“I love it, and I know a great spot in Hollywood.”
“I know some places on South Central that really bop. What do you say?”
Claire hesitated, then said, “Sure, sounds like fun.”
o o o
East on Wilshire, south on Normandie. Danny drove fast, thinking of his midnight meeting and ways to chill Considine on the Niles ruckus; he kept checking the rear-view mock casual, gifting Claire with a smile each time so she’d think he was thinking of her. Nothing strange appeared in the mirror; Reynolds Loftis’ face stayed in his mind, a non-face to make the face jump out and bite him. Claire chain-smoked and drummed her nails on the dashboard.
The silence played right, two idealists deep in thought. East on Slauson, south on Central, more mirror checks now that they were on HIS stomping ground. Danny pulled up in front of the Club Zombie; Claire said, “Ted, what are you afraid of?”
The question caught him checking his waistband for the sap he always packed on niggertown assignments; he stopped and grabbed the wheel, Red Ted the persecuted Negro’s buddy. “The Teamsters, I guess. I’m rusty.”
Claire put a hand on his cheek. “You’re tired and lonely and driven. You want to please and do the right thing so badly that it just about breaks my heart.”
Danny leaned into the caress, a catch in his throat like when he saw Considine’s bottle. Claire took her hand away and kissed the spot she’d touched. “I am such a sucker for strays. Come on, strong silent type. We’re going to listen to music and hold hands, and we’re not going to talk about politics.”
The catch stuck; the kiss was still warm. Danny walked ahead of Claire to the door; the bouncer from New Year’s Day was there and eyed him like he was just another white hepcat. Claire caught up just as the cold air got him back to normal: Krugman the Commie on a hot date, Upshaw the Homicide cop on overtime. He took her arm and led her inside.
The Zombie interior was just like two weeks before, with an even louder, more dissonant combo wailing on the bandstand. This time the clientele was all Negro: a sea of black faces offset by colored lighting, a flickering canvas where a white/gray face would stand out and scream, “Me!” Danny slipped the maitre d’ a five-spot and requested a wall table with a floor view; the man led them to seats near the back exit, took their order for a double bonded and a dry martini, bowed and motioned for a waitress. Danny settled Claire into the chair closest to the bandstand; he grabbed the one facing the bar and the audience.
Claire laced her fingers through Danny’s and beat time on the table with their hands, a gentle beat, counterpoint to the screechy bebop that filled the room. The drinks arrived; Claire paid, a fiver to the high-yellow waitress, her free hand up to refuse the change. The girl sashayed off; Danny sipped bourbon– cheap house stuff that burned. Claire squeezed his hand; he squeezed back, grateful for loud music that made talk impossible. Looking out at the crowd, he sensed that HIM here was just as impossible–he’d know the police now had him pegged as a darktown car thief–he’d avoid South Central like the plague.
But the place felt right, safe and dark. Danny closed his eyes and listened to the music, Claire’s hand on his still making a beat. The combo’s rhythm was complex: drums shooting a melody to the sax, the sax winging it off on digressions, returning to simpler and simpler chords, then the main theme, then the trumpet and bass taking flight, going crazy with more and more complicated riffs. Listening for the handoffs was hypnotic; half the sounds were ugly and strange, making him wish for the simple, pretty themes to come back. Danny listened, ignoring his drink, trying to figure the music out and predict where it was going. He felt like he was getting the synchronization when a crescendo came out of nowhere, the players quit playing, applause hit like thunder and bright lights came on.