“How can that be? Music is booming in Five Points!”
“It was easier when I first opened the club. Now...” He shook his head, spreading his hands open. “I’m one of four dozen music joints here in The Points. The Rossonian is right at the center of it all. Can’t get in? Well, the 715 or Casino or Lil’s are only steps away. Famous and local jazz musicians all have their choice. Who wants to venture this far north on Welton to get to my place?”
“Miss Fitzgerald did.”
“She’s the exception. She likes to find the jewel in unexpected places. And bless her for it. Her agreeing to do a show tonight is going to help.”
Morgan rocked back in his chair. “She’s still here?”
Charles nodded, a weary but grateful grin on his face. “She’s going to put in a special performance before she leaves tomorrow.”
Adrenaline surged through Morgan. He sprang from his seat and began to pace. This was it. God was giving him a second chance.
Charles eyed him. “What is it?”
Morgan crouched by Charles. “Last night, you told me to show Miss Fitzgerald what I was made of, right?”
“Yeah, and she was sorry to hear about your mother.”
“And... if she’s using the house band again...” Morgan grabbed Charles by his upper arms. “Could I get another shot with her tonight?”
“You’re the house band’s trumpet player,” Charles responded uneasily.
Not for much longer! Morgan stopped in his tracks. He wouldn’t be able to leave with Miss Fitzgerald, even if she asked, though he was confident she would after she heard him play. First, he had to make sure his mom got the care she needed. The hospital wouldn’t throw her in the streets, but the nursing home would expect their money up front. Rose would need to be moved soon, much sooner than Morgan would be ready to pay, playing in Miss Fitzgerald’s band or not.
Money pouring into that basket at the Revival rose in his mind, and a smile spread across his face. What did they do with the collection money until the bank opened the next day? Hid it in the church until morning.
His aunt had said he needed a miracle, and his mom always told him that God helped those who helped themselves. Okay, she didn’t mean it like this, but he would pay it back. He would send a large anonymous donation, ten times what he took.
Morgan let go of Charles’s arms. He picked up his horn and strode to the front door, proclaiming over his shoulder, “Great, I’m going to be there tonight to play that song!”
Morgan went home to shower and shave. He had the perfect plan. He’d wait until dark, “borrow” the money from the church, and give it Charles for Rose’s care. Then he’d impress the hell out of Miss Fitzgerald and be on his way to fame and fortune.
Easy-peasy.
Getting in the Revival’s back office was simple enough. Prying open the metal filing cabinet with the fireplace poker sitting beside the tiny room’s stone hearth wasn’t difficult. Using a screwdriver he’d stuffed in his pocket to snap off the flimsy lock on the heavy, ornate wooden box? Piece of cake.
As Morgan opened the lid, an exalted breath escaped his lips. Dozens of bills in stacked bundles lined the box.
“Morgan? Is that you, son?” Deacon Bennett stood in the open doorway, a flashlight in one hand. “What are you doing?”
Morgan slammed down the lid and held the box possessively to his chest.
Deacon Bennett shook his head. “You don’t need to do this, the Lord—”
What did the deacon know about what Morgan needed?
Morgan moved, intending to pass the old man, but Deacon Bennett had set his flashlight down. He tried to grab the box from Morgan’s tight grip. They struggled until Morgan wrenched the box away, swinging it at the deacon. The box hit the side of the man’s head, the money spilling out. Deacon Bennett stumbled back four jerky steps before going down. The back of his head slammed into the edge of the stone hearth like an accent note in a discordant harmony.
Morgan’s heart paused for several painful beats, then became a sustained, steady vibration against his rib cage. Helpless in his terror and unsure what to do, he knelt beside Deacon Bennett and took his wrist, feeling a faint pulse.
He should get help. But he needed this money.
His vision blurred as he saw blood seep toward the scattered dollar bills. His fingers trembled when he reached over the deacon’s motionless body to collect them. Only when a single tear dripped from his cheek did he realize he was crying.
Sitting back on his haunches, Morgan wept as if exhausted from a burden he’d been carrying since he was ten years old. He wept the tears that he couldn’t when his father died — his mother admonishing, “Your daddy paid the price by playing that damn horn.” He wept the tears that he should’ve when he thought his mother was dying. Full of resentment and rage for missing his moment with Ella Fitzgerald.
Morgan pulled out his yellow silk handkerchief, this time to wipe his tears. He stuffed the bills in his pockets. He knew he should try to do something for Deacon Bennett, but he couldn’t. If Morgan went to jail, how would that help anyone?
He took the old man’s wrist again — and this time, he felt nothing.
Morgan rose on unsteady legs. All he could do now was make it big and use the money he earned to pay back all his misdeeds. He’d send donations to the church, as well as to Deacon Bennett’s wife. He’d also send money to Charles to ensure Rose got her proper care.
Praying no one saw him, he snuck out the back of the church and took the long way down to the music district. Using side streets and avoiding people. He needed to pull himself together so Charles wouldn’t suspect anything.
Morgan walked through the back door of the Silver Sax. It would be another thirty minutes before the place officially opened. He found Charles in the back office and hoped he’d erased the horror of what he’d done from his face. Hoped that Charles would think the red eyes and haggard expression were from grief and lack of sleep.
He emptied his pockets, dumping the money on the desk. It was close to five hundred dollars. Morgan had stopped to count it in a deserted alley. “Can you make sure my mom is taken care of while I’m gone? I’ll send more.”
Charles looked at the crumpled bills piled on his desk. “Where are you going, and where did you get the money?”
Morgan decided to not answer the first question and went to the one he’d prepared a lie for: “Playing the dogs at the Mile High. It was my lucky day.”
Charles raised an eyebrow.
“Look, I played everything I had and won. God is looking out for me. He knows I want to play jazz and travel, and He put that opportunity in front of me two times. What else could it be but destiny? And... well, I...” Deacon Bennett lying on that cold church floor appeared in his mind. “Well, God helped me out and let me score that money.”
The skepticism left Charles’s face, replaced by a broad grin. “It sure does seem like God is looking out for you. Ella is definitely in need of a new trumpeter.”
Anxiety seared Morgan where exultation should have resided. Everything he did led him to this moment, this victory. Instead, nausea threatened him, and he shuddered to keep it at bay.
Charles studied him, brow furrowed. No doubt he expected Morgan to be ecstatic about the news, so Morgan obliged. He slapped the palms of his hands together. “Hot damn! You see what I’m saying. It’s destiny, baby!”
Charles laughed. “That it is.” He gathered up the money and locked it in his office safe. “I’ll make sure your mother gets the care she needs. The club is going to be in the black after tonight.”