15

THE MOVIE

The film shifts to a nighttime exterior of the Dunbar Hotel, the center of African American nightlife on Central Avenue in 1940s Los Angeles. The block is jumping, as cars and taxis pull up to the front of the hotel and let out the likes of Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Joe Louis. Black couples and singles mill around on the sidewalk, dressed to the nines for a night on the town. The fashion for women is small waists, full skirts, and long hemlines. Waves, rather than curls, is the order of the day. The men are in singlebreasted or double-breasted suits with center vests and peaked lapels. Wide, short ties in a Windsor knot come in patterns and are adorned with tiepins. No man is without a hat.

The camera moves around the building as the voice-over resumes.

“Central Avenue was where it was at for the Negro community. Everyone went to the Dunbar Hotel to see and be seen. It was where the black entertainers stayed, since they weren’t allowed to use white hotels. Mind you, they could perform in white hotels, but they couldn’t sleep there! The strip in front of the hotel was for cruising, where the locals showed up to hold up the wall and show off their new threads.

“Next to the Dunbar was Club Alabam, a hugely popular nightspot for jazz, and just a few doors down from that was the Downbeat Club, a more intimate setting where the audience could see a show by the likes of Charlie Parker or Dizzy Gillespie—up close and personal.”

We are now inside the Dunbar Hotel, moving through its grand art deco lobby with Spanish arcade–like windows and open balconies.

“I would sometimes accompany Hank to the Dunbar on nights we thought not too many people would be there. After all, our relationship was controversial on both sides of the color line. Musicians and show-business people tended to accept us more than regular folk. The Negro movie stars like Eddie ‘Rochester’ Anderson and Louise Beavers didn’t seem to have a problem with seeing one of their own with a white woman.”

The camera moves into a small lounge, a cocktail bar, with room enough for a piano on one side. Hank Marley is sitting at the keyboard, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Ray Webster stands next to the piano with his upright bass, thumping away as the pair play lively acoustic jazz pieces. The place is packed.

“The Turban Room was a little place downstairs inside the Dunbar where Hank occasionally played with Ray Webster, just as a duo. There wasn’t enough room in there for his full band, although they often played in the larger Club Alabam out back, the Downbeat Club, or a place called the Last Word, across the street.

“There was one evening that I had to work late at the studio shooting The Dark Lonely Night. Hank was at the Dunbar with Ray, doing what he did best …”

Ray Webster launched into an opening riff for Earle Hagen’s “Harlem Nocturne,” arranged for piano and bass, which was one of Hank Marley’s signature pieces. When his fingers hit the keys, the patrons applauded and oohed and aahed in appreciation. Hank grinned broadly and nodded at the listeners.

“Thank you, thank you kindly.”

The music didn’t stop the chatter, though. The Turban Room was a bar, not a concert hall. The musicians played as drinks were served, cash flowed, and people socialized. Cigarette smoke filled the crowded room, the lighting was low, and the ambiance was cool and smooth. Hank loved to play at the Dunbar, often more so than in the bigger joints that paid better. There was something about the intimacy of the place, the closeness of the customers, and the one-on-one sparring with the young bass player he had hired. Ray still had a lot to learn, but he was good—damned good. They made a swell team.

The next song in the set was “Woody ’n’ You” by Dizzy Gillespie, which was an unusual piece to be heard on just piano and bass, but they made it work. Hank swayed and bounced his shoulders as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Ray emitted a moan of delight as he felt the spirit of the music. He plucked the strings of the double bass with verve and abandon. When the tune was done, the entire room burst into applause.

Hank spoke into the microphone on the stand beside the piano. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much. I must say you’re all looking mighty fine tonight all decked out in your going-out clothes. I see a whole lot of beautiful people. Yes, sir. Ray and I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”

There were some affirmative shouts of joy.

“Good, good. Here’s a little number that is something of a personal piece for us.”

The duo launched into a dreamy version of “Blues in the Dark,” and Hank sang in a passionate, woeful timbre. For a moment, the conversations in the bar ceased completely as the song cast a spell over the crowd. Women closed their eyes and smiled. Men moved in place with the melody. It was three minutes of pure magic. The applause that erupted when the music stopped indicated how potent the arrangement was.

“Thank you, thank you. You are all very kind. Well, Ray and I are going to take a short break. We’re the Hank Marley Duo, and we’ll be back in a little bit. Don’t go away now, y’hear?”

Hank and Ray nodded at each other and left the band area, which was more of a corner than a stage, and slithered through the crowd. Ray stopped at the bar to get a drink and Hank went out of the lounge, upstairs, and into the hotel lobby. He greeted several acquaintances, including the acclaimed architect, Paul Williams. It was a sea of lovely black faces and a handful of whites, but the woman he’d hoped to spot wasn’t there.

He went outside and greeted Delbert, the doorman, and offered him a smoke.

“No, thank you, Hank, not while I’m on duty, sir.”

Hank tapped a cigarette out of the pack for himself. Delbert was ready with a light, and Hank allowed the man to fire it up. “Thank you very much.” Then he walked north along Central to the Club Alabam’s awning. The doorman there, Eugene, also greeted Hank. A poster proclaimed the appearance of Joe Turner, a blues singer who had appeared in Duke Ellington’s musical revue Jump for Joy. Hank knew Curtis Mosby, the club owner, and probably could have ducked in for a few minutes to listen to a couple of numbers before heading back to the Dunbar, but he decided to continue his stroll outside and enjoy the cigarette.

He passed the Downbeat Club, crossed 42nd Street, and kept walking north at a leisurely pace, nodding at various pedestrians and couples who were strolling in the opposite direction. Music from the various clubs on the block drifted through the night air, creating a muffled, but pleasant, cacophony of clashing melodies and rhythms.

Blair …

Hank often wondered if he was doing the right thing with her. The relationship could hurt her career. Although opportunities for black people in Hollywood had improved during the past decade, it was still a segregated, closed world. The precious white stars had to be protected so their public images remained sanctified. All in the name of the box office dollar.

He had read in the Sentinel that a case could be going to the state courts that challenged miscegenation laws. If that passed, then he and Blair could get married. Even so, that didn’t mean it would be accepted by her studio. Was it selfish of him to keep the relationship going? The problem was—he really loved her. He had been with several women in his thirty years on earth—all black, of course—and he had loved several of them. Blair, though, was different, and it wasn’t because she was white. Joe Hardy, a fellow he played cards with sometimes, said something the other night about that. “You only like her ’cause you’re getting some white meat.” Hank would have punched the man in the face if others at the table hadn’t held him back.

Later on, Bobop, his trombone player, asked him over drinks, “Could it be true, Hank? That this is all about her being white? Don’t be mad, I’m asking as your friend. Do you know what you’re doing?”

Sure, there was a taboo element to it. Something … foreign. But all that ceased to matter when he considered Blair herself. Blair could talk to him. She understood his moods and his tastes and his music. He loved her fire. The racial difference simply didn’t enter the equation when they were alone. It only came into play when they were with other people, outside the privacy of the bedroom.

Lost in his thoughts, Hank didn’t notice the black Cadillac that passed him slowly heading south. It pulled over to the curb behind him. Besides the driver, there were three passengers inside—all white men.

Buddy Franco got out with two cohorts—big, burly guys who might have been wrestlers. Without warning and with no concern that they could be seen by dozens of pedestrians, the men quickly moved behind Hank. One of the bruisers clasped his hands together to form a battering ram of knuckles and swung hard into the middle of Hank’s back. The musician toppled to the sidewalk.

Women screamed. Men shouted, but no one dared to interfere. These were white men. Undercover police? Probably. Don’t get involved. Walk away. Watch from a distance.

The two thugs started to viciously kick the fallen man. Hank cried out as the hard shoes pummeled his ribs, his belly, his back, his legs, and his face. After a full thirty seconds of punishment, Hank Marley lay helpless, limp and bloody.

Franco stooped to speak softly into the man’s ear.

“Stop seeing Blair Kendrick. This was just a warning. The consequences will be far worse if you don’t do what I say. Do you understand, boy?”

Hank could only groan.

“Do you understand?”

Hank nodded.

Franco stood and gestured for the men to follow him back to the car. They got in and it took off down Central, turned a corner, and disappeared.

The distant music from the jazz clubs faded away completely. Hank ceased to hear the traffic noise on the street next to him. There were muted cries nearby, and someone calling for help. He felt bodies near him, hands gently moving him, and words asking if he could hear what was being said.

An eternity passed, and then he was aware of a familiar voice. “Hank! Hank! Delbert called an ambulance. Hold on!”

It was Ray.

Hank reached up and grabbed his bass player’s collar. “No …”

“What? Hank, you’re hurt bad! We got to get you to the hospital—”

“Just take me … home … take me home … no hospital.”

“Hank—!”

“I … mean it …”

Ray Webster did what Hank asked. He enlisted some friends from the hotel to help him carry Hank to his car, and then he drove his injured friend to their home in Sugar Hill. Ray roused his wife, Loretta, out of bed to help attend to Hank in his room. Ray called the studio and left a message for Blair, who was busy shooting night scenes. Then, together, Ray and Loretta cleaned and bandaged up their friend and sat with him during the night, while their five-year-old son, Gregory, slept in his own room.