Chapter 66

Lizard had been in Kansas City for six years when Moise fell ill.

On the train to St. Louis, Lizard took a seat in the segregated car. He was approached by a young black porter who skillfully avoided looking directly at his face. Eyes fixed on the buttons of Lizard’s shirt, the porter said, “’Scuse me, sir, but this here car is for colored folk. White folks section is two cars up.”

“Yes, I’m in the right place,” Lizard replied.

“Oh.” The porter’s shoulders relaxed, his brown eyes met Lizard’s gray-green ones. When he spoke again, the formality in his voice was tempered. “Well, you have a pleasant trip.”

“Thank you.”

Yes, it was as easy as that.

* * *

His father died, and Lizard returned to Kansas City, swapped out his surname for the less-Jewish-sounding Robbins, pawned his violin, and used the money to buy a secondhand gramophone along with any record he could find that had Louis Armstrong’s name on the label.

Over the years, Lizard continued to grow into the persona he’d created—passing himself off as Negro, playing in their bands, steadily mastering their music, living in their communities, absorbing their culture, their nuanced language (verbal and otherwise), adopting the way they talked, walked, and danced. He made love to their women on Friday and Saturday nights and attended their churches on Sunday mornings.

For a long time, Lizard thought he and Mezz Mezzrow were the only ones living their white lives as black men. But as he burrowed deeper into his lie, he became increasingly aware that he and Mezz were far from lone wolves. Indeed, they were part of an expansive clan that had willingly migrated to the dark side of the color line.

* * *

Lizard would have stayed in Kansas City for the rest of his life had he not lost his cool after a less-than-ethical nightclub owner named Brady refused to pay him for a gig. He had tried reasoning with the man, and when he still refused to cough up the money, Lizard felt he was left with no choice. He pulled out his pistol and whipped Brady until he was unrecognizable, even to his own mama.

Not only were the police looking for Lizard, but a host of Brady’s friends and family were too. Kansas City was no longer safe, so he fled home to St. Louis.

* * *

His family never pretended to understand the life he’d chosen for himself.

“A jazz and blues musician? Really, Leo?”

And if that wasn’t confounding enough, they couldn’t make sense of the hep clothing, lingo, and swaggering gait he’d adopted.

“Yellow? That color is kind of . . . well, loud for a suit, don’t you think?”

“Beat up the chops? What does that mean? Well, why can’t you just say she talks a lot? Geez.”

“Son, did you hurt your foot? No? Then why are you limping around like that?”

It was all so embarrassing for them.

That said, Lizard wasn’t the most shameful member of his family—there was a cousin rumored to be wearing women’s underclothes beneath his tailored suits, and another who had conceived a child out of wedlock.

Of course, his mother and sisters had no idea Lizard was living his life as a black man. That news would certainly have trumped any humiliation that came along with having a cross-dressing businessman and a bastard offspring in the family.