Chapter 32

Pussy: hypnotic and narcotic. It had toppled dynasties, initiated wars, transformed boys into men, men into idiots, led husbands away from their good wives, turned sons against their dedicated mothers—had Harlan believing he was kin to Christopher Columbus, as if he’d discovered sex, as if it hadn’t existed before he was born.

Fool.

Four years of steady fucking, combined with a daily, healthy dosage of reefer and Scotch, had raised in Harlan a level of conceit that people (mostly grown folk) found difficult to endure.

Him, coming to rehearsal late, stinking of weed, liquor, and self-regard, boldly directing the great Lucille Hegamin on just how she should sing her own damn songs.

Scandalous.

Lucille had kept Harlan on after the tour, not because he was such a great guitarist—he was adequate at best—but because she loved his mother like a sister. But even love has limits, and Harlan had managed to breach every one.

In September of ’37, four years after Lucille first took Harlan out on the road and returned him to Harlem with his nose wide open and narrow ass propped high on his shoulders, Lucille decided that enough was enough.

Harlan stumbled into rehearsal, high and late, and Lucille wagged an angry finger at him, yelling, “Just turn your black ass around and go on back where you came from.”

A lopsided grin rippled across his face as he continued to move unsteadily toward her, bouncing his hands in the air. “I . . . know, I know I’m late, but lemme tell you what happened—”

“Nah, ain’t interested. You’re done,” she spat.

“Is it about the fine? I got the money,” he slurred, slapping the pockets of his pants. “Oh yeah, I moved it.” He chuckled, lifting the black Stetson from his head and removing a few dollars from the interior band. “Here you go.” Harlan flung the bills at her.

Lucille watched in open-mouthed astonishment as the money fluttered down to the scuffed wooden floor.

The musicians shifted uncomfortably, their eyes skating between Harlan, Lucille, and the wilted dollar bills lying at her feet.

“Out. Get out and don’t come back,” Lucille ordered in a trembling voice.

“Psshhh,” Harlan sounded, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

She flew at him, rushed him like a linebacker, howling, “I said get the hell out!”

Les Parker, the clarinet player, caught her by the arm and swung her out of striking distance. “Calm down, Ms. Lucille.”

Harlan reared back. “You serious?” He was genuinely miffed. “I gave you the money, didn’t I?”

Les said, “Just go man, okay?”

“But I gave her the money.”

“You’re fired,” Lucille rasped, trying to wiggle free of Les’s grip. “Get the hell out!”

Harlan looked around the room, helplessly searching for support, but none of the men would meet his pleading gaze. “So that’s the way it is, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s the way it is,” Lucille shot back.

They stood glaring at one another until Harlan arrogantly cocked his Stetson to the side of his head. “Forget you then. Forget all of you.”

* * *

Harlan spent the remainder of the day roaming through Harlem, dragging Lucille’s name through the streets like a mangy dog.

Somewhere between the Midnight Bar and the pool hall, his guitar went missing. Lost, stolen, or gambled away in some backroom game of craps—he couldn’t recall.

By the time he got home, he was so intoxicated he could barely manage the steps. After several attempts, he finally reached the front door, but was unable to fit his key into the lock and so gave up, slumped down onto the stoop, and promptly fell asleep. His Stetson toppled off his head and careened down onto the sidewalk. Without missing a beat, a passing pedestrian scooped up the hat, placed it in the crook of his arm, and hurried away.

An hour later, Sam arrived home from work to find Harlan slouched over and snoring. He had a mind to leave him right where he slept, but he knew Emma would never forgive him. He hooked his hands under Harlan’s armpits, dragged him into the house, and dropped him in the hall. The commotion startled Emma, who was in her bedroom changing the linen. She appeared on the top landing—head crowded with pink, foam rollers—brandishing a hammer.

“Oh my goodness, what happened to him?” she exclaimed.

“He’s fine, just drunk.”

“Are you sure?” Emma checked Harlan’s face and neck for bruises. Finding none, she sighed with relief.

“Hey, you been crying?” Sam asked.

Yes, Emma had. The tip of her nose was as bright as maraschino cherry and her eyes were puffy. Her lips quivered. “Oh Sam, it’s awful,” she sniffed. “Bessie Smith is dead.”