he doesn’t owe us anything,” Alvin shot back. “Give the man some space. He’ll get back to us, won’t you, Benny?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I repeated. I was ready to leave. The high from the music we’d created was fading fast, and the same old dread was pooling in my gut. I did not want them depending on me. I would make some calls—Jerry Wexler would be hearing from Pop, I was sure—and follow up with Atlantic, and that was all. Then I was out.
Alvin and Money went one way, Alvin thanking me and Money threatening to hunt me down if I didn’t deliver, but Lee Otis stayed on my heels, and Esther followed him reluctantly. I guess I was giving them a ride. Thanks, Pop.
It was early enough that the roads were clear and daylight was still a ways off. Pop slid into Sal’s Town Car and pulled away without a word or a wave. I opened the passenger-side door for Esther, and Lee Otis climbed into the back and promptly fell asleep. It was cold and his shirt was thin, but the kid was exhausted. Esther had to be tired too, but she still wore her heels—pink ones this time—and she freshened her lipstick and patted her hair while I drove.
She gave me directions—turn here, next left, keep going—without prompting, but she didn’t make small talk, and I turned on the radio. WMCA’s overnight deejay was playing Sinatra’s campaign song for Kennedy. “This might be the last time you hear this one, folks. At least for four more years.” I flipped it off. Four more years was soon enough. The airwaves had been plastered with politics for months. I was tired of it.
When Esther pointed at a building on 138th and told me to pull over, I did. The building was a mustard yellow and part of the neighborhood called Striver’s Row. Fifty years ago if you lived on the Row, you were big time. Now it was as run down as the rest of old Harlem, in need of restoration and renovation. Pop had pointed out the neighborhood to me once. He’d been born in a tenement in East Harlem, a tenement that had been razed in the renaissance of the thirties, but the Row had outlived everything around it. Maybe because it was built to last. Maybe because it was designed for the wealthy. Pop liked the Row, both the architecture and the history. It boasted alleyways between the structures, a luxury in Manhattan where the real estate didn’t allow for wasted space. At one time, the alleyways had been used for stables and private service entrances. A few old signs still remained, warning tenants to walk their horses. Now the alleys were filled with cars and trash cans.
People were already stirring. A few turned to stare as I pulled up to the curb in front of Esther’s building, and an elderly gentleman stopped reading his paper on the front steps nearest us and looked at us expectantly.
“Hello, Mr. Glover,” Esther said through the glass, and he frowned before tapping his watch like her time was up.
She nodded and waved but made no move to disembark.
“What is it about people that they can’t mind their own business?” She sighed.
“They think you are their business. My neighborhood is the same way.”
“Yeah. Well. I’m not their business. I’m nobody’s business, and Money isn’t our manager. He just thinks he is because he’s the oldest, and he’s used to bossing the rest of us around. None of us have signed anything. Not with him, and not with Ed Shimley, though I’m sure he’s told you different. Shimley wouldn’t sign a contract with us. He’s paid us what he said he would for every show, and he’s been mostly on time. I’ve got no complaints there. But we all know he can get rid of us whenever he chooses. Money knows how to play guitar. He’s good. But he doesn’t know how to sell. I got us the gig at Shimmy’s. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“Did you show up and refuse to get off the stage?” I asked, teasing her a little.
“Something like that,” she said, and I saw a hint of a smile. “No one speaks for me. Not Money, not Mr. Shimley, not old Mr. Glover over there, nobody. We need a manager . . . and if you won’t do it, I will. I’ll do it myself. So if we’re going to record your