“Sal’s not here. He’s home. I came to find you and hear Esther.”
“Esther?”
“That’s her name.”
“You got a new lady, Pop?” The women liked my father, but he’d never been serious about anyone but my mother. When he went sniffing, he was discreet about it, the way he was about everything else. He’d never even had a girlfriend.
“Shut your mouth,” my father snapped, offended. “It’s not like that.”
“No? Then whose kid is she?” I was sure it had something to do with family. It always did. “You owe somebody a favor?”
Pop bristled again but didn’t answer directly. “When did you get so suspicious? I don’t owe nobody nothing. She reminds me of your mother. I heard her sing, and I wanted you to hear. That’s all.” He walked briskly, motioning for me to follow. “It’s a place called Shimmy’s. A few blocks over. We can walk.”
“Mom was a mobster’s daughter. I don’t date mobster’s daughters.”
“Who’s asking you to date her?” he snapped. “And watch yourself, kid. You’re gettin’ kinda loose with your tongue.”
We walked in silence for ten minutes. My father’s tension put me on alert. I smelled trouble, and not the usual kind. If it’d been anyone but my dad, I would have bailed. But it was my dad, and he never asked me for anything.
“How did you ever find this place?” I grumbled. There was no sign on the street, and we had to walk down a flight of stairs and through two doors guarded by men as burly as my father before I heard music. The men didn’t stop my father, and they greeted him by name.
“Sal plays cards in the back sometimes,” he muttered by way of explanation. But I was used to it. Everybody knew my father.
The place was packed, but a waiter rushed toward us. My father waved him off, and we found a place to lean against the wall. He pointed at the stage.
“That’s Esther Mine,” he said. “You’re gonna want to listen.”
Her hair was a gleaming cap of pin curls, and the short softness contrasted with her sharp, square jaw and bold lips. She’d painted them red, and every time they parted I saw a flash of straight white teeth. Her brown skin was unpowdered, and her eyes were unlined, but her lashes were thick, black brooms against her cheeks when she began to moan into the mic.
The sound in the room was terrible. The ceiling was drafty, messing with the mix, and the drums were too loud. The guitar was amped, and the microphones squealed. But as I listened, my chest grew tight and my eyes pricked with tears. I was eight years old again, listening to a voice that covered my arms in gooseflesh.
She reminds me of your mother.
I knew what my father meant. There was something there in the tone quality and the delivery, but my mother wasn’t the voice Esther Mine brought to mind. Mom had passion, but she didn’t have power. Esther Mine sounded like a female Bo Johnson. The comparison to the huge boxer made me smile.
They call him the Bomb ’cause he’s big and loud, they call him the Bomb ’cause he can level a crowd.
“She’s loud . . . but she’s not very big,” I said, arguing with my comparison.
“She’s big enough,” my father said. “And don’t tell her that. Women are sensitive about their size. Kinda like someone else I know.”
“I’m not sensitive about my size. I just don’t like people looking at me.”
“They aren’t looking at you because you’re big. You’re just ugly.”
“I look just like you, old man.”
I heard my father snort, but I couldn’t look away from Esther Mine. She was a tiny, beautiful package wrapped in polka dots. Her wrists, her hands, her legs, all slight. She wore the tallest pair of red heels I’d ever seen, giving her some length, but even still, her head didn’t reach the guitar player’s chin. He cooed into the mic alongside her now and again, their heads stacked one above the other, taking the high harmony when she was belting out the melody. He was slender too, but tall, his shoulders hunched over his guitar, his long hands working the strings. The boy on the drums hardly raised his eyes, but he never lost the rhythm or called attention to his skills, which was easy to do on drums. The man on bass was a little less impressive; he wasn’t as good as the other three, but he smiled more than the rest of them put together and seemed to be enjoying himself, which made him a pleasure to watch.
They didn’t have a man on a horn or a man on keys. It was just the four of them, but when the lady sang “Ain’t Nothin’” the audience didn’t believe her. I didn’t believe her. It definitely felt like something. She may have been pint sized, but her voice was all woman. It had the rasp and razor’s edge of Billie Holiday and the wail and power of a trained soprano. They didn’t need a horn with her on the mic.
I closed my eyes to distance myself, but somehow it made her even harder to ignore. Her voice seeped in under my lids and made my fingers twitch. I wanted to write a song for her.
“What’s wrong? Why you closing your eyes like that?” Pop whispered. “She’s good, isn’t she? They’re all good. Just as good as anybody singing at La Vita. Just as good as anybody on the radio.”
When I didn’t say anything, didn’t even open my eyes, Pop continued. “You got a problem with her color? You been working with Negros for a long time. I didn’t think that would matter to you.”
It was a stupid question, and I didn’t respond, but Esther Mine had launched into a new song, and I had to look at her. Her voice was a slap in the face, demanding and sharp. She didn’t smile or flirt with her audience. She sang like she wanted to shove the number down our throats. Angry. Rough. Her small figure vibrated with the sound.
“She doesn’t want to be up there,” I said out loud, not meaning to, but Pop jumped on my words.
“She’s been singing in this dump for two years. She needs a break. A big hit. Something that can justify sending her on Erskine’s tour.”
“Erskine Hawkins? Erskine is old news, Pop. He’s big band. That stuff isn’t what people are listening to anymore. They haven’t been listening to that for a decade. Erskine Hawkins hasn’t had a hit since Tuxedo Junction. Is he taking the whole orchestra on this tour?”
“I don’t know, Benny. I heard that from Ralph.” My father pointed at the bartender.
“Huh. How did you get mixed up in it?”
“I’m not mixed up in it. You’re a songwriter. You’re a big shot now. Thought maybe you could help her.”
I immediately started shaking my head. I didn’t want to get involved. I wouldn’t do it for Berry Gordy, and I didn’t want to do it for Esther Mine.
But my reluctance disintegrated beneath her rendition of “Maybe” by the Ink Spots.
It was a simple little song that shouldn’t have worked with her voice. But she sang it like a threat, and it bored a hole into my chest.
“Well, damn,” I whispered.
“She’s good, right?” my father murmured, his mouth by my ear. He sounded pleased with himself.
“Yeah. She’s good, Pop.”
I stayed for the entire set, standing next to my father, but when we walked outside, I told him to go on back to La Vita without me.