It was lucky for Milo and the black population of Watts in general. Loretta was a force to be reckoned with.
The bouncer at the club entrance at the Knickerbocker was a reptilian-looking fellow named Razor. He was taller than Fearless and broader of shoulder than Mad Anthony. But he smiled, showing more teeth than seemed possible.
“Loretta,” he said, not even deigning to recognize my presence.
“Mr. Hanley.” If Loretta knew you, she knew your last name and often used it as a mark of respect.
Loretta took a step across the threshold and I moved to follow. A big brown hand covered my chest.
“Where you think you goin’, boy?” Razor asked, no longer smiling but still showing his teeth.
I wish I’d said something smart or sassy, but I was flabbergasted and intimidated. All I could do was stutter.
“Paris is with me,” Loretta said.
“Really?”
“Yes.” Her smile really was something.
“You know you could do a lot bettah than a little man like this here,” Razor said, giving her an up and down look.
“I can see that you don’t know him as well as I do, Mr. Hanley,” she replied. “Paris here can’t fight to save his life, but you know when women get a man alone, fighting is the last thing on their minds.”
The club was crowded, and the bar was right next to the door. A few of the people standing around heard Loretta’s lecture and started laughing.
Razor smiled and bowed his head to me.
“Excuse me, Mr. Paris, sir. I didn’t know.” He waved his hand and we were taken by a young brown girl in a tight pink dress to a table near the stage.
Milo had a running tab at Apollo’s, but I started my own. I lit Loretta’s cigarette and ordered good champagne. She was hungry and so we had them bring out a basket of battered and fried shrimp with two salads.
The Winston Marks Trio was playing that night. They were one of the most important components in those early days of the new jazz. Winston could be anything from a lonely whale to a hummingbird’s wing with his trumpet. He would have probably been world renowned if he hadn’t had an eye for every lady he met. One of those ladies was his bass player’s wife. Three weeks after that performance, Billy Stiles shot Winston in the brain, ending the trio’s career.
I spent most of my time talking to Loretta. At one point I went up to the bartender, Silver Martin. I showed him the picture of Angel and he admitted seeing her before. I handed him a picture of Andrew Jackson and he promised to send over anyone who knew something about her.
The music was great. Maybe Winston sensed his death that night because he played like I never heard anyone play before. There was one number where I knew instinctively that he was tracing the cracks of a broken heart that could never be mended. Fool that I was, I even shed a tear.
Loretta placed a hand on mine.
“You’re a sweet man, Paris Minton.”
“And you’re twice the woman of anybody else in this place,” I said.
She smiled and let her head loll a bit to the side.
“What?” I asked.
“Are we going to do something about all these fine compliments?”
Loretta liked black men. She liked us because we knew how she felt on the inside. She shared our rage and our impotence; she strained with us at the edges.
“Well?” she asked.
I was frozen in place. I didn’t know what to say. It was as though I had just been in my house talking loud and bragging about what I’d do with some movie queen, and then she strolled in and said, “Let’s get it on, son.”
Loretta grinned. She was not the kind of woman who would belittle the man she was with.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“No.”
“No?”
“You don’t get it,” I said. “You couldn’t understand because I’m just gettin’ to it right now myself.”
“What?”
Loretta’s eyes shimmered and her presence was absolutely assured. She felt more at home in my world than I did.
“I love you,” I said, and her smile was replaced with astonishment.
“What?” It was a whole different question this time.
“I see you sitting there with Milo. I see you loving him and caring for him and everybody he cares for. You’re beautiful and strong and hurt, but you never complain. That man tried to humiliate me, and you shot him right down. And I’m not even thinkin’ that you’re askin’ me to share your bed. Even if you just wonder if we’ll have another date, I’m scared to death about it. You know the girls I hang with might forget my name in the mornin’. And here you are looking into me like I was this glass’a water.”
The smile returned to Loretta’s mouth after a moment.
“Maybe later, then?” she said.
“Excuse me. Mr. Minton?”
I looked up and saw a short brown man with pockmarks on his skin that made him seem to be made of leather. He had a flat head and snake eyes but wasn’t at all threatening or even off-putting.
“Yeah?” I said, angered by the interruption of one of the few purely honest moments I’d had with a woman.
“Silver said you wanted to know about Angel.”
“Excuse me,” Loretta said, standing. “I have to go to the powder room.”
She left, taking the best part of me with her.
“What you got?” I asked the man, whose name I never knew.
“Angel live with a dude named Useless at Man’s Barn.”
“I got that already,” I said, taking a small fold of cash from my pocket.
The man eyed my money and actually licked his lips.
“What you need, then?”
“You seen her in the last week or so?”
“Naw.”
“You know where she work at?”
“Naw.” He bit his lip, seeing the possibility of a tip fade.
“What about anybody she’s tight wit’ other than Useless? Maybe some white dude?”
“I seen her with some white men but not with anyone more than a couple’a times. But she used to know this one guy, an’ it seemed like they stayed friends.”
“Who?”
“Guy name’a Tommy Hoag.”
“You wouldn’t have a number for ’im?” I asked.
“Don’t need it,” the leather man said. “Tommy is the only Negro agent for the Schuyler Real Estate office on Hooper.”
Andrew Jackson leaped happily from my hand, and just as happily the nameless leather man jogged away from my table.
I saw Loretta approach from across the room. The men all gave her glances. The women looked to make sure that she kept on going.
Chapter 17
Loretta kissed me when we stopped in front of her parents’ home. It was a long, juicy kiss. I was working with her, but she was definitely the captain of that boat. She licked my throat and nipped my ears, caressed the side of my neck in a way no mother had ever done a child’s. Two of her fingers found their way into a small opening between the buttons of my shirt. When she pressed against my nipple, I jumped a little.
“I’m not finished yet,” she whispered, just in case my flinching meant that I was ready to walk her to the door.
There was no hurry to Loretta’s passion, but my heart was thumping like a lonely puppy’s heart does when his master returns after leaving him tied up for hours.
When we finally separated, I felt as if I had spent a lifetime with her.
“I understood what you were saying,” Loretta whispered. “I do love Milo, but we aren’t like that. And you know, Paris, I need a man to make me whole.”
I had nothing to say but I opened my mouth anyway. Loretta put two fingers to my lips and said, “Let’s go.”