CHAPTER ONE
Buster Jones was running late, as usual. He didn’t have spare cash for a cab and it wasn’t like he could bum a ride from someone. Even in Harlem, most folks were hesitant to let a strange black man into their car. He thought it was ignorant, but he understood. In a city that seemed to be growing rapidly by the day as the 1920s were steaming on ahead into the ’30s, he understood just how hard it was to trust anyone anymore.
He figured it was just as well. A cab had to wait for traffic, had to stop at intersections and be careful not to strike pedestrians. On the other hand, a black man’s feet were much faster on the streets of Harlem. Buster could take alleyway shortcuts a cab couldn’t, and he could dance and dash his way along the sidewalks while those cabs remained stuck on the streets. The trick, of course, was not to drop his trumpet case or accidentally slam it against the side of a building. And not to get blasted by one of those treacherous automobiles that were already starting to take over the streets of New York City.
He was sweating through his suit—a cheap little number his father had passed down to him—and he knew he was going to be stinking something awful by the time he got to the Candle’s Wick. But that wasn’t important. He had an entire band waiting for him and if he let them all down, he’d probably never play in this town again. The jazz circle in this city had ears and it was very good at picking up on bad news and reputations.
After cutting through a back alley behind a barber shop and butcher, he came out across from the Candle’s Wick. The club wasn’t open yet, but he could hear the rest of his band warming up. Not only warming up, but auditioning for the club’s owner. The sound of the music was muted, but there was one very noticeable thing missing: his trumpet.
Buster dashed across the street, nearly colliding with a woman and her young son holding hands. His trumpet case came dangerously close to hitting the boy in the face. “So sorry,” he called out over his shoulder as he made a direct line to the club’s front door.
As he pushed it open, the band stopped immediately and looked at him. Buster was fully prepared to take a verbal lashing from them all, but then he realized there was someone else missing as well. Carter, the saxophone player, wasn’t standing in his usual spot directly to the left of the drummer.
“Sorry I’m late,” Buster said, hoping the trio staring him down had already taken their frustrations out on Carter.
“Hey, it is what it is,” Ma said. She was a rotund black woman, always eager to hug just about anyone. Buster wasn’t even sure what her real name was; he’d only ever heard her called Ma. She had one of the most gorgeous voices Buster had ever heard.
“Yeah,” the drummer said, tossing a stick back and forth between his hands. “Carter kinda ended practice way too early on us.”
“Where is he, anyway?” Buster asked.
“I’ll you where he is,” came a loud, antagonistic voice from the right. Buster watched as a large Italian man came out of the entryway that connected the club to the dining area. His name was Tony and he wore a finely maintained moustache on his chiseled face. He was wearing a suit, as he always had when Buster had seen him, and he looked irritated.
“Sorry, Mr. Tony,” Ma said, still standing on the stage. “You should know that we’re usually tight as a drum. No nonsense or foolery.”
“Foolery?” Buster asked as he stepped up onto the stage and unclasped his trumpet.
“Yeah,” Ma said. “The damn fool apparently got a white fella mad at him. They’re fussing at each other like a pair of cats and dogs.”
Buster was about to ask where Carter and his angry friend were right now, but he got an answer before he could open his mouth. He could hear two men arguing intensely about something off in the distance. It seemed to be coming from behind him, on the other side of the Candle’s Wick’s rear wall.
As Buster started walking to the door that led out back, the argument seemed to escalate. Several curse words were lobbed, a few from Carter’s unmistakably gruff voice. And then, just as Buster reached the door, the other voice came to a sudden stop; they could hear its abrupt pause through the door. It stopped mid-sentence as the other man, apparently the white man who had come into the Candle’s Wick to yell at Carter, fell instantly silent.
“Well, that didn’t sound good,” Ma said as she sidled up next to Buster.
“Nah, it didn’t,” Buster said.
Already not liking the feel of the situation, Buster opened the door. He stepped out into a thin alleyway littered with garbage cans and random detritus scattered here and there. But most noticeable of all, Carter was standing about ten feet to the left. He was looking down to the ground and appeared to be in a state of shock.
“Carter?” Buster said.
Carter turned around and looked at him. A tall, thin black man with close-cropped hair and wide eyes, he usually carried enough energy and enthusiasm to pick up anyone’s spirits. but right now, he looked panicked. Hell, he looked scared.
And no wonder.
At his feet, a white man was lying on the ground. His hair was gray, his suit looked expensive, and he looked somewhat out of place in this part of town. The man wasn’t moving and there was a blossoming stain of blood spreading along the back of his shirt.
“Carter…?”
“Hey!” Another voice filled the alleyway, coming from the right. Buster looked in that direction and saw another white man pointing into the alleyway. “Murderer! I saw it! Don’t you even try to run, boy!”
“Carter,” Buster said. “What did you do?”
“Nothing! I didn’t do anything.”
Thinking quickly and without much reason, Buster raced over to Carter and yanked him back into the building. As he closed the door, the white man who had accused Carter of murder was dashing down the alleyway.
Buster slammed the door and pressed himself hard against it. “Carter, what the hell?” It sounded silly—an almost crude question. Buster knew Carter pretty well. He wasn’t sure the man had ever thrown a punch in his life, let alone had the gumption to actually kill someone.
“What is it?” Ma asked. “Carter, did you….did you kill that man?”
But Carter said nothing. He just looked around the empty club with wild, wide eyes as the accusing man outside started to hammer on the door.