27

THE MOVIE

The film rolls on. We see a nighttime exterior shot of the Downbeat Club on Central Avenue, the sidewalk busy with pedestrians dressed in their best going-out clothes. The photography accentuates the contrast between the bright spots of light of the street and the cars moving up and down the congested road that is the center of black nightlife in Los Angeles 1949, and the dark of nearly everyone’s skin.

The camera zooms in slowly on a placard that reads: TONIGHT! HANK MARLEY AND HIS BAND!

Lively bebop jazz music ramps up on the soundtrack and we move inside …

The club was packed. A blanket of cigarette smoke hovered over the tables as the patrons danced in their seats. Cocktail waitresses moved in between arms and legs, doing their best to keep up with the demands for drinks. Most of the clientele had saved their meager dollars earned during the week for the obligatory weekend night out at one of the swinging clubs that catered to them. While occasional white jazz enthusiasts supported these clubs, they were, for once, the minority here. Central Avenue was known as Little Harlem, only on the West Coast, where one was proud to be referred to as a “Negro,” and the less savory epithet derived from that word was rarely heard.

The Downbeat Club was one of the hot spots of the scene, and to be able to perform there was a privilege. Hank Marley took the responsibility seriously, but he also knew that the audience was there for a good time. He led his band through many popular numbers made famous by Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Cab Calloway, Earl Hines, and Lester Young, and he made sure he added a joyful spin to the arrangements.

Hank’s fingers danced on the piano keyboard while Ray Webster plucked the strings of the upright bass, deftly keeping time with Jim, the drummer. The brass and woodwind section—Bobop on trombone, Billy on trumpet, Charlie on clarinet, and Francis on tenor saxophone—filled out the sound as if they were a hundred-piece orchestra.

The set had started at ten o’clock, and now it was nearing midnight, about time to wind down. As was his custom, Hank launched into the opening chords for one of the band’s signature pieces.

“Folks, we now come to the end of this glorious evening,” he said into the microphone—to which the audience shouted protests—“aw, thank you kindly, ladies and gents, you know if we could stay here all night playing for you, we would. Anyway, as we always do at the end of our shows, we like to bring things down to a nice little piece of dreamland. Each of us in the band would like to dedicate this number to our respective ladies, those bewitching creatures who we love and who love us.”

The band broke into “Blues in the Dark” as the audience applauded. After a moment, they quieted down and listened to the melancholic, soulful lyrics.

As he sang, Hank heard someone in the back of the room say, a little too loudly, “Aw, he’s singing about that white woman …”

This was followed by several “shh’s” and “hush nows,” but Hank ignored it all. He didn’t care what they thought. The emotion he put into the performance was effortless, as his heart was heavy.

For he had no idea what had happened to Blair. She was missing, and he knew that the excuse from her studio—that she was “convalescing” at a secret resort—was bullshit.

Hank walked to the bus stop after saying good night to the rest of the band members. They had gone across the street to the Dunbar, where there were women to meet and drinks to consume. They wanted to spend a few more hours enjoying the night that, by their design, belonged to them. The pay for the gig often didn’t go far, but these simple pleasures had a priority over the daylight realities of living in what was predominantly a white world.

Hank hadn’t felt like partying. Blair’s absence deeply concerned him, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. As he didn’t own a car—he depended on buses and taxis to get around—it was difficult for him to do any investigating into her disappearance. She’d been missing for a week. He knew Blair would have said something to him if she’d really gone to a health clinic. That story was nonsense.

Something bad had happened to her.

He had mentioned it to a patrolman he was friendly with—the Los Angeles Police Department had a history of employing Negroes on the force since the 1880s—but the lawman was unable to find out anything except the studio’s standard line. In Hollywood, that was the final word unless there was real evidence of foul play.

Hank had been to Blair’s house and spoken to Sheridan and Georgeann. The housekeepers were just as mystified and frightened as he. The fact was that one morning Blair had gone to the studio for work, and she hadn’t come home since. Her car was unaccounted for, too.

Could the disappearance have something to do with her plans to leave show business? Had she spoken to Hirsch, that awful studio head, and told him what she planned to do? Blair hadn’t said she was going to do so; she had simply informed Hank that she wanted to wait until her latest picture finished shooting.

Hank also feared for the life inside Blair’s womb. His baby was in trouble. Mother and child—vanished. His overactive imagination created all sorts of horrendous scenarios that replayed in his mind. Had she been harmed? Had she been killed? After what Buddy Franco and his henchmen had done to him last year, Hank believed anything was possible.

The bus was late. Hank looked at his watch and thought about trying to flag down a taxi. He’d been paid for the gig, but after splitting the money seven ways, what he had in his pocket would last only a few days.

This music business is a racket, he thought. But it was all he knew. He had loved the piano ever since his grandfather taught him how to play “Chopsticks” on an old honkytonk when Hank was six years old. Then, a white woman in St. Louis had given a couple years’ worth of lessons to him and his sister, Regina, as payment for their mother cleaning the teacher’s house. Hank was forever grateful to his mother for doing that extra work just so her children could learn to play the piano.

From that point on, Hank had taught himself the rest. He listened to all the greats as he grew up—Scott Joplin, Fats Waller, Jelly Roll Morton—and slowly developed his own style of playing. By the time he had left home and settled in Southern California, he could hold his own against the powerhouses who were staples of the black jazz scene.

That didn’t mean it was easy to make a living.

He thought about Regina and her current gig at the First A.M.E. Church, playing piano for the choir. Perhaps he should have grabbed that steady engagement when it had been offered to him. Turning it down had been a mistake. He’d wanted to concentrate on jazz and blues, not church music. Regina, meanwhile, was doing fine. He resolved to make attempts to see her more often. It was a shame that she had met Blair only once.

A pair of headlights heading his way along Central interrupted his thoughts. They weren’t the only ones on the road at that time of night by any means, but the car was moving slowly, as if it were about to pull over to the curb and stop. Ever since the incident outside the Dunbar a half-year earlier, Hank found that such sights made him nervous. He dug into his pocket and grabbed his pack of Chesterfields, tapped out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. Before he could light it, the car that was approaching did stop.

It was a black Cadillac, just like the one he had encountered before.

Hank dropped the pack on the pavement when he saw Buddy Franco emerge from the back seat, followed by the same two white thugs who had beaten him up before.

He considered running, but it was too late.

The first henchman pointed a handgun at him.

“Get in the car,” Franco said.

The cigarette fell out of his mouth. Hank raised his hands halfway. “What is this?” he asked.

“We’re going for a ride.” The other man moved behind Hank and prodded him in the lower back with another pistol.

“What if I don’t?” Hank asked.

Franco gritted his teeth. “Then we’ll shoot you, right here in the street. No one will care.”

Hank Marley took a deep breath and then nodded. He got in the back seat of the Cadillac.