ONE WHITE WHISKER: The Cat Who Loved Jazz

By Keith Duffield Jordan

"One White Whisker" is an allegorical tale of the destructive nature of prejudice set in the Deep South during the Depression of the early 1930s told through the lives of a feral black alley cat and a black boy drawn together by their mutual love of Jazz.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781684098408

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cover.jpg

One White Whisker

The Cat Who Loved Jazz

Keith Duffield Jordan

Cover Art by

Chuck Trunks

Copyright © 2017 Keith Duffield Jordan

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-68409-839-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68409-840-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

The Black Cat was crouched motionless by the old crumbling tenement, his heaving sides roughly caressed by the cool, rough brick still moist from heavy rains, his eyes fixed on a small area trying to pry the darkness loose from it.

While the others desperately scurried around, fighting for what was left in battered garbage cans before the enemy moved in to empty them, he was possessed by an innate, primitive instinct working deep inside him, flushing all other considerations away and preparing him to kill.

The minutes passed, but he remained loyal to that infallible, sentient feeling that transfixed his senses as he strained to arrest the slightest movement, readying himself for a determined sprint like a sprinter in the blocks waiting for the gun.

He could hear the others snatching what they could find, often quarreling loudly. The blackness that masked their scavenging was slowly being nudged aside by the dawn, and they all knew that as the light increased, so too would the enemy. The sun belonged to the enemy. Day was his. Man would soon scatter them all as he took their meager sustenance from the refuse of the alley as they moved behind the steady clip-clop of their horse-drawn wagons.

The other alley cats, absorbed at their looting, would shoot their heads up in the air periodically to scan the scene with a 360-degree swing of their head like a submarine’s periscope pushing up through the ocean of despair that washed over their kind.

The dawn’s assault tested their resolve, measuring their tenacity with its slow deliberation as the fainthearted left the scene first, dashing across streets, sprinting up alleys, scrambling over vacant lots, and scaling fences with a skill that fear makes easy, while the bolder stayed defiantly in place, gathering in what booty remained, eternally hopeful for something more, something bigger, something better.

When they found a valuable prize, they hefted it firmly in their jaws and went off to some dark, hidden quarters to reap its short-lived benefits.

They would rage loudly at a common find, turning on one another with fury, battling until the toughest won, as they always do. The younger ones, for the most part, watched like good apprentices, cheering on their mothers, while the quickest to learn among them would dart in to pilfer whatever it was the two combatants were contesting. The others watched with fear and admiration as the oldest, most experienced veterans of the streets gave them timely lessons in the art of survival.

The Black Cat could hear them and wondered if it was a mistake not to join them. He waited, seeing them only as blurs in the corner of his eyes. He was taking chances with the dawn too. If his senses betrayed him, he would miss out and go hungry another day. He knew all would be picked clean, with only meager scraps left.

He focused his eyes intently on the spot he suspected held a prize bounty and continued his vigil, his ears ignoring the din of activity nearby and trying instead to pick up a sound that would strengthen his hunch. He knew it wouldn’t be long before Humans would start closing in.

The alley was dark, but it was defusing quickly, exposing him slowly like a developing film, creating danger by degree. Yet he waited stubbornly. Waited, watched, listened.

Then a sound, but not the one he wanted to hear. It was far off yet, but it signaled danger and put a limit now on how much longer he could wait. The enemy was on his way. He cursed and spit. He felt the ghost of future hunger stir in his belly. He knew it would all be over soon, one way or another. If he was wrong, he would soon have to abandon his vigil. Still he waited, his eyes riveted to an area about five yards’ distance, never blinking, steadfastly scrutinizing this small area of his suspicions.

In the distance, the familiar metallic clang and rattle of the enemy grew louder. They were coming in their slow, deliberate way, brashly heralding their advance. It made his skin tighten and twitch, but it was the only part of him save his panting sides that moved.

The others heard the enemy too and began to retreat over the littered terrain. He had little time now with each passing minute adding to the danger. Then another sound, the one he had cocked his ear for. He rose slightly, his muscles working. Then his eyes mushroomed as he saw it. He sprang forward so quickly he became a blur in the remaining darkness.

The struggle was brief and decisive. His vigil had paid off. He felt exonerated now as he trotted quickly to a less exposed position under a rotting wooden stoop. Let the others battle over tidbits, he declared. He would have the best prize of all. He pounced with lightning speed, sinking his two long canine teeth into his prey’s vertebrae and severing its spinal cord causing paralysis and death. Then, settling down, he ripped into the rat’s flesh. It was the first warm meal the Black Cat had had in a long time. He ate quickly, ripping large mouthfuls with his sharp teeth, the fresh blood bubbling into his mouth like warm champagne. He quickly devoured his premier prey from nose to tail.

It was not only the nutritional excellence of the meal that was so satisfying but also the hunting and stalking. The sharpening of his natural skills and abilities as a hunter. The chase and kill whetting his appetite. Aesthetically, for the Black Cat, it was an epicurean delicacy.

The thrill and rewards of such hunts were infrequent in his territory, and like other alley cats, he had to scrounge around the garbage cans, markets, and eateries to obtain food. It was a small rat, but because of the abundance of feral stray cats in his neighborhood, it was rare to catch any at all. He tried to recall when he had last hunted down his food. Some weeks back, there was a lizard. Hardly a worthy prey, but it tasted good. Then he remembered a time when a Mockingbird had been foolish enough to land in his territory and the Black Cat had caught it on the rise. It was rare for birds of any kind to land in the Black Cat’s territory. Almost as rare as killing a rat.

He knew that luck had played the main role in presenting him with this gourmet bonus. It was simply a matter of being in the right place at the right time. There were so many alley cats to contend with, rats wisely stayed mostly inside the run-down, ramshackle dwellings of the enemy, hiding in the many tight, narrow places where a cat could not go, seldom venturing out into the open.

To be sure, it was not a very large rat nor did it put up much of a fight, but it sure beat the contents of the garbage cans. Not that he would have had any difficulty getting the choice scraps if he had to join the fray over the garbage they contained. Few cats would have argued with him.

The Black Cat was beyond doubt the toughest, meanest, and strongest of all the alley cats in that part of town. No feline questioned his supremacy, and whenever he approached the garbage cans, the others might loudly protest but would grudgingly move aside while he helped himself to first choice.

He usually raided the garbage cans as a last resort. He would try all other possibilities first. There was the open marketplace near the river. Alive with the enemy during the day, it was empty at night, a good source for better pickings, thanks to the sloppy, messy Humans. A canning factory also offered opportunities with fish entrails discarded haphazardly nearby.

But the most constant and reliable source of nourishment for the feral cats, however, were the garbage cans. While lids were put on them, they were so old and banged up it was an easy matter to knock them off or overturn the cans. Stray dogs were a problem, but they were more interested in chasing cats away from the garbage cans so they, too, could join this circus of survival.

With a quick, steady stride, the Black Cat went to the end of the alley and effortlessly scaled an eight-foot-high wooden fence that made it a dead end for Man. There was an opening at the bottom, but he always preferred to go over such barricades, height permitting, so he could survey the other side in case any predator wait in ambush. He felt craning his neck to crawl underneath such barriers might bring a guillotine awaiting him on the other side.

As he neared his own private preserve, his bowels began to rumble with the added pressure of the recently consumed rat inside him. He stopped on a cluttered patch of dirt. Didn’t dig a hole. Shit. Didn’t bury it and moved on. The idea of such niceties did not seem to him to matter much in his surroundings. He knew that the other alley cats buried their shit so as not to leave any trace for a predator to pick up, but the Black Cat only saw it as another opportunity to show his disdain for his predators, and outside his own immediate territory, he contemptuously crapped at will, confident in his ability either to outrun, outfox, or even outfight any dog.

His prime predator, Man, had such a lousy sense of smell that he could not track down another species by its shit if he stepped in it. He knew this to be true since he had seen it often enough.

His own territory was another matter. He never shit within one block of it. Actually, anywhere the Black Cat went was his territory if he so chose, for there were no other alley cats big enough or tough enough to do much about it. Most cats simply turned tail and ran if they saw him coming or heard him caterwaul a challenge.

When it came to his own immediate territory, he was as careful as possible to avoid anything that might draw attention to him, be it predator or prey, for the scent of a kill quickly draws others. If a stray dog should near his home base, he would try to lead him away, or if small enough, he would chase it down and give it worse than he would give one of his own kind. If it was Man, he could do little else than to retreat until the danger had passed.

If another of his own kind approached his territory, he would attack with a fury, exacting such devastating punishment that the hapless cat would never return again. He was always careful to spray his sector with a well-posted pungent smell of musk that was the equivalent of a sign saying TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

There was good reason for all his precautions. His home played a crucial role in his success at surviving and he instinctively knew that without it, he might not be alive and in the strong, healthy condition he was. It was more than the liar of a lion. In its African environment, the lion is the King of Beasts with little to fear from natural predators. Its smaller, feral American cousin of the streets and alleys has no such lofty title and much more to fear. Though continents apart, both shared a common killer – Man. It was a hideout, a refuge to escape from the dangers that stalked him in the alleys, a haven from the often wild and thunderous elements, a sanctuary of safety in his unstable world, a citadel where he renewed his strength to sally forth each night, a monastery for his mind, and a hermitage to nourish his spirits. It was the one place in his world where he could sleep without worry in Position #8, furled and curled, the ultimate position of tranquil slumber and repose in all Catdom.

As he got closer to his home, he put his nose to work, smelling for hints of an intruder, sniffing for any kind of scent, fresh or faint. His ears twisted and turned like radar for sounds. He entered a small alley, ducking through busted boards that were gradually failing in their attempt to block it off as intended. He stopped and, lifting his tail, sprayed out one of his powerful scent-tries to warn off other alley cats.

Scampering quickly up the alley, he slowed as it opened into a small rubble-strewn courtyard, where patches of weeds and bushes struggled stubbornly against a sullen earth. It was enclosed by buildings of differing shapes and elevations, constructed at separate times, as the varying hues of the brick revealed, with no coordination of structure or design between any two. Gaps of varying widths, depending on the criteria of property line, separated the buildings.

Across where the Black Cat entered was another alley of like width, but it was not closed off, and he could already see Humans passing by on the bordering street. To the right, three low garages backed up against a chain-link fence. He looked to the left, where the buildings were separated by the widest entrance to his territory, wide enough for Humans four abreast to walk through. He moved in this direction, stopping at a stairway that led to a second-story door that creaked when the wind blew. He sprayed up another precautionary scent-ry and moved along until the building joined another. At least they appeared to join at first glance, but upon closer inspection, one could notice the dull, orange brick of one changed to a deeper rust color on the other. They were actually two separate buildings divided by an opening of less than a foot. At the base of this disjunction grew a thick, undistinguished bush, which added to the illusion that the two buildings were one by trying to cover up the fact that they were not.

Pausing at the base of this bush, the Black Cat sniffed, glanced around quickly, and then shot through an opening at the base of the bush, rounded out by a thousand such trips, and entered the miserly passageway between the two buildings. Ahead was the busy street of Humans, but the Black Cat worried little about it. Due to another quirk in construction, blocking that end of the narrow gap was a telephone pole that helped the illusion that the two seem as one, and being so tight that even the Black Cat could not squeeze through to the sidewalk beyond. Consequently, it not only blocked off any predators’ view, let alone entrance from that end, but should he be trapped from the back courtyard, he could always climb the pole and escape across the rooftops.

He was not home yet, however, as he scooted up this passage, the sensitive bulbs at the tips of his whiskers brushed both sides of the bricked walls. About midway, the Black Cat ducked to his left, disappearing into an old rectangular ventilator shaft. He stepped over the grating that had once covered the opening.

From this crude but undetectable entrance, the Black Cat continued along the shaft for about eight feet, whereupon the ventilator shaft took a left turn and continued on for another four feet before it yawned with an open mouth at the cellar floor below. Stacks of wooden crates and boxes lying on the floor rose up to only a few feet from the vent. The Black Cat nimbly used these as steps to the basement floor.

He descended smoothly and gracefully with ease to the top of nearby boxes. In two more short jumps, he was on the floor. It was almost completely dark inside. Some light strained through street-level windows that had been poorly boarded over. There were only three long dusty slices of sunshine angling through small, narrow street-level crusty windowpanes at the other end of the large cellar.

He moved slowly to the door, his sharp ears pricking back at the sound of the enemy strolling back and forth outside. Man was in control of the streets now, yet despite their closeness the Black Cat was sure of his safety. Only their shadows briefly bounced off the floor of the cellar as the sun now poured through the small openings. From the day he discovered it, no Human had ever entered his home in spite of their numbers just outside. He turned and went back to a corner not far from the vent. A pile of newspapers that had once been bundled lay now in disarray in a low mound. Pushing aside all thoughts of the awkward, heavy-shod enemy, the Black Cat circled once in a slight hollow formed by the papers and settled into Position #8, curled up with his tail curving around and serving as a pillow.

At first, it was a guarded slumber, with his ears occasionally cocked back and forth like radar listening for a blip, but the magnificent meal he had just eaten made him groggy and he soon slipped off into a deep, restful sleep, unaware that his life was about to change forever.

His nose picked up a faint scent of change. Then his ears turned toward the shuffling of Human feet at the door, alerting the rest of him. The muffled pounding finally brought his head up just as the enemy came crashing through the door, splashing sunlight like hot lava on the dank basement floor. Without even looking, the Black Cat flew up the pile of crates and into the ventilator shaft, stumbling as the sleep was still half-filling his head and mixing his dreams with reality. He dashed quickly around the corner of the vent, jumped gingerly through the entrance, and scurried to the base of the concealing bush.

His eyes snapped shut as daylight hit them, adding to his dazed condition. He scooted back a little and stayed hidden by the bush. He tried to control the panic that made him take flight. He couldn’t just charge out into the daylight. That would be just as dangerous as what he was fleeing—or what he imagined he was fleeing. He waited for his heart to stop pounding.

It was the dream, he tried to tell himself. The small rat was still large in his belly. That was it. The rich meal had drugged him so that he only imagined the enemy. He figured a swell meal like that would give any cat nightmares.

He could make no U-turn in the narrow entrance, so he emerged cautiously from the bush, circled quickly, and ducked back through again. He turned into the vent, but he had hardly got to where the vent made a left turn when he heard the deep droning sounds of Man.

Do you mind if I ask exactly what you gentlemen plan for this residence?

His ears had not betrayed him. This was no dream. His nose picked up their scent strongly now, verifying what his ears told him. For the first time in his life, the strange, awkward, but deadly Man had invaded his home and violated his sanctuary in the Cathedral of the God of all Cats.

Cyrus P. Holloway was not fat. No, No, No. He simply wasn’t that kind of person. Heavyset perhaps or large or even broad. But not fat. Never fat.

If he were in a humorous mood, he might accept plump or chubby, depending on the speaker and his manner of elocution. In these difficult times, however, he was seldom in a mood for levity. At the furthest extreme acceptable to him, he might tolerate corpulent since it was at least a sign that it was issued from a person of some education. Personally, he preferred stout or portly. But never fat. It was of the family of words that did not do their utter best in describing the civilized, genteel personage and life of Cyrus P. Holloway, a Southerner and gentleman of good breeding, a pillar of his parish, who strove to use more refined tools to chisel, shape, and mold his smooth, unruffled life. But Cyrus P. Holloway was not fat. Consequently, in his manner of speaking, fat was only what one trimmed from quality prime beef at a barbecue or what was left in the frying pan after his servant had lifted the bacon from it.

Leroy Sykes, on the other hand, having a rather meager range of such synonyms, could only think of one word when he turned and looked up at Holloway after he and the real estate agent both failed to budge the heavy metal door despite their combined efforts.

He was not diplomatic or tactful enough to seek out such safe detours as heavy or broad or large, and he never bothered to ascertain anyone’s mood other than his own, so that let out plump or chubby. As for corpulent, anyone so described to Leroy would only solicit the reasoning from Leroy as to why he wasn’t in uniform. But it was fat that jumped simply and effortlessly to his mind when he looked up at Holloway, and Leroy knew if his fat were applied to the door also, it would provide the margin needed to force it open. Of course, he was crafty enough not to say or mention fat in the presence of Holloway. At times when jobs were hard to come by, he did not wish to ruin a good thing. But he had already committed himself to asking for Holloway’s assistance. Fumbling in vain for a word he was sure would not offend and failing to find it, he simply avoided the reference altogether.

She’s stuck good an’ proper, Mister Holloway, he said, working hard on the gum in his mouth. Would y’all mind?

Holloway spared Leroy his predicament when he replied, Not at all, Leroy. He tugged at his fedora to seat it more firmly on his head. Guess I might put some of this excess poundage [see?] to some good use.

Absent the aforementioned appellations, he gingerly descended the three steps to the door stoop, leaving behind him a young girl in a crinoline dress that snapped crisply in a warm breeze. She shuffled restlessly from one leg to the other and swished a handmade lace handkerchief aimlessly about as if to signal her feigned boredom. It was a marshmallow morning, and she displayed her supposed indifference to their plight by looking off at the big puffy clouds that billowed whitely on the perimeter of an open blue sky.

She ain’t been open for near five years, the thin, leathery real estate man said apologetically as he worked a key in the lock. This key is sure enough the right one. The lock turned. I heard it. Door’s just jammed.

The three men put their combined weight against the door and began thumping it with their shoulders completely out of unison. After several seconds, they all managed to come against the obstacle at once, and the door quit its resistance, sending Leroy tumbling three more steps to the cellar floor while the others struggled to maintain their balance on the upper landing.

Leroy rose, shaking the rising dust from his suit, while Holloway descended cautiously into the darkness as if they had just opened the vault of an ancient tomb. They all stood wordless for a moment until the sharp heels of Llewellyn Sue Holloway clattered out a code of distress at being left alone on the sidewalk, her attention quickly shifting from the clouds to the gaping dark hole that yawned at her. Leroy responded quickly, rushing to the door.

Welcome, Miss Sue, he said with a bow and a sweep of his hand in a mocking gesture.

My, Leroy, how gallant, she offered snidely, descending slowly as she had in younger days when entering a haunted house at the local fair, expecting things to jump out at her. She held her fine handkerchief in front of her like a flag of truce.

Leroy, having drifted into the shadows at the end of the cellar, was quick to detect her fear and let out a ghoulish howl that set Llewellyn Sue in a spin toward the entrance, her skirt brushing a wooden barrel nearby.

Oh, it’s dirty, Daddy, she whined, grimacing at her dress, partially soiled now, and beating it with the handkerchief.

Of course it is, Honey, Holloway said consolingly. There hasn’t been anyone down here for some time.

Woooo, Leroy howled. I’ll say. Place is right dirty.

He rummaged through newspapers strewn among crates and boxes at the far end.

What are these pipes sticking out of the wall? Holloway asked, moving to the side opposite the entrance now that his eyes were accustomed to the dark.

That’s where the wash vats were, the real estate man said.

I reckon they can still be fitted out for water and drains? Holloway said.

Yes sir, Mister Holloway, the real estate man replied. You just connect them up to… to whatever and then it’s just a matter of turning the water on.

I hear tell they used to run moonshine outta this here basement, Leroy piped up from a dark corner as he continued shuffling through the newspapers, holding some up to catch what light he could to see by. He was reasoning that if the cellar was somehow so tainted, the lease might be lowered. The real estate man was about to respond when Holloway spoke.

We could have the bar against this wall, Leroy.

He pronounced the name [Luh-roy] with a slight accent on the last syllable, giving it a French flavor. He spoke the language to a moderate degree and knew the word to mean king, and it always gave him an ironic twinge whenever he addressed Leroy.

Yes sir, Mister Holloway, he said without looking. This here ’ud be a fine location for the bar. He stood up with a newspaper. Looky here, he said with an air of triumph, snapping his gum loudly. POLICE VOW CRACK DOWN ON MOONSHINERS.

He read it slowly and, when finished, turned it for proof to the others, although it was too dark for them to see. He continued, "The Bayou Register. March 23, 1929. Damn near four years to the day they lit outta here."

That’s surely wrong, young man, the real estate man countered with polite firmness. The first and last occupants of these premises were in the laundry business.

Yeah, Leroy said with indifference, tossing the paper back on the pile.

Holloway sensed the hint of contrariety. Well, gentlemen, with the bar over there… yes, it’d be just right. I reckon it’s enough room for the band, wouldn’t you say, Leroy?

Yes sir, Mister Holloway, Leroy chimed in. I reckon we can fit those niggers in there. Perfect place.

Holloway winced, as he often did at Leroy’s choice of words.

Leroy, Holloway intoned in a chastising manner as if chiding a small child. It was not the way gentlemen spoke in the New South. He preferred colored or black.

Holloway, like his father, had himself accepted the inevitability of Reconstruction as he came into adulthood, but as a child, even he had to cope with verbal reconstruction when his father sternly chided him for saying nigger. His first efforts were marred by a kind of second-syllable hesitation. The first syllable, ne- or ni- slithered off the tongue quickly but then came an ever so slight, almost indiscernible, hesitation before the second syllable of -gro, or at times, -gra followed. It took a while to adjust among so many of his peers at that time, but once conquered, he began speaking with a richer, more refined vocabulary that put a more civilized ending on the appellation.

Leroy, on the other hand, had no such second-syllable hesitation. The appellation blended smoothly together. It rose up from his bowels and spun off his tongue like a tiny twister. His parents and most of his peers were not concerned with verbal reconstruction. Growing up, he was always reminded that a great grandfather and great uncle had died fighting for the Cause on the field of battle. As a small child, he so often heard the name Jim Crow that he assumed he was a Southern Civil War hero like Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and Nathan Bedford Forrest. As he grew older, it was explained to him that Jim Crow was not a he, but an it. It mattered little to Leroy who elevated it to human form, an Avenging Angel, an antidote for the terrible, ruinous loss of the Confederacy to which he had joined the ranks as a not so silent soldier. Leroy avoided the problem, but only when Holloway was around.

Leroy saw Negroes as cannon craters, pockmarking the landscape of the South, impossible to fill in and smooth over; therefore, forever preventing a return to what once was. He found it necessary to dampen his more overt displays of racism when Holloway was near. He got the job because his father, now dead, was chief foreman at the Holloway plantation and as a child he had been mildly chided in hushed tones by his father to alter his speech because of Holloway’s strange, contrary and unconventional views of the New South towards the darker remnants left over after the War of Northern Aggression. But there were occasional slip ups. The more common speech of his peers as he was growing up, seeped out now and then. Alas, Leroy’s affliction was beyond repair, his attitude firm. He never lost hope that those dark, gaping scars could be filled in, smoothed over, and replaced with a thousand bouquets of Magnolias.

Unlike Holloway, he did not engage in the second-syllable search for the more suitable ending of -gro or -gra. For fear of diluting the impact of the word, if he started with the first syllable of ni-, he would simple stop and switch to something more acceptable to Holloway just like he avoided the word fat. And that is just what he did now.

Musicians, he quickly substituted, casting a nervous eye to Holloway.

Musicians? the real estate man intoned, rather puzzled. Do you mind if I ask exactly what you gentlemen plan?

Not at all, sir. We intend to have one of the finest musical entertainment establishments to be found in our fair city, he said proudly as though it were fait accompli. One of the caliber found in the Latin Quarter of New Orleans, where they play some of our jazz music that’s so famous around the country.

The real estate man looked blankly for several seconds and then expelled a barely audible Oh, I see.

Well, gentlemen, the real estate man said, turning and adding quickly, and Miss, if y’all come this way, there’s another room to be seen. Of course, it’s not as big, but it’s all the same premises.

He moved around the boxes and crates to a door that was nearly hidden by them. Llewellyn Sue Holloway, who had stayed back in the lighter part of the room for fear of the darkness, slowly came forward now to prevent the greater fear of being left alone in the cavernous cellar. Holloway had started to follow the real estate man but, remembering his daughter, turned.

Leroy ushered her ahead with a less jovial attitude and a slight leer on his lips. He suppressed lecherous thoughts that he was suddenly aware of arising in his features, and he reminded himself that he would have to behave differently toward Llewellyn Sue Holloway. To treat Llewellyn Sue as he had other women would not only be unacceptable to Mister Holloway if not Sue herself, but even criminal. Leroy’s thoughts could easily transform his face without him even realizing sometimes. He had a soft, soggy look about his face that made it seem pliable as if it could be kneaded and molded into another shape. Often, people who saw him felt the desire to do just that to make them feel less uneasy.

The real estate man opened a wooden door that gave no objection as the front door had. It groaned out its age, however, rasping on rusty hinges and scrapping the floor. He led them into a room that was about a third the size of the main room and almost uniformly square. Windows on the back wall about six feet from the basement floor had not been boarded up and looked out on an alleyway wide enough for a small truck to pass through. To the right, near the corner, was a door that led out and up to the small courtyard that was the core of the block of buildings surrounding it.

The kitchen! Holloway exclaimed almost immediately upon entering, shaking his head positively. The real estate man pointed to some sinks and drains and spigots and was about to speak when Holloway cut him short.

Mister… he searched his mind for the real estate man’s name.

Blanchard.

Mister Blanchard, he spoke in a manner befitting a ceremony, I’ve found what I’m looking for. I’ll take the lease on this establishment.

Well, that’s just fine, Mister Holloway, the real estate man said with a smile and a quick, hard glint of triumph at Leroy. You’re a man who knows what he wants. Are you sure you don’t want to look around some more? There’s one or two other…

Mister Holloway said he wants this place, and I reckon that’s it, Leroy said in retaliation.

Well, it’s just that I thought… he started.

What? snapped Leroy almost simultaneously with his gum. He sat casually on a table, not paying attention to the dirt, his buttocks half on it, with one leg dangling and the other on the floor.

Of course, I don’t wish to intrude into your affairs, he said in a manner indicating he would not.

Feel free to speak, Mister… Holloway asked with genuine curiosity as to what he might be thinking, fishing for his name again.

Blanchard.

Mister Blanchard.

Well, it just strikes me what with the Depression and times being what they are with so many people without jobs, it just seems… well, that a music hall would be… well, kinda risky.

To the contrary, sir, Holloway countered with confident authority, I admit it would seem so on the surface of things, but I can remember as a child, my grandfather telling—he was Col. Jason Egmont Holloway of Catahoula Parish, a veteran of the Civil War. I’m sure you heard of him. The real estate man nodded his head as though in acknowledgment although he had not heard of him. Holloway continued, He told me that even in the worst of times, folks would always be willing to pay to hear music. It cheers them up and that’s what this country needs now more than anything is: cheering up.

I’ll say, Leroy said.

Music is something people can’t do without, Holloway went on as though he were making a political speech. Yes sir, it’s the one thing along with food they can’t do without. You might say it’s food for the soul.

He now paced forward, looking off as though seeing a vision, and even Leroy remained quiet and curious as to what he would say next.

This jazz music of ours has put this area on the map. I know, he said with a confident shake of his head. And I just don’t mean the South or even the United States. It’s becoming world famous. Why, even I can remember as a young man the huge crowds that used to flock to the wharf when the river boats came. And why? Why, to hear the music. They used to have the band playing on deck so loud you could hear them before the steamer came into view. I haven’t entered into this venture lightly. Holloway said in a warning tone. "I’ve been down to New Orleans several times to investigate the prospects for just such a venture, and despite the hard times, every music hall I went to was doing extremely well.

Why, just last week in New Orleans, I met a Yankee couple… and right nice folks they were, too… well, sir, they came all the from New York City. Here, Holloway moved directly over to the real estate man. New York City, and do you know why? He hesitated long enough for the real estate man to smile uneasily and shake his head.

Well, just to hear some real Dixieland Jazz, that’s all. Holloway said almost tenderly. New York, he now thundered with emphasis. And they had money too. Right big spenders they were. Why, you’d think they never heard about a Depression.

Holloway dropped his head and looked sullenly at the floor. Depression, he muttered contemptuously as his thoughts seemed to suddenly plunge into the darkness of the word.

Well now, don’t get me wrong, the real estate man said defensively. that sure makes sense to me. I was just thinking… well… a basement seems a strange place for playing—

Holloway jerked his head up from his gloomy reverie. It’s a question of novelty… of atmosphere, he interjected. "Even at the old Grunewald in New Orleans they have a room called The Cave and they play jazz there. I’ve read that in Chicago they have such locations. In cellars. In basements. Below street level. They call them Jazz Caves. It’s simply a question of atmosphere and surroundings."

You’ll see, Holloway said with growing determination. We’ll make this one of the finest entertainment centers in our great city. The best people will be coming here. You’ll see.

That’s right, Mister Holloway, Leroy added, equally enthused. Best folks go to them nightclubs. ’Sides, we ain’t exactly in the heart of the nigger section no-how. Just across the highway lives some of the richest people in the city.

Holloway gave a noticeable winch again at Leroy’s reference to that part of town, but continued with his grand schemes. Now that Prohibition has been repealed, folks are thirsty. At first, of course, we’ll have food. Simple fare. Nothing fancy. People will mostly come to listen to the music. But I intend to expand. I haven’t failed to notice that the upper floors are also vacant. I have plans for opening a restaurant of the highest cuisine.

Holloway stopped and looked at the faces about him. Well, looks like I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, he chuckled.

I’m glad you’re satisfied, Mister Holloway, the real estate man said, heading for the door to the main room. If y’all come back to my office, we can get started on the paperwork right away.

Might as well get things moving, Holloway said with a slight sigh as they all returned to the main room. I’d like to get the remodeling underway, and then there’s the furnishings and finding a band. Opening should be as soon as possible.

Holloway suddenly stopped and the procession with him. He looked around at the dark and gloomy room with a radiant face. Yes sir, he signed reverently. I can almost hear our Southern brand of music filling this room. Spirited music has always been a tonic for hard times. Soon there’ll be a new name in this city for good entertainment and… He spun around, looking at the others. Say, I don’t even have a name for the place yet, he said. Have any ideas, Leroy?

Leroy had been caught looking at Llewellyn Sue’s legs as he walked behind her. He brought his head up sharply. Why don’t you name it after Miss Sue, Mister Holloway? he said. I can’t think of a sweeter name.

By golly, you’ve said it, Leroy! Holloway exclaimed. Sweet Sue. Why, I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it myself.

Oh, really, Daddy, Llewellyn Sue huffed with a snide look at Leroy, smiling in such a way as though she might be ready to bite something.

Yes, sir, my second most precious thing named after my first most precious thing, Holloway said, reaching his arm out and hugging the girl to his side so that she curved against the bulk of his body. The Sweetest Flower of the South.

As they started for the door again, a large splinter from one of the crates speared Miss Holloway’s dress with a loud tear and making the precariously stacked crates wobbly, giving Llewellyn Sue a fright.

Ohhh, Daddy, she whined. Look. Just look. She held up that part of the dress as Holloway returned to her side.

Now don’t go and fret, Honey, Holloway said soothingly.

But I put on my brand-new one, she said, simpering now. You said it was a special occasion. It’s ruined. Just ruined.

Now, now, Honey, your Daddy’s gonna buy you a whole parcel of dresses with the money we’ll make from this place, Holloway tried to assure her.

That’s right, Miss Sue, Leroy said, joining the effort to console her. We’re gonna make a potful. With me managing this here nightclub, you’ll have a dress for every day of the year.

Oh hush up, she snapped. Sweet Sue, she hissed at him contemptuously then put her hands over her face, feigning a sob.

Leroy, why don’t you and Mister…

Blanchard.

Mister Blanchard wait outside. We won’t be but a minute, Holloway asked, his eyes commanding. Now come on, Honey, Holloway coaxed with a gentle voice. You aren’t gonna let a little ol’ torn dress get you down? This should be a happy day for us. We’re gonna be starting a new life.

I don’t want a new life, she cried with a desperate look that startled Holloway. I want things the way they were. I want to go home.

We’ll go home right now as soon—

I don’t mean that old house in town, she threw out with a nod of her head. Why can’t we go back up country? I don’t understand why we have to stay in the city. Why can’t we go home, Daddy? Please, let’s go home.

Honey, Honey, Holloway pleaded with concern, listen to me. You’ve got to understand. It doesn’t belong to us anymore. We lost it. He felt the twinge of guilt and hypocrisy in using the pronoun we when he knew he alone was responsible. The Depression nearly wiped us out, Honey, he continued. We’re lucky to still have the house in the city. There’s a lot of people who lost their homes and farms and have nowhere to go. We’re lucky we have a roof over our head.

Oh, I don’t understand all this talk about the Depression, she said with frustration. Why do we have to lose our lovely plantation because of an ol’ depression?

It’s hard to explain, Honey, Holloway said, although he knew it wasn’t all that hard.

Oh, I wish Mother was still alive, she whined tearfully.

It pierced Holloway’s heart. He had tried to be both mother and father, and he felt a failure at both. He looked around at the dark and grimy surroundings he found himself in and the fantasies that made him beam only minutes before gave way to the grim reality of their situation.

Maybe it was God’s will, he said gently. Maybe it was best that she was spared… that her last days were spent on the land she loved so much and the way of life she knew and loved. Honey, your Daddy needs your help and support now. I’m doing this for you. So you can go to university in the fall. So we can try to get back our home and the way it was. But I need your help, my Precious Flower.

But why do we have to come down to a place like this? she asked, trying to comprehend. I don’t like this place. It scares me. I have a bad feeling about it.

It looks dark and dirty now, but we’ll have it fixed up into a happy place, he said with conviction. Why, next time you see it, you won’t even know it was the same place.

But what’ll people say, getting into such a dreadful part of town? She dabbed at tears that were not there, but the desperation was still there. How’ll I be able to face my friends when I start school? What are they going to say? And naming it after me?

People are going to say you have one of the most famous names in the state from one of the most popular places, Holloway said. The best folks will come here, and your name will mean good times and music.

Oh, Daddy, she sighed, throwing her arms around his neck. I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s just that everything is changing so fast.

I know, Honey, I know, Holloway said, patting her lightly on the head. You just have to believe that it’s changing for the better. That things are going to get better.

They moved arm in arm toward the door.

Now let’s see a pretty smile, Holloway said, pinching her chin. We got work to do for the Grand Opening of the Sweet Sue.

Outside, clouds began to threaten rain. Holloway ushered his daughter to their car but returned to aid Leroy and the real estate man in shutting the recalcitrant door. Holloway explained to the real estate man that his daughter wasn’t feeling well and he would come by his office tomorrow to conduct business, whereupon the real estate man departed in a 1931 Ford Sedan.

Leroy opened the rear doors of Holloway’s 1929 Ford Sedan, and he reflected on the difference between the two. Every year, like his father before him, he had always traded in his car on a new model. And now he sat in a car that was older. It was in immaculate shape and even looked newer than the real estate man’s car. But it was not, and to Holloway, it seemed a symbol of his failures.

It was somewhat stuffy inside. Leroy had put all the windows up. He said it was a precaution because of the part of the city they were in, though there was nothing to take from it. He rolled down a window in silence. They drove by a group of men milling about aimlessly. Some wore stained and ragged suits that not long ago were the height of fashion. They stared back at Holloway with empty, emotionless expressions.

Holloway rolled the window back up when his daughter said the draft was mussing her hair. He tried to think positively and rekindle the enthusiasm he had shown in the cellar. He began another refreshing discourse on the future of the Sweet Sue, full of laughs and smiles of optimism. They turned up a street leading to the broad four-lane highway that ran alongside the L & N Line that ran north and south, splitting the city.

As they drove, a large black cat darted in front of the car. All three noticed it in their own fashion.

Leroy made only a fraction of an inch of slamming the gas pedal to the floor and jerking the wheel toward it before he controlled himself. The vicious glint in his eye was quickly dispelled by the frustration of restraint. He not only hated cats but was allergic to them.

Llewellyn Sue did not hear any of what her father was saying as she noticed the cat’s large testicles protruding boldly between its hind legs. A giddy lightness loomed in her head, flushing all her imagined troubles from it, as the blood charged to her loins.

To Holloway, it brought to mind the old superstition about black cats crossing one’s path, but he was not superstitious, and so he continued with his buoyant discourse of the future but in a less exuberant, more cautious tone.

You might say it’s food for the soul…

The even, low-pitched noise of the enemy was fainter now as if they were going, but the Black Cat realized they were in another part of the cellar. He turned and moved quietly but swiftly along the vent shaft. He was certain they hadn’t seen him nor heard him, but he knew he couldn’t stay around and risk being discovered. The cellar meant too much to him. He wasn’t sure what the Furless Bipeds were up to, but he was sure they would not tolerate his being there any more than he could tolerate their presence. He had to go somewhere and think things over. He had been totally caught off guard.

Turning from the jagged entrance, he moved swiftly down the tall, narrow chasm separating the two buildings. He ducked under the bush, his ears cocked forward, his nose working. He tried to widen his field of vision, but the sun forced the pupils of his eyes to long thin slits like a sphere suddenly flattened.

He slinked out, staying to the right against the building there, skirting the littered landscape in the glare of the sun, and trying to reach a shadow. He had no idea where he was going to go. He had never counted on such an occurrence and so had no contingency plans.

Like a soldier on a dark, moonless battlefield suddenly exposed by the burst of an enemy flare, he frantically scrambled under the chain-link fence and dashed for the shadows between the garages, then hesitated, trying to calm his pounding heart.

He realized now in the stark daylight that he had made a mistake. He had grown complacent and taken his home for granted, always thinking the enemy would never enter, as if it were somehow immune. He realized now how foolish he had been. The seemingly slothful, awkward Humans were capable of anything, and that made them the most dangerous predators.

Man! The Black Cat spit out the word like he would a fishbone that sought to lodge in his throat, the action jerking his whole body slightly backward. It was not the kind of response to scare or intimidate an opponent but a spray of disdain and disgust mingled with as much anger at himself for being so cocksure of his home’s vulnerability.

He felt naked in the daylight and tried desperately to think of a dark place. He knew a hundred places in his region, but all were dark at night. What they would be like in the day was another matter.

A street lay bleached with sunlight in front of him. He moved cautiously toward it. A group of the enemy mingled some distance down wind but were no immediate threat. He tried to look for shadows on the far side he could aim for. As he started across, he heard a car, those large Metal Beasts with round legs that could crush. He heard the heart of this strange species race ever so slightly when the Black Cat was in midstreet, but he had excellent timing, and he knew he had the creature beaten.

He muttered some cat curses, spit again, and went up familiar alleys and lots that looked suddenly new and strange to him in the glaring daylight. The sun had gone behind some clouds, and it was somewhat a relief. It was as though the enemy’s searchlight had been extinguished.

He huddled at the base of a lamppost against a wall in a wide alleyway. Only a few nights ago he had been there before, caterwauling to his heart’s content to let the Queens know he was around without the slightest fear. But now he felt a thousand predators’ eyes on him.

He squeezed his brain, hoping for a hint of where he could escape the day. Something underground, he thought. Something enclosed. Nearby, just a short distance was a low long warehouse loading dock. It was enclosed by old boards, but some were missing. And there were weeds high enough to hide his presence.

He had pursued a Queen there recently and he remembered it more vividly than most of his many conquests, not because of any great performance on the part of the Queen, but rather a nasty bump on his head that his amorous acrobatics brought about when he struck it sharply on the overhead loading dock while vigorously mounting his willing quarry.

That place has got to be dark, even at noon, he concluded. He moved out again as thunder rumbled in the distance. He knew that sound often meant rain. That was good. It would cut the daylight in half, if not darker, and lessen the numbers of fair-weather Humans.

When he reached the loading dock, he glanced around quickly and ducked under a broken board.

He went to the darkest recesses of the dock and at once felt an instant relief, greeting the darkness like an old friend. It was not so dark as night, but he felt much safer now, although his eyes, ears, and nose were still attentive to any possible dangers.

When he finally convinced himself that prospective troubles were minimal, he settled down to Position #2, on his haunches, his forepaws buckled underneath, but his calloused pads in contact with the ground, ready for a quick start, not unlike a sprinter in the blocks in the ready position. It was not the most comfortable position, and he fought a temptation to shift into Position #3, which differed only slightly from #2 in that instead of the forepaws being buckled beneath, they were curled beneath the chest, with his upper body resting on them. A seemingly minor adjustment but a very significant one since the pads of his forepaws were no longer touching the ground.

Put two alley cats together, one in Position #2 and one in Position #3, and let a rat appear, and the cat in Position #2 will be the one to eat and survive. But Position #3 was the more comfortable of the two by far. It was a cat’s own portable couch that he made for himself. There was Position #4, the one that made the proud, mysterious pose of the Sphinx, but that too took longer in getting underway.

In Human terms, it was measured in fractions of a second, but to cats, it meant life or death. The Black Cat had personally witnessed the murder by Man of an alley cat caught unawares in Position #3. She had snapped to and darted, but the time it took her to uncurl her forelegs to make contact with the ground proved fatal. One of the enemy’s heavily shod feet slammed into the cat’s rib cage, stopping instantly the sudden upsurging heart, making her only faintly aware of the twenty-foot voyage she made through the air. The Black Cat knew that if she had been in Position #2, with her forelegs buckled but her pads still in contact with the ground, she could have escaped or at least taken the blow on her hind quarters, where it would not have killed her and made escape at least possible. It was a grim but valuable lesson that the Black Cat never forgot, and so in uncertain circumstances, he adopted as a vital rule of self-preservation the slogan: ‘When in doubt, #2 it out.’

The Black Cat also recalled that cat was killed in a well-lighted area with too many of the enemy around. A bad location no matter what position it took. It was also one of those trusting types that got a little too close to the enemy because of its clever tactic of seeming to ignore cats and thereby lulling them into a false security.

So fighting the urge to shift down to Position #3, the Black Cat was ready to depart in a hurry. Then he remembered that if it wasn’t for Man, he would be at home, peacefully sleeping in the supreme position of sleep and repose, Position #8. That is if you didn’t count Position #9. With a macabre sense of irony, that was what the Black Cat referred to as the longest, deepest sleep of all, the sleep of death, with Position #9 taking many horrid, grisly forms, with an unmistakable stench to identify it. But the Black Cat had lived with death on a nightly basis ever since it first took his mother from him so that he grew almost indifferent about it, and when he saw one of his own or another species distorted by death, he simply referred to it as a Position #9, all the cat’s proverbial lives gone.

Position was important, but certainly not the only thing. The Black Cat knew from experience that any prospective hiding place should always be chosen with so many things in mind—the direction of the wind, an alternate escape route that a predator could not negotiate, maximum visibility with minimum exposure, the sound the terrain would produce by crossing it, the markings of other species. It was a long checklist but one that had to be studiously adhered to for survival.

The Black Cat’s own species, his feral, feline peers, he could easily deal with. He was even known to take on a few stray dogs. The more vicious dogs he could not outrun but easily outmaneuver in the tight and narrow confines of the streets and alleys. The Metal Beasts, whom he knew was capable of the greatest speed of all his predators, for reasons he did not know, moved slowly in that part of town.

It was only Man, the strangest and deadliest of his predators, that he feared most. As for natural predatory skills, Humans were no match for a cat. They had poor vision, especially at night being largely a diurnal creature. Their sense of smell was extremely poor, even at close range. Their biggest drawback was they had only two legs. The Black Cat could easily outsprint any biped. They could not operate in all-weather especially in colder days when their numbers in the streets were less. Being furless, they were often bundled with burdensome outer artificial layers which made running even more cumbersome, adding precious seconds to the chase. Stealth? Forget about it. No comparison to a cat. Their heavily shod feet could be heard approaching even at a great distances, making evade and escape a piece of cake for any prey. And, of course, they lacked the cat’s razor-sharp claws, five on each paw in the front and four in the rear, which a cat could bring all to bear at once on offense or defense.

Oddly, they differed in one way from a normal predator. Unlike a stray dog who would charge after an alley cat at first sight or scent, Man for the most part seemed indifferent. Yet at other times, suddenly they would explode in violence for no apparent reason that the Black Cat could ascertain. And even more curious was that some Humans would freeze with fear when the Black Cat crossed their path, almost as if he was the predator rather than then prey.

Man, however, did have a unique weapon in his arsenal: Projectiles and the ability to launch a variety of them with some degree of accuracy. Rocks, stones, bricks and when atop a fence caterwauling a call to combat or courting a Queen, a selection of shoes and slippers. Once a beer bottle slammed into his side that