The Jazz Palace (18 page)

The next morning Napoleon got up earlier than he had since he was pouring coffee at the Shoestring Diner. He bathed with Maddy's almond-scented soap and gave himself a close shave, then splashed on a stinging aftershave and dusted talc under his arms. Then he put on his best gray flannel jacket, pressed navy-blue slacks, and a fedora, stuck a red handkerchief in his pocket, and walked down the street. It was a crisp day and he took his time. He was about to do something he'd never willingly done in his life. He was going to walk into a police station. It was rare for a Negro, let alone a well-dressed one, to be seen voluntarily entering a police station.

As he approached the building, cops on the sidewalk stared, perhaps taking him for a pimp or a visiting dignitary from a small African nation. One laughed and said, “Where's the party,” then asked to see his invitation. A criminal being moved for arraignment shook his head in disbelief. On the first step Napoleon paused. He sucked in the air, filling his lungs. He thought he'd have to say what he needed to say in one long breath, and he wanted to be prepared. It had taken him weeks to gather the courage. But the night before at the Jazz Palace he'd felt his nerve return. After all, it had once taken him weeks to take a trolley to the North Side. Now that he could blow and knew he would go on, Napoleon was determined to right this wrong.

Since “the incident,” as he referred to the assault on his lips, Napoleon had changed. It was a slow, tortoiselike shift. Unless it was about a woman, most things changed for him slowly. It wasn't perceptible, really. Not something anyone who didn't know him well, and not many people did, might have noticed. His gaze was more of a stare. His jaw squarely set as if he were biting down on a bone. Something had been growing inside of him like a hard, stubborn seed.

Before he'd allowed life to carry him along. He went wherever the flow took him. From the delta to New Orleans. From the streets in the South he'd made his way north. He found a place to live as soon as he arrived, and he'd lived with Maddy for the past twelve years. He'd helped raise her kids, but he had none of his own. Nothing to hold him down. Nothing to keep him still. Maddy knew that he might wake up any morning and leave. He wouldn't look back. It was as if everything—even his music—had just happened to him.

He'd been the recipient of good and bad through no effort of his own. People he loved died or went away. Others just lingered. He seemed to have no say in the matter. He hadn't really struggled against any demons. He wouldn't know them if they were staring at him from the mirror. But now it seemed they were. For days he'd stayed in bed. He couldn't bring himself to get up, let alone go to work. It was difficult for him to speak, let alone smile. He thought he'd split down the seam. For weeks the only thing he could eat was banana mash and milk with a straw. His face had been blown up like a blowfish. His mouth looked as if a pinprick would make it explode. Even as the swelling subsided, he found it hard to speak, let alone purse his lips around his mouthpiece. When he blew, all that came out was a faint whistle. The air siphoned through like a house with a draft. For weeks he was sure he'd never play again.

Maddy had tried to coax him with warm broths and cold plasters she placed over his lips. She'd rubbed them gently with a salve she made from aloe and mint. When she did, Napoleon kept his eyes closed because he feared what he'd see in hers. It was what everyone knew, but no one would say. He'd never play the trumpet again. Because he couldn't bear the pity in anyone's eyes, he slept with a
blanket pulled tight over his head. He didn't know day from night. When Maddy came home, she found him like this.

He'd lain around despondent, smoldering as the rage built inside him, and then one morning he erupted, flinging off the covers and deciding that his lying around was done. Something was shifting. The razor had slashed through more than just his lips. There was a deeper cut that made it clear to Napoleon that he had to do something. A deep ancestral cry rose in his throat. He needed to shout it out. If not from his voice, then from his horn. Perhaps for the first time in his life Napoleon had something he wanted to say. A grave injustice had been done to him.

He had suffered many things in his thirty-six years. He was not a stranger to any feeling. But this one. Injustice. It was a different kind of beast. A multiheaded Hydra. He could not let it live. When the blacks got off the trains that carried them north and away from Jim Crow, they settled by the railroad tracks. They didn't know where else to go. They couldn't imagine anything more for themselves. Now Napoleon was furious. The North was no different than the South. He may as well have been beaten with a whip. The more his lips healed the more defiant he grew.

One morning weeks after his attack he'd thrown off the covers and gotten out of bed. He went to the bathroom where he scrubbed every pore and orifice until he was the cleanest he'd been since the day a skunk ambushed him and his grandmother stuck him in a washtub and went over every inch of him with carbolic soap. In his closet he found a clean shirt and a pressed pair of pants. He pulled up a chair and began making smacking noises in front of the mirror. He went to work on his chops. He didn't know if he'd play again, but he had to give it a try.

He stretched his tight lips with his fingers the way a ballerina stretches her thighs. He massaged them when they were sore. He kissed anyone he could. But when he put his trumpet to his lips, the noise that came out sputtered like an old man's farts. The pain he likened to childbirth, though Maddy shook her head and told him that like most men on this subject he didn't know a thing. Every night he tried to play until tears streamed from his eyes. Nothing came close
to music. He tried again the following evening and the one after that. He stretched his lips and rubbed lard and aloe salve on them. He massaged them the way a trainer rubs his boxer's legs. One night when he put the horn to his lips, they puckered, and he found that he could blow. He squeaked out a minor scale. Then he collapsed in sobs because he understood that his life wasn't through.

And now months later he was back and he was prepared. It had taken all of his courage, for what black man would dare to do what he was about to do? A black man who didn't plan to live long was probably the answer. As he stepped up to the desk, the man in uniform was filling out a report. He didn't bother looking up. Napoleon put his hands on the desk and the officer glanced at them with disdain, then shook his head. “Excuse me,” Napoleon said, but the policeman ignored him. He waited again, then spoke again a bit more firmly, “I would like to speak to someone.”

The officer looked up at him, a questioning look in his eyes. “To whom would you like to speak?” The officer's tone was mocking, as Napoleon assumed it would be. Black men in flannel suits didn't normally come into this precinct, or any precinct, for that matter, unless they were handcuffed. Especially a black man with a slashed mouth. Normally these kinds of Negroes settled their own scores. The officer assumed he'd come to bail out a friend. “The bondsman is down the hall.” He pointed, still without looking up.

“I have come to file a grievance,” Napoleon said. “I have been assaulted and I would like to fill out whatever form is necessary to aid in the apprehending of the men who did this to me.” He pointed a gloved index finger to his face.

The man stared impassively at Napoleon's filleted lips. He gazed at the scar.

“Hey, you're lucky it was only your lips.” A rookie standing near the desk giggled. “You musta done something somebody didn't like.”

Napoleon didn't flinch. “Yes, I played music in another club.

“The officer shrugged as if to say what did you expect. Then he handed Napoleon the form for a police report, which he filled out as best he could. He described the men who had assaulted him. He could barely see their faces, but he knew their shiny suits. He signed
it, then handed it back to the officer who looked it over and grinned. Then Napoleon turned and walked out of the police station, hesitating on the steps long enough to hear the officers laughing and to see the cop crumple his report and lob it into the trash.

Napoleon wouldn't give up. He'd find a way to handle this himself. He began doing calisthenics. He did push-ups and pull-ups on whatever rafter he could hang from. He made muscles in front of mirrors, examining his rippled arm. He'd be ready for them when they came next time, but, as he tugged himself up and down from the rafters, Maddy worried that he was going to pull down the whole house. He stopped drinking whiskey. He drank unsweetened lemonade and black coffee instead.

A few nights later Napoleon was back on the Stroll. He took whatever gigs were offered. As far as he was concerned, the only thing he had to lose was his life, and his music meant more. He played at the Rendez-Vous Café. He played at Dreamland and the Quarters Club. When he arrived at a gig, he never looked around to see who might be sitting in the audience. It was his funeral, as Maddy liked to remind him. He'd come to play and he'd play wherever and whenever he wanted. His fame grew. Everyone wanted to see the man with the scar on his lips. They'd heard about the Defiant Black Man. That's what the black press had begun calling him. The Defiant Black Man.

Every Monday Napoleon arrived at the precinct where the officers were getting to know him. They greeted him with waves and slaps on the back. Once they invited him to sit in on a hand of poker. One or two came to hear him play after hours in one of the South Side clubs. His fame grew. They liked him at the police station, but clearly no one would touch his complaint with a ten-foot pole. Each week he asked politely if any action had been taken on his behalf. He was told it was an ongoing investigation. He was told it was being looked into. He was asked to fill out a new complaint, as the old paperwork had been lost. That paperwork was quickly lost as well. When the police did nothing about finding the thugs who'd cut him, he asked for Benny's help. He told Benny that he wanted to write a letter.

Napoleon dictated to Benny. “In the spring of this year two men came to the Red Rooster Lounge as Napoleon Hill was closing up for the night. They had heard the rumors that Mr. Hill was looking to play in other clubs. With evil intent and knowing that he is a musician, and specifically a trumpeter, they sliced his lips. He was fortunate, however, to have had a friend with him who knew what to do. Mr. Hill has resumed his musical career. It should be noted that black men are no longer slaves and they should not be treated like slaves and this includes the circumstances of their employ. We have earned the right to be free and so we shall be.”

In the morning Napoleon put on his best gray suit with a snazzy purple tie, shiny black shoes with spats, and a fedora with a purple band. He rubbed the salve on his lips and cologne behind his ears, then set off, walking south. It was a long walk, but the weather was fine. There was a cool breeze off the lake and Napoleon took in great gulps of air. He reasoned that this might be one of the last morning walks he'd ever take so he wanted to savor the moment.

He walked until he came to the old synagogue that had recently become the offices of the
Chicago Defender
. Napoleon took a deep breath. He straightened his tie and his fedora and walked in the door. He stood for a moment in the large open newsroom, filled with black journalists who were writing copy, editing copy, writing headlines. Slowly the newsroom came to a halt. One worker after another looked up and stared. Then they rose in recognition of the man their paper had dubbed the Defiant Black Man. The glass door at the back of the editorial offices opened and a portly black man in a three-piece suit walked into the hushed newsroom. He moved toward Napoleon, his hand extended. “Mr. Hill,” Robert S. Abbott said, “to what do I owe this honor?”

Napoleon collected himself. He had no idea that he was this famous. He had no idea that Robert S. Abbott, editor and founder of the most prestigious black newspaper in America, would know his name. Napoleon cleared his throat. With his lips cut he had to be careful not to spit. “This is my manifesto,” Napoleon said. “Please print it.” There was a risk and Abbott knew it. The Chicago Outfit, as they were becoming known, thought nothing of firebombing a
speakeasy. Surely they wouldn't think twice about destroying a newspaper. Yet he had spent his years as a journalist campaigning for blacks to leave the South. He'd convinced thousands that the opportunities were in the North. He could not ignore what was happening now in the city to which he'd urged black men and women to come.