The Jazz Palace (23 page)

The decision had come to him easily. He'd fought with his father when he'd gotten home late the night before. He promised his mother that he wouldn't go far. Still she'd wept and slipped a cheese sandwich into his bag. He put the suitcase on top of the dresser and opened it. He unpacked two clean shirts, a couple changes of underwear, socks, a pair of slacks. Benny put all of this into the chest of drawers that he inspected for dust and mouse droppings with a bare hand. Then he put the suitcase, with all of his music still inside, on the upper shelf of the closet and closed the door.

In the evening he went to the Jazz Palace and pulled Opal aside. “I've rented a room on Ashland,” he told her.

“What kind of room?” Opal looked at him wide-eyed.

“One I plan to live in for a while,” he told her.

“Take me there.” And she put on her wrap. When Pearl had her back turned, they slipped out the door. They walked down Ainslie and around the corner until they got to the laundry building. Benny let them in, and they made their way up the hallway with the rank odor of chemicals in the air. At the top of the stairs Benny hesitated, then opened his door. Opal took in the stark little room with its stained walls. Sniffing the air, she detected mildew. And something else. The scent filled the room the way the sweet and savory ones of breads and roasting chickens filled her own. It came as strong to her as hunger, and she had to have more.

She had never been with a man in a room that had a bed in it. Outside of the dance floors she'd hardly even been near a man. But here it was. The bed was narrow with a metal frame and it was made with clean sheets his mother had washed and ironed herself. Benny had put them on that evening before heading out. He could not bear to look at the stained mattress that carried the memory of other people's
excesses and soon, he imagined, would carry his as well. Opal shook but not from her nerves. She was ready to be touched. She wanted to know what everything felt like—even the things she could not imagine, even if they brought pain.

At times it seemed to Opal that she had been raised under glass in some stale, protected shell, like moss in a terrarium. She was ready to taste every flavor and sniff every smell. She sat on the bed, bouncing on the springs. Despite the dingy room and the odors of solvents and sweat, the mattress was soft and the sheets clean and white. She could hardly imagine having a bed to herself, one that did not include her sisters. She lay back, spreading her arms and legs wide as a snow angel. She stretched out as she had never been able to before, her hair tumbling across the pillow.

Benny sat down beside her, stroking her hair, running his fingers through her tresses. “It's not so bad, is it?” Benny said, taking off his coat, his shoes. He saw a strange look in her eye. “What's wrong, Opal?” he asked. He confused her sadness with desire. He didn't know that the only thing she'd ever want was more.

“That billboard makes me sad.”

Benny got up and pulled down the shade. “Better?” He sat down beside her again. He kissed her lips, her cheek. “We could decorate the room. Put up pictures.”

Opal laughed, tickling his nose. “Pictures of what?”

Benny shrugged. “I don't know. Mountains. Paris.”

“Paris,” she said with a laugh. “I'd love to see Paris.”

Benny held up his hands, shaping a frame. “How about right there?” Then he made a frame with his hands around her face, moving them until he found an angle he liked. “How about here?” Wrapping his hands around her cheeks, he kissed her. His tongue slid into her mouth. He caressed her face, slipping his hands down her neck, across her breasts. He was not in a hurry as he unbuttoned her blouse. He helped her with the snaps on her corset. He lifted her skirts.

In the light from the street he looked at her body, her milky-white skin, the rose of her nipples. Her pubic hair was the color of prairie wheat. She was thin as a wishbone; if he wasn't careful, he
could break her. Benny probed, and her wetness surprised him. He fondled and kissed and licked her. He knew he should get up and walk away. She was still a child, though she was not acting like one.

But he wanted her. He rubbed against her side like a dog humping a leg. She trembled, moving beside him, whispering his name. She pressed against him as well, wrapping her legs around his thigh. He kissed and caressed her. Then Opal reached for him and he couldn't hold back. As he pressed into her, she cried out. He hurt her, but he couldn't help himself. There was something inside of him that he could not stop. She cried out again, but it was not in pain. As she stifled her scream with her fist, Benny bit into his lip. When he came, he tasted his own blood.

When he woke, Opal was asleep beside him. He lit a cigarette and lay back with it dangling from his lip. He looked at her in the light that came from the streetlamp. He listened to the clangs of the streetcars, the garbage trucks. He pulled up the shade. It was still night. The billboard of the skinny blond smoking a cigarette was illumined. Clouds of smoke came out of her mouth. Opal breathed heavily at his side, her hair matted to her brow. He tried to wake her, but she slept. She didn't care if she was out until dawn. She'd make her wish on the morning star.

Illicit love was everywhere. In the saloons and gambling halls. In alleyways. Above laundries. On the South Side two boys were having a lover's quarrel. They came from rich Jewish families and were expected to have brilliant careers. One spent his afternoons reading detective novels. The other was a self-taught ornithologist who shot and bagged birds.

Nathan Leopold spent his weekends trudging through Indiana swamps and woods, searching for nests of Kirtland's warbler. He wore a birding suit and glasses with a special hinge. Richard Loeb read mysteries and wanted to commit a crime. They kidnapped Bobby Franks, a child, chosen at random, and murdered him with a chisel. They drove to Indiana, stopping to eat hot dogs with the boy's body in the backseat. Leopold took Loeb to the culvert where he went birding. They poured acid on the body and left it there.

At “the trial of the century,” Clarence Darrow pleaded for
mercy. In his twelve-hour summation, Darrow argued that the boys' youth, genetic inheritance, surging sexual impulses, their wealth, the fact that they were raised by governesses and not loving parents, led them to commit their crime. “We live in a deterministic universe,” Darrow said. “Life is a series of infinite chances. Nature is strong and she is pitiless. She works in mysterious ways and we are her victims.” Benny, too, had been dealt an unfair hand. It was his fate. He could not be blamed. Besides, he hadn't murdered anyone.

Napoleon was growing used to his scar. He liked to run his tongue over it before he played a set or said something that he believed was important. He wore it as a talisman—the way he wore his gris-gris bag. A badge of honor. As the Black Butterfly he believed he was invincible. And he was playing everywhere. He had so many bookings he didn't know what to do. Napoleon was renowned for what had happened to him, but once people heard him, they came back for the music. While Maddy warned him that this knife stroke was just the teaser, the warm-up act, he grew more defiant. “I dare them to touch me now,” he swore.

Still, he'd heard the stories of those who'd defied the Chicago Outfit. Just last week a club owner, missing for weeks, was found, encased in cement. A piano player had his right hand crushed by a hammer. He claimed he'd been hanging shelves. Benny warned Napoleon, too, but the more he was warned, the less he was inclined to heed the warning. The more people knew about him the better. He was determined to do whatever he wanted. He knew that at any moment the ax could fall, but that just made him angrier. He played the Rendez-Vous and the Plantation Club, too. Bandleaders begged him to join them even for a night or two. The Black Butterfly was good for business. He was a free agent, a sideman. He went rogue.

Rumors about him flew. Musicians said he could hit notes higher than Armstrong's high C. The cut made it sound as if two horns were playing, not just one. Some women on Forty-Seventh Street whispered that his lips were capable of previously unknown pleasures. Some said that his tongue was also sliced in two like a lizard's and this drove them wild. Women who'd been faithful to their husbands for decades clung to his arm and dreamed of the Black Butterfly in their beds.

His kiss was said to bring good luck. He ended dry spells. People who'd lost jobs got new ones. The brokenhearted found love. Stubborn ulcers healed. Fans stuck money in his pockets in exchange for a quick pucker. Newspapers were filled with testimonials. Critics raved that his horn was even better than before. The cut amplified his sound. Some compared him to Armstrong, though most hesitated to go that far. Every night he'd show up at a different club. He was an amulet, a charm. The audiences came to see what the mob does to a man who defies it. But they stayed because they loved his sound. Most important, for the club owners, he packed the house wherever he went. Even if he wasn't booked, he was invited to sit in, and the musicians were more than happy to share the sizable pot.

He was playing a late set at the Owl Club—an all-white club on the North Side, run by the O'Banion Gang. Dion O'Banion was from Kilgubbin, that Irish neighborhood known as Little Hell. He had a tenor voice. When he was a boy, O'Banion sang Irish melodies in bars that made customers sob into their pints while his cronies picked their pockets in the cloakroom. O'Banion liked good music and he paid his bands well. Napoleon knew he had no business playing in a North Side club. He belonged to the South Side. He wondered how far he could take this. For now he was beating the odds.

The band was belting out a chorus when Napoleon caught a glimpse of two men from the corner of his eye. Outside of their heft, they were nondescript. They wore plain dark suits and overcoats. Not the same men he'd seen before, but he knew why they were here. They didn't have to grease anyone's palm to get a table near the front. The minute they walked in, room was made. One waved at
the musicians, egging them on. The other took out a toothpick and began to clean his teeth.

Napoleon sucked in his breath and belted out the chorus louder and sharper than he ever had. He dug for notes he'd never reached before. His scar ached. He rubbed it with his tongue. Then played some more. In his solo he soared. He flew above the city, hovering on his dark wings. He brought out the saddest tune he'd ever found. It was the sound of empty beds and eating alone, children locked in a room and widows with nowhere to go. Somebody said that on the eighth day God created loneliness. So Napoleon must have been close to God because he was making it come out of his horn. Then just when it seemed everyone would start crying, he changed his tune. He left sadness behind, and the trickster took over. He made his song silly almost and light as if it had all been a joke and everybody needed to laugh.

When Napoleon passed the tune back to the band, there was huge applause. Most of it was coming from the thugs. They'd enjoyed his music, and now they were going to kill him. He gave them a grin, his hands trembling, as he finished his set. Napoleon stooped down to put his horn away, and when he looked up, prepared to meet his Maker, the men were gone. It made no difference. They'd be waiting for him somewhere. In the next alley. At the next club. The all-night diner. They were playing him the way you played a song.

It was a chilly November night, but Napoleon decided to walk. He buttoned his coat and tucked his hands in his pockets. He'd never gotten used to the cold, but tonight he didn't mind. He followed State Street, walking north. A light snow fell. Napoleon looked at his footprints. In a few weeks it would be Thanksgiving. Maddy had already talked about getting a turkey and making her candied yams. He could almost taste those potatoes, all buttery and coated in brown sugar. He wondered if he'd live that long. As he headed out into the morning, he sniffed the air. He wanted to devour strips of bacon and a bowl of grits, drink black coffee. Maybe he'd find that waitress on the after-hours shift and curl up in her thin, white arms. He wanted to get his fill of all the things he wouldn't be tasting again. Because
Napoleon had no doubt where his future lay, and he faced what was ahead with resignation. No one could tell him differently. He was a dead man.

Across the street he saw the lights of Holy Name Cathedral. The façade of Holy Name was riddled with bullet holes. Several gangsters had been shot down here as they left mass. For good luck, brides put their fingers in these holes and made wishes. Napoleon wanted to go inside where it was warm. He wanted to say a prayer which he hadn't said since he could remember. He paused in front of Schofield's florist. He liked the display. It was filled with red and yellow roses. He sniffed the air as if he could smell their sweetness. He pressed his face to the cold glass.

In a few hours, as Napoleon slept in Maddy's warm bed, Dion O'Banion would open up his shop. He'd slip his key into the slot and rub his cold hands together. He'd spend the morning putting the finishing touches on a funeral wreath. The wreath was an elaborate job of bachelor's buttons and yellow roses. By day O'Banion was a florist, and by night he was a gangster. He specialized in orchids and manslaughter. He sprayed mist on his orchids every morning. O'Banion was fond of cut flowers and was very good at arranging them. Soon he'd be filling in the wreath with white carnations, Queen Anne's lace, and baby's breath. He was partial to white. The order called for gardenias, but his shipment never arrived. He'd waste an hour, arguing with his supplier. The wreath had to be delivered across the street to Holy Name. It was for a funeral the next afternoon, though O'Banion had yet to receive the name of the deceased.

O'Banion was adjusting the carnations when two men walked in. O'Banion thought he recognized one of them. He had big broad shoulders and stood like a vault. They'd come to pay for the wreath. They wore dark overcoats and black bands of mourning on their sleeves. Under their dark coats they wore suits the color of Christmas ornaments. They paused to admire the wreath. One of the men sniffed the yellow roses. O'Banion offered his condolences. As he shook the man's hand, he inquired after the name of the deceased.

“Dion O'Banion,” the man replied as the other pulled out a
tommy gun. O'Banion almost smiled. The year before he'd brought the first Thompson machine gun to Chicago. He purchased it on a vacation he'd taken with his wife to Colorado. Machine guns were readily available in Colorado, and O'Banion had been pleased to introduce them to Chicago. The wreath was delivered on time the next afternoon. The card read “To the O'Banion family. My sympathies. Al.”

I
t was no use telling Opal to stay home. It wouldn't have done any good. She had no intention of listening to any of them, and she'd just as soon run away. In exchange her siblings ignored her. At night as she sat, combing her hair, dabbing rosewater behind her ears, Pearl acted as if Opal wasn't there. As Opal slipped into a dress of strawberry silk that she'd stolen from Klein's, swabbed on red lipstick, and pinned a cloche hat to her head, Pearl tried to convince herself that it didn't matter. But it did. Pearl could see that something had been unleashed inside of this child, and her time with Benny had only made her ache for more. If Anna were alive, she'd say that a dybbuk had set up residency in her soul. Pearl could not have guessed that being with Benny hadn't made Opal want him. He was just the appetizer, a sampling. He only made her hungry for more.

The conductors on trams didn't ask to see her ticket, and cabdrivers turned their meters off long before they reached her destination. They'd never transported an angel before. Opal may as well have had wings and a halo around her head. If it weren't for the red lipstick and the fishnet stockings, they would have believed it was so. Still these mere mortals rarely tried to ask her out—though they would long for her as they lay beside their wives who no longer resembled the women they'd married. In the morning the men went back to their trains and cars, sniffing for the scent of rosewater, a trace of blond hair, just to be sure she was real.

In the evenings Opal went from club to club, bribing a bouncer here, a bartender there, until one night she saw the crowd in front of the Dreamland and a sign announcing that
THE BLACK BUTTERFLY
would be playing there. The place was jammed, and patrons were spilling out into the street. It was mostly a black crowd, flashing their greenbacks, trying to bribe their way in. Dreamland was known for its thousands of electric bulbs and huge dance floor. Opal was pushed and shoved, but she wouldn't faint like Pearl.

As the crowd carried her forward, she could hear the sound. It was wild, leaping up and down, crazy jazz that went through her body and down to her toes. She had to get on that floor and dance. Opal shoved ahead and some of the crowd stepped back. One man excused himself because she was so thin and golden. A black man dark as pitch said to her, “I don't want to hurt your wings.” She made her way past the bouncer and into the club, into a room packed with bodies and glitter and sweat. She followed the music, pushing and shoving, and almost feeling as if she couldn't breathe, but the throng ejected her onto the dance floor where a black man grabbed her by the arm and began to twirl her around.

And the sound grew louder and the music was running through her bones like fire to her fingertips, her toes, and back again. “Who's that playing?” she asked her partner because she couldn't see the stage, but she recognized the sound.

“Oh,” he said, “you don't know? That's the Black Butterfly.” He made a space in the crowd for her to see. She looked up and saw Napoleon, his face puffed, blowing away.

O
pal began turning up wherever the Black Butterfly had a show. Every chance she got she stole money from the till, went into the candy store where she grabbed whatever flapper dress she was wearing at the time, and hopped the tram to the South Side. Pearl stopped asking her sister where she was going. In fact Pearl had stopped asking her much of anything. Opal wasn't a baby. She had a fire inside of her, and she let it burn. She didn't care what club she went to. She'd tip a bouncer fifty cents if she had to, which wasn't often. No one would turn Opal away. She stood out in this black crowd like a gold coin dropped on a dark street.

Napoleon couldn't miss her. Even though he had to squint for his eyes seemed to be narrowing into a tunnel of light, this bright beacon lit his way. He spotted her in the darkness.