Johnson bumped around in my head, jostling for my attention, and I pushed them all from my thoughts. There wasn’t room in my head for all my worries.
Money was jittery too; we hadn’t discussed Esther’s father again. There was nothing to say and nothing to do until the shows were over, and even then, I had no idea how Bo Johnson would make contact.
We began with “Any Man” like we’d done in Pittsburgh, and the crowd knew the song. From one number to the next, they were with us, screaming like I was Elvis when I dropped a low note, hanging on every word when I argued with Esther, and laughing when Esther argued back. The crowd was young and they wanted to dance, and for most of the show they were on their feet. Alvin had come up with a series of dance moves for the chorus on “Chicken,” and the audience lapped it up, copying his movements by the final chorus.
We rounded into our final number and the lights dropped, pinning Esther in a white circle as she related the story of Bo Johnson to a silent crowd. She started softly, building the story before breaking into the song, whipping the crowd up as she threw it down. When it was all over and the final note sung, she stepped back from the microphone and took a bow as the lights came up and the crowd screamed.
That was when I saw him.
It was just a glimpse as I rose from the piano, a bowler hat bobbing just beyond the sea of waving arms, but it was him. The curtain closed and we exited to the right where the Miracles were waiting to take our place. I didn’t know my way around the building, and I couldn’t go out into the crowd, but there was a set of stairs that led to a rear exit and an employee lot where we’d parked that morning.
I made an excuse about needing the washroom and ducked down the long hall, avoiding this person and that, taking the stairs at a jog, afraid that Bo Johnson would slip away, or worse . . . surprise us when I wasn’t prepared.
It was quiet on the street. The crowds were inside, enjoying the ongoing performance, and I walked around the theater without being stopped or stared at, although a man having a cigarette near the front entrance seemed to recognize me. He did a double take but looked away again. Then he dropped his cigarette and shoved away from the wall, walking in the opposite direction.
Woodward Avenue was prettier by night, draped in Christmas lights and strung with illuminated candy canes and oversized red and green bulbs. The Fox looked better at night too, the glowing marquee drawing the eye from the tired exterior. The street was busy with cars, but the sidewalks were relatively clear. I circled the perimeter twice, letting myself be seen, hoping he’d approach. Yet when he stepped out from the doorway of the jewelry store to the right of the theater, his hands in his coat pockets, his face shaded by his hat, I was still surprised. I’d left my own hat inside, my topcoat too, and I was suddenly cold standing there on the street, my heart pounding, my head bare, my hands loose at my sides.
“You look just like your dad,” Bo Johnson said. The empty-barrel sound of his voice, rich and resonant, had not changed, and this became apparent now that I was listening. “When I saw you on Saturday, I thought it was him. My old friend, Lament. Then I realized it couldn’t be Jack. He’d be old. Like me. And Jack is gone now, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s gone.” The truth of it thrummed in my chest like the bell in the condemned clock tower, and Bo Johnson bowed his head as though he felt the vibrations. He didn’t look old. Maybe it was just the forgiving cast of the streetlights; the hair not covered by his bowler hat was a dappled gray, but his face was unlined. He was thinner than I remembered, smaller, or maybe it was that I was a whole helluva lot bigger than when I’d seen him last.
“You’re little Benny Lomento. The kid who likes songs,” he said. “Do you remember me?” he asked.
“I remember you,” I said.
“I want to see my daughter.”
“How did you know we were here?”
He pointed up at the marquee. “Minefield.”
“You just happened to be strolling by?