Memphis rolled his eyes. “Why are you grinning, Gabe?”

“Guess who’s playing trumpet on Mamie Smith’s new record?”

“Hey, brother!”

“Heard from Clarence Williams at Okeh Records last night in the club. They want me to come in tomorrow.” Gabe shook his head. “Me, playing for Miss Mamie Smith.”

“What about Mamie Smith?” Alma dropped into the seat next to Gabe and helped herself to some of his potato salad.

“Did I invite you?” Gabe teased.

“I invited myself. Thought this table needed some class.”

“Mr. Gabriel Rolly Johnson here is now a recording artist for Okeh Records, blowing his horn for none other than Miss Mamie Smith.”

Alma let out a little squeal of excitement and threw her arms around Gabe. “You know what this means, baby?”

“What?”

“It means you can buy my lunch. Hey, Mr. Reggie!” she shouted. “I’ll take a meat-loaf sandwich, and you can put it on Gabe’s tab. And add a milk shake!” She squinted at Memphis. “What’s eating you?”

“Just haven’t been sleeping much.”

“Oh?” Alma said and pursed her lips playfully. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Berenice, and she’s a very persistent bird,” Gabe joked, breaking himself up. He slapped the table, making the rabbit’s foot jump.

“There’s nobody,” Memphis said quickly.

“That’s your trouble, brother,” Gabe said, wiping his eyes. He doused his sandwich with hot salt-and-pepper pickles that made Memphis’s nose run. “You need to get your head out of that notebook and come with me to the club Saturday night. We’ll find you a girl.”

Alma made a face. “How can you eat that, Gabriel?”

“Helps me keep my pucker, baby.”

Memphis stirred the tiny mound of sugar at the bottom of his coffee cup. “Don’t want a girl. I want the girl.”

Alma put her pinkie in the air and tilted her chin up. “Oh. The girl.”

Gabe matched her imperious tone. “I say, old boy. Do give her my best.”

Alma and Gabe fell into a routine, mocking Memphis like he was high-hat. Memphis knew better than to let on that he was irritated by their teasing, so he put on the big smile and grabbed his knapsack. “Gotta go to San Juan Hill and see about some business for Papa Charles. Oh, and thank you for lunch, Gabriel.”

He could hear Gabe saying, “Hey, now!” as he walked out the door and left him with the check.

“Hey, hey—Mr. Campbell! ’Zat you?” Blind Bill called from a chair in front of Floyd’s Barbershop. Sometimes Floyd put out an old chair and let him sit and play for the customers, or just soak up the sun. “I know it’s you. Don’t play with old Bill now. My number come in today?”

“No, sir. Sorry. Better luck next time.”

“Heard people got them some numbers they playing for that murder down under the bridge.”

“Yes, sir. Some people do have a gig for it.”

“Hmph.” Blind Bill spat. “Nothin’ good can come from that. You don’t play a number on a murder, if you want my opinion.”

“I just write the slips.”

“I keep seeing this number. In my dreams, you know. I see a house, and there’s a number, but I cain’t never make it out.”

Memphis had never thought about the dreams of the blind. How could old Bill see a house and a number if he couldn’t see at all? But there were rumors about Bill: He’d lost his sight when he got some bad whiskey. He’d been beaten and left for dead over an unpaid gambling debt. He’d done a woman wrong and she’d gotten her revenge with a curse. Some people said he’d lost his sight in a card game with the Devil and now he was on the run to keep his soul. People said all kinds of things.

The crow chattered again. Blind Bill angled his ear toward it. “Got ourselves a messenger, seem like. Question is, who’d it come for, you or me?”

Bill laughed his big, gravelly laugh. It threaded with the crow’s insistent caw, a discordant symphony.

Theta blew into the Globe Theatre with her leopard-spot coat hanging from one shoulder and a cigarette dangling from her painted lips. She kept her sunglasses on, feeling her way down the aisle through the rows of seats. The rest of the company was in mid-rehearsal for the Geisha Girl number, which Theta thought was one of the stupidest, most insulting routines they’d ever done—and there had been plenty of stupid, insulting numbers.