Were due there this morning. Manhattan, place where everythings bigger, fast, more expensive, better. Where the Cotton Club is. Mintons Playhouse. Carnegie Hall. Savoy Theater. Armstrong. Parker. Giillespie. All the places you want to play in. Musicians you want to play with
Im on line at a check-cashing store, the ghetto bank, as they call it up here in Spanish Harlem, up here on 103rd and Lex, waiting for the money I convinced my mother to wire me so I could get some laundry done, buy a few packs of smokes and get a decent meal before I go in.
Last night, everything that had ever been stolen was returned. It was a black winter night illuminated by swirls of snowflakes spinning around the streetlights, and in the morning, appearing as silently and magically as the snowfall, everything was back in its rightful place.
The sheet of paper was 8 x11, crumpled, spotted with splashes of coffee, wine, maybe nicotine; they found it on the ground by the side of the dead mans bed, lying there to be picked up by anybody, the cop, the maid, the doctor.