Sins in Blue by Brian Kaufman

Author:Brian Kaufman [Kaufman, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2016-03-09T16:00:00+00:00

• • • • •

1928

Chicago, Illinois

The dance hall was a renovated theater, with some of the original seating in the rear, still bolted to the floor. Up front, a wooden dance floor butted against the stage. The walls were draped from the vaulted ceiling to the concrete floor with dark, red velvet curtains that smelled of cigarettes and alcohol.

Colored patrons paid a cover charge to watch the acts, listen to the bands, and dance in the wings. The cabaret section, centered in front of the dance floor with the best view of the acts, was reserved for whites, who sat at tables and even braved the food menu. One peek inside the kitchen area was enough to convince Willie that he’d wait and have his supper at home.

Because the place was a cavern, the theater had an amplifier and microphone set up, center stage. The sound was uneven—the amp cut the top off the treble. Willie made a mental note to stay away from the top strings when he played his guitar.

He watched from the wings, his guitar in hand, as a shake dancer performed. She had a high yellow complexion, and her white costume contrasted nicely with her bare midriff. Her long sleeves had a fringe that ruffled like a bird’s feathers when she moved her arms. “Impressive,” Willie said.

“Pardon?” The stage manager, a squat white man wearing bifocals, stopped and folded his arms. He came up to Willie’s chest and refused to look up when he spoke.

“She’s impressive,” Willie repeated.

“And who are you?”

Willie looked down at the top of the man’s balding head. “I’m Willie Johnson.”

“What are you doing here?”

Willie had his guitar by the neck. He lifted it straight up and said, “I play the blues.”

The stage manager cocked his head and then, ever so slowly, lifted his gaze. “You play . . . the blues?”

“Sure do.”

The man pursed his lips as he gave Willie the once-over. “Anybody ever tell you that you could pass?”

“Pass?”

“Pass. As a white man.”

“I am a white man.”

The stage manager did a double take. “Well, I’ll be damned to hell!” He frowned. “What are you doing, playing colored music?”

“I like the songs,” Willie said.

“Hmmmm. Well, watch yourself.”

Willie shrugged. “I’m on my best behavior. I won’t cause you any trouble.”

“That ain’t what I mean,” the manager said. His gaze had dropped back down to chest-level, and he poked Willie in the sternum with an index finger. “Folks don’t take kindly to people crossing lines. White boy playing the blues? Somebody might decide to teach you a lesson.”

The warning came back to him as he strode on stage fifteen minutes later. He didn’t bother chatting up the crowd. They’d already been told to give themselves a hand by the previous act, a comedienne who got nothing in return. “Tough room,” Willie thought. He positioned himself close to the microphone and gave the guitar a quick strum.

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