“That’s good,” Memphis said. He didn’t want to get into it.
“Still, she’s out of work for another two weeks.”
“That’s a shame.”
“That all you got to say?”
“What else should I say?”
“You ever just try—”
Memphis stopped cold. “I told you. I can’t do it anymore. Not since my mother.”
Gabe put up his hands. “Okay, okay. Don’t get hot. If you can’t, you can’t.”
They walked a block in silence. Memphis saw a crow flitting from post to post, keeping pace. “I swear that bird is following me,” he said.
Gabe laughed and twirled his lucky rabbit’s foot, which hung by its chain from his finger. He swore it was his good-luck charm, and he never played a gig without it. “I told you, Casanova, you’ve got to stop giving those birds candy and flowers. Then they never leave you alone.”
“I’m not kidding. I’ve seen it every day for the past two weeks.”
Gabe raised his eyebrows and his lips pulled into a smile. “And you know it’s the same crow? She got a name? Alice, maybe. Or Berenice! Yes, sir, looks like a Berenice to me.”
Memphis could see that this would be a joke for Gabe for weeks to come.
“Memphis—it’s just a bird. Birds fly around, brother. It’s what they do. It’s not following you, and it’s not a sign. Unless you really did give it candy and flowers, in which case you are one strange brother.”
Memphis laughed, shrugging off the bad feeling like an unneeded coat. Gabe was right—he was letting himself get spooked for nothing. It was that crazy dream that wouldn’t let him alone. No wonder he saw omens around every corner.
They settled into a booth at Mr. Reggie’s and ordered sandwiches and coffee.
“I wrote a new poem last night,” Memphis said.
“When’re you gonna show those poems to somebody other than the dead folks up in the graveyard?”
“They’re not good enough yet.”
Gabe reached across the table and took the pickle from Memphis’s plate. “How do you know, if nobody’s read ’em? One of these days, you just need to walk yourself right up to Miss A’Lelia Walker’s town house and say, ‘How do you do, ma’am? I’m Memphis Campbell, and I’d be much obliged if you’d read my work.’ ” Gabe finished the pickle and wiped his hands on Memphis’s napkin. “Life don’t come to you, Memphis. You gotta take it. We have to take it. Because ain’t nobody handing it to us. You understand? Now”—Gabe leaned back against the back of the small booth and spread his arms—“ask me why I’m grinning,”
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?”