Esther wailed.
“They call him the Bomb ’cause he can level a crowd,” I added.
“He’s Bo ‘the Bomb’ Johnson, and you better watch out,” we sang together.
Esther’s smile was so wide she had to turn sideways to exit the building into Herald Square. She twirled the moment we walked through the big double doors, her frayed, red coat bunching up around her small shoulders. Her hat tumbled from her head, and I stooped to pick it up. The streets were empty, the sidewalks bare. It was 2:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, but I was gripped with the sudden fear we wouldn’t make it to the dawn. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash. It’d been a helluva week, and I just wanted to see Esther safely home.
“That was amazing, Benny. I want to do it again. We need to record it. The whole thing. That’s a hit,” Esther crowed up at the sky.
I nodded, numb. It was a hit. It was echoing in my head and my hands even now. I wanted to play it again. I wanted to find a piano and perfect it. Compose a horn section. Write a bridge. Tell Esther to sing it from the top.
I also wanted to hurl my body over Esther’s and brace myself for the spray of bullets.
“What’s wrong, Benny?” she said, touching my arm.
“I don’t know if that was smart,” I whispered, looking down into her upturned face.
“If what was smart?”
“Singing that song.”
“Why? Didn’t you like it? You said the best songs tell a story. I wanted to tell that one. And you were brilliant. You blow me away, Benny Lament. Like Bo ‘the Bomb’ Johnson. You can level a crowd. We can level a crowd. We are good together. We are great together! It’s magic. I can’t believe this is happening.” She was flying high, smiling at me like I’d managed to give her the moon, but I was afraid.
Snowflakes were starting to fall, soft and fat, lazy, like they knew as soon as they touched the ground the journey would end and life would be over.
“It’s snowing!”
“You were born and raised here, Baby Ruth. Don’t tell me that makes you happy.” Winter was miserable in New York. It was pretty for about five seconds. Then it was just cold, wet, and filthy.
“It makes me happy right now,” she said, smiling. “Right now, it’s perfect.” The bits of white clung to her hair and ruddy coat, and she put her hat back on her head to protect her curls.
“Come on. Let’s go to the car,” I urged gently.
“I don’t want to go home. I want to celebrate. Let’s go dancing,” she said. “I haven’t been dancing for so long. Not since we started at Shimmy’s.”
“Dancing? Where? It’s 2:00 a.m.”
“It’s Friday night, Benny Lament. Don’t tell me the piano man from La Vita doesn’t know where to go dancing on a Friday night.”
“Well, you don’t know me very well.” My tone was mild, but she studied me for a moment.
“I think I’m starting to,” she countered quietly.
The truth was, I didn’t want to go home either. Pop would probably be home. He and Sal had had a late flight, but unless they decided to go to La Vita when they landed, they would be home. I’d wanted to tell him about the Barry Gray invitation; Pop knew Barry. Barry had spent a couple years in Miami, broadcasting live from a nightclub Sal had a stake in, and he and Pop had always been friendly. Everyone was connected.
The thought made me nervous all over again.
I still had some records, the vinyl slick and gleaming, with my makeshift label affixed, sitting in the back of my car. Connor had come through. I’d picked them up that very afternoon, just in time, and I’d told him I wanted two hundred more. It wasn’t enough, especially if we wanted to distribute them to the record stores, but that wasn’t the goal. I had to get them to the disc jockeys. I had to create a buzz before I went all in.
I’d spent two hours sitting in my car at the post office, addressing them to every station in the biggest markets, just like I’d promised, and I mailed them out. I posted one to Berry Gordy at Motown too, just because I knew he’d listen, and I might end up crawling to him on my hands and knees. I’d given a small stack to Barry Gray to pass around at WMCA. I’d managed to drop another