opened the door, and then turned to gaze back at the World Stage.

The man was gone.

She scanned the street and lot.

He was nowhere to be seen.

Karissa got in, locked the door, and started the car. She then tried to call Marcello to tell him what had happened, but she got his voice mail. Cursing softly, she pulled out of the lot and drove home toward Sugar Hill.