Page 13 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

The ladies made a show of looking for a victim to pull onto the floor. Before Breeze could move, he was illuminated by an amber spotlight on the dance floor. In a flash, multiple birds circled him, writhing and undulating in a dirty shimmy.

Laughing, Sonny bellowed from his table, “Go easy on my cousin! He’s a freshman!”

Lo wiggled up behind Sonny, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Breeze’s gonna be a star,” he bragged to the showgirl. “Just watch.”

“Oh, I’m watchin’, all right. I think I’m in love.”

“Nah, I know what you love,” he said. Discreetly, he pulled a tiny bag out of his suit pocket. She slipped him fifty cents and disappeared into the writhing masses.

On the dance floor, the performance had finally ended. The birds peppered Breeze’s cheeks with kisses, then pushed him off the floor. Embarrassed but ever polite, he tipped his hat to the closest dancer.

“You make a beautiful chicken, ma’am,” he drawled.

“CHICKEN?” she hollered, insulted.“I’m a cockatiel!”

The dancer stormed off, feathers flying. Breeze couldn’t win. Of all the things he’d hoped would happen tonight, getting molested by a flock of tropical birds was not one of them. And in front of his heroes?

God, can they just call the contest?he thought. He couldn’t get distracted now; he had too much riding on this moment.

As if reading his mind, Bessie Smith tossed back her sherry and addressed the crowd. “Fellas! Take your mittens off your kittens and listen. Up next is the piano cutting contest. All you outta-town ivory-ticklers, step up for a chance at glory.”

A handful of hopeful pianists lined up, and one by one, they played with various levels of expertise while everyone else pummeled the dance floor with fevered gaiety.

They weren’t Breeze, though. Fingers tingling, brain swirling, he knew what they didn’t know. This contest was his to win.

“Who next?” called out James Johnson.

It was time. Chewing his toothpick, Breeze approached the piano with trembling hands.

“It’s the bird bait,” said James Johnson. “What’s your name, fella?”

“Breeze Walker, sir.”Breeze Walkuh, suh.

“Show us what you got, kid.”

This was his moment. His whole life, Breeze had been dying to play for real musicians, to impress them, be noticed, be heard. To prove that his hunch about his talent was right.

Breeze’s first thought when he sat down at the piano was that it was unlike any he’d ever played on. The wood felt silky and expensive. His second thought?Time to take my competition to school.

And then he jumped in, hitting the first few notes. They were a little jangly as he got used to the instrument, but after the first bar, he was swinging. His melody was technically perfect; he played the whole song to searingly flawless perfection. Later, Sonny would tell him that if you closed your eyes, you’d think it was James Johnson himself. When Breeze was done, wrapping up “Carolina Shout” with an elegiac, rousing crescendo, he looked up triumphantly. And then he realized the crowd was silent.

“This ain’t no school recital!” exclaimed James Johnson to loud laughs from the audience. “Don’t play it like me. Play it like you! We ain’t impressed by copycats or perfection, boss. Duke turned down a scholarship to Pratt.”

Breeze blinked at Duke. They were both twenty-three, but the superstar was light-years away in terms of sophistication. “You turned down a scholarship?”

Duke, the epitome of cool, puffed his cigarette. “Ain’t need it.”

“If you can’t swing,” said James, “best hop off the ride, Breeze. Or, judgin’ from the way you’re freezing up right now, maybe I should call you…?” He cupped his hand around his ear and leaned into the crowd.

Everyone roared, “FREEZE!” Riled up, the crowd started to boo. Even the sexy birds were waving him away from the piano.

Crushed, Breeze stood up from the bench. Was he delusional? Why had he thought he could pull this off? Every pianist that had sat down before him was polished. He could tell from the posture of their hands. Breeze was self-taught, a hack.

But that’s exactly right, he thought.If I can play exactly like the composer, with no formal training, I can do anything. How would it sound if I played like myself?

“Can I try again, sir?” he asked. With raised eyebrows, James nodded.

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