“But not you.”
“Not me.”
“Do you know why they call me the Bomb?” he asked.
“They call him the Bomb ’cause you never know when he’ll go off,” I sang softly.
He smiled, surprising us both. It was a big smile. A beautiful smile. And I wasn’t scared anymore.
“You know the song,” he said.
“I like songs,” I said.
“Me too. Sing the rest.”
I sang the whole thing.
They call him the Bomb ’cause you never know when he’ll go off.
They call him the Bomb ’cause his swing makes the shingles blow off.
They call him the Bomb ’cause he’s big and loud.
They call him the Bomb ’cause he can level a crowd.
He’s Bo “the Bomb” Johnson, and you better watch out.
“That’s right,” he said. “I guess you do know who I am.”
I yawned widely. Without my fear, I was getting sleepy. But he wasn’t done.
“That’s the song. But that’s not really why they call me the Bomb. My mama gave me the nickname before I ever started boxing.”
“Why?” I yawned again.
“I leave destruction wherever I go. Ever since I was your age. She called me the Bomb because everything I touched turned to shit. You keep singing, Benny. You sing all you want. Singing won’t get you in trouble. But don’t talk. For your daddy’s sake, don’t talk.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeated. He turned and left the room and closed the door behind him.
I didn’t talk. Not when Pop got home and woke me up. Not when Bo Johnson’s name was in the papers. I didn’t say anything to anyone about Bo “the Bomb” Johnson. Pop didn’t either. Not even to me. He was good at keeping people’s secrets. Maybe that was the reason he was so big. The weight of people’s confidence is a heavy burden. He could yammer on all day about Tammany Hall or baseball, but he wouldn’t ever rat out a soul. Still, some secrets find their way to the light no matter how well they are guarded.
I’d have to ask my father whatever happened to Bo Johnson. Twenty years had come and gone. Surely now I could talk.
The Barry Gray Show
WMCA Radio
Guest: Benny Lament
December 30, 1969
“You’re listening to WMCA New York, and we’re back on The Barry Gray Show. It’s the last show of the year, and I’m talking to Benny Lament—singer, songwriter, native son. We talked a little about your beginnings, Benny. You were born and raised in the Bronx. Your mother sang, music came easy—”
“—the only thing that ever has,” Benny Lament says.
“—and your father raised you alone from the time you were eight,” Barry finishes. “He has quite the story himself. Jack ‘Lament’ Lomento was a heavyweight boxer back in his early years. I never saw him fight, but I knew his reputation.”
“Everybody around here knew Pop,” Benny says. “And he knew everyone.”
2
I DON’T WANT TO LOVE YOU
I went back to La Vita after all, but my pop was gone and Izzy was done. It was 2:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and the place had started to clear. Some weekends it didn’t empty until four. There was no piano in my hotel room. I wanted to play and knew Terrence would let me tinker while the waitstaff cleaned and the hangers-on continued to dangle. He managed the house band and was the last one to leave the joint every night, and he’d always been good to me. Like every other relationship in my life, I wasn’t sure if it was because he truly liked me, thought I was talented, or was just aware of who I was, but I genuinely liked him.
My moody blues turned into a variation of the Bo Johnson ditty. I wondered if anyone had ever recorded it. It needed some verses, some Jerry Lee Lewis treatment. I would make it something that people could dance to. Something maybe Esther Mine could sing. A fighting song from a female perspective.
“What’s that melody you’re riffing on, Benny?” Terrence asked, unrolling his sleeves like he was done for the night. “I know it.”
I picked up the tempo and sang along. “They call him the Bomb ’cause you never know when he’ll go off.”
When his expression blanked, I assumed he didn’t recognize it and continued, but in another measure he was sliding in beside me on the piano bench and quieting my hands.
“Shh, Benny. Damn. I didn’t know that was what you were playing or I never would have asked. Man, I haven’t heard that name since before the war.” He looked around, nervous, and ran a hand over his smooth head.
“I saw him once when I was a little kid.” I shrugged. “I used to sing that song all the time. Pop taught it to me. Told me all about Johnson. They were friends, despite the rivalry. I thought of him outta the blue. That song just popped into my mind. That’s all.”
Terrence shook his head, relaxing when it appeared no one was paying us—or my song selection—any attention. Stanley Tunis from WRKO was sitting at a corner booth with an ashtray and a row of shot glasses. I’d thought about putting a bug in his ear about some of my songs but decided he was too drunk to remember anything I said to him.
“You can’t say that name in here, Benny.”
“Why?”
He scratched at his cheek and bit his lip.
“It’s just . . . it’s been a long time. But not long enough. People still remember. This is Sal’s place.”
“So?”
“So Sal didn’t like Bo Johnson. That’s all. You’re too young to remember. But play something else. Don’t want to leave that one hangin’ out there like that.”
I obeyed, frowning. The song my fingers reached for was the last one Esther Mine sang in her set.
“That’s better. Oh, I like that one. Haven’t heard that one in a bit either.” He nodded in approval. “Maaaaay beeeee,” he sang, but he was still nervous.
“Me and Pop heard someone sing the hell out of this one tonight,” I muttered.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Over at Shimmy’s. You know the place?”
He froze again. I felt his tension radiate down my right side where he still sat, staring at my hands.
“You heard Esther Mine.” He said it with finality, like he was putting all the pieces together.
“Yeah. You know her?” My question was why didn’t everyone know her, and why was she singing in a dump like Shimmy’s?
“Yeah. Oh yeah. Sure. It’s my job to know what’s what and who’s who.”
“Well, if you know about Esther Mine, why isn’t she singing here? I’ve never heard a better voice, and she’s a looker.”
He studied my face again, like I was testing him. “She’s good all right. But the boys she plays with aren’t anything special. It’s a family thing . . . but I don’t think she’ll accept a booking without ’em.”
I could see where that would be a rub. It’d happened to more than one band. One member had all the star power, and the others became shackles around their ankles. It usually ended in destroyed relationships, broken dreams, and years of resentment, one way or the other. Better to not ever get involved. To look out for yourself so no one else had to.