everywhere were stacks of books and other things that had never found their proper places. The sound of someone plunking out Bix Beiderbecke’s “In the Mist” on the piano had reached Gilda long before she entered the rooms. The pianist halted repeatedly, trying to get a grip on the snaking melody. Laughter and voices almost swallowed the sound of the effort.
In the first parlor, a long table was barely visible beneath platters of chicken, sweet potatoes, and cole slaw. Bowls overflowed with pickles and other things Gilda didn’t recognize. She did recognize Hilda, the tall, slender natural redhead who waited tables at the Evergreen. Her hair and tawny skin were shown to best advantage by her crisply tailored black silk dress, cinched at the waist with a three-inch-wide belt that matched her hair perfectly. She waved at Gilda and continued on her way toward the piano where Emory, who usually played drums, was still attacking the Beiderbecke tune. His circle of wavy, mixed gray hair had receded far back on his head but he still appeared youthful as he concentrated on the tune. Gilda walked past them, wading into the scent of perfume that hung in the air. The click of high heels and deep male voices filled the room, mingling with the piano as if orchestrated by Ellington.
Through a door, in the smaller parlor she saw Benny in the dining room playing bartender behind a short, highly polished version of the mahogany bar in the Evergreen. He’d changed into a light-colored silk jacket that hung softly on him. Morris, in a reversal of his nightly routine behind the bar, relaxed on a leather and chrome barstool, his tall frame barely contained. They appeared to be intent on their conversation as Benny served him a drink, but he glanced up and noticed Gilda among the half dozen other guests mingling near the doorway.
“Come on over here, cousin,” Benny shouted.
“Harlem ain’t got nothin’ on Chicago,” Morris was saying as she approached. “Tell this man, Gilda. What Harlem got we ain’t got?” Morris’s light brown eyes sparkled with challenge, more playful than he’d ever appeared downstairs. His ever-present white shirt was, as usual, fresh and firm across his broad shoulders.
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ against Chicago, man,” Benny answered in a soft teasing voice she’d heard often when the two men were together.
“You think we ain’t got no colored writers?” Morris went on. “We got colored writers here. And we got the music. Shit, you know that yourself!” Morris took a drink as if that ended the discussion. “What about Richard Wright? He got his chops here. And you ain’t heard of Katherine Dunham, man?” Indignation was building like a balloon over Morris’s head. “Where you think King Oliver been playing for the last five years? Same with Alberta Hunter—”
“Lemme get you something,” Benny interrupted Morris, “‘fore this man starts trying to run for mayor.”
Gilda asked for champagne and he laughed. “Girl, you need something more’n that on a night like this.”
“They may go to Harlem, but they find themselves here. In Chicago!”
“That’ll do me, Benny. Honest.” Gilda had no luck trying to appear demure and was relieved when she heard Lydia’s voice behind her.
“Aw, Benny, stop annoying the chick. Give her what she wants. You trying to get the woman drunk?” Lydia leaned in closer to the bar.
Benny, faking villainy, twirled an imaginary mustache, much larger than his own.
Gilda inhaled Lydia’s scent deeply before she turned. A light blend of cinnamon and magnolia wafted from her hair, making Gilda’s heart beat faster. She was startled to see that Lydia wore bronze satin pants that clung to her narrow hips. On top she wore a pale golden chiffon blouse that highlighted her copper skin, which shone through the filmy fabric.
“You like it?” Lydia asked as she watched Gilda, who seemed unable to catch her breath.
Gilda finally found her smile. “You look quite … chic. I believe that’s the word.”
Benny prepared another drink and held the short rock glass as if he didn’t want to let it go.
“Come on, give,” Lydia said, then took the drink.
“Lyd’s kinda handy with the sewing machine,” Morris said. “She even made them curtains that run ‘cross the stage.”
“Hey, why should you get all the gab?” Lydia teased Gilda. “Half the town’s talking about your outfits. Hell, when you walk in the club I gotta turn the lights up so they stop lookin’ at ya.” Her laughter was totally unladylike and flew into the room, compelling others to join