Read Online Trophy for Eagles by Walter J. Boyne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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made the body."
The trip through the streets dazzled Millie, and Bandfield lapsed into silence, entranced that her hand had found its way over to his, enjoying the velvety ride of the Rolls as it headed north past Central Park. He could tell the neighborhood changes by the head-turning the car caused. All the way up Fifth Avenue it went unnoticed. They turned down Lenox and Jack leaned back to shout, "Spanish Harlem," and point to the melange of signs in Spanish.
Interest switched abruptly as they drove up St. Nicholas to Seventh; dark eyes sparkled and glossy-haired heads swiveled to watch the Rolls go by, and he could see admiring gestures from the men on the street.
Past West 132nd it changed. Nobody looked at the car anymore; the streets were filled with flashy cars, horns blowing, filled with white people, scarfs streaming out of windows; some of the vehicles had their tops down, the couples sitting up on the back of the seats, talking and laughing. They ignored the background of littered sidewalks and decaying brownstones that spawled people of all ages into the steps and streets. There was something wrong about them that Bandfield couldn't identify, a strange and hostile quality. He'd not been around Negroes very much, but these all looked different from the few families he'd seen in Berkeley. Then he realized it was the clothing, so ill-assorted, young girls wearing long drab clothes, heavy older women swathed in layers, the men all in strange combinations of coats and pants. He turned to see Millie's expressive face appalled, registering sympathy.
They pulled up to the curb, where a tall coffee-colored man in a tan uniform ablaze with brass buttons opened the door for Jack as he said, "Here we are, Connie's Inn. Everybody always talks about the Cotton Club, but this is where you see the real talent."
The vibrations hit them as they walked down a flight of stairs past a sign advertising "Hot Feet," a revue with 30 Beautiful Brownskins 30. It was a strange riffing jazz that Bandfield had never heard before. Millie had her arm through his, and he could feel her bobbing to the music.
A table was found for them near the line of miniature churches, houses, streets, and tiny stores that served as barrier to the stage. Someone, probably for a theater production, had created a good flat facsimile of a town, with lights winking from different windows, and it served here to conceal the footlights.
The waiter brought setups automatically, and whispered to Band- field to "put his bottle in his pocket, not on the floor." Above them were the "beautiful brownskins," and beautiful they were. Bandfield became so raptly involved that Millie kicked him sharply in the same shin he'd barked getting in the car.
She watched intently, moving to the sound of the music for almost half an hour before leaning over to yell in his ear: "The performers sure look different from the people in the street."
He studied them and saw instantly what Millie meant. They were young, confident, uncompromising. There was no servility in their glances, no sense of inferiority, and they seemed to share a common contempt for the people watching.
Millie was upset. She liked the music, but the contrast with the streets outside was just too great.
"It's just not fair. Let's get out of here—I feel like a creepy peeping Tom."
Bandfield shrugged—he was along for the ride. Frances sensed something, and glanced at Jack, tapping her watch. He signaled the waiter, and whispered briefly to his wife on the way out to the car. Yelling as if he were still inside, he told Bandy: "One more stop— French onion soup at the Brevoort."
The prospect of soup made out of onions didn't excite Bandfield, but the way Millie sidled across the soft leather to sit close to him did. As they rode through the streets, she'd point to people on the sidewalk, unaware of their own poverty, indifferent to the passage of yet another Rolls.
She leaned forward and shouted to Jack,
The trip through the streets dazzled Millie, and Bandfield lapsed into silence, entranced that her hand had found its way over to his, enjoying the velvety ride of the Rolls as it headed north past Central Park. He could tell the neighborhood changes by the head-turning the car caused. All the way up Fifth Avenue it went unnoticed. They turned down Lenox and Jack leaned back to shout, "Spanish Harlem," and point to the melange of signs in Spanish.
Interest switched abruptly as they drove up St. Nicholas to Seventh; dark eyes sparkled and glossy-haired heads swiveled to watch the Rolls go by, and he could see admiring gestures from the men on the street.
Past West 132nd it changed. Nobody looked at the car anymore; the streets were filled with flashy cars, horns blowing, filled with white people, scarfs streaming out of windows; some of the vehicles had their tops down, the couples sitting up on the back of the seats, talking and laughing. They ignored the background of littered sidewalks and decaying brownstones that spawled people of all ages into the steps and streets. There was something wrong about them that Bandfield couldn't identify, a strange and hostile quality. He'd not been around Negroes very much, but these all looked different from the few families he'd seen in Berkeley. Then he realized it was the clothing, so ill-assorted, young girls wearing long drab clothes, heavy older women swathed in layers, the men all in strange combinations of coats and pants. He turned to see Millie's expressive face appalled, registering sympathy.
They pulled up to the curb, where a tall coffee-colored man in a tan uniform ablaze with brass buttons opened the door for Jack as he said, "Here we are, Connie's Inn. Everybody always talks about the Cotton Club, but this is where you see the real talent."
The vibrations hit them as they walked down a flight of stairs past a sign advertising "Hot Feet," a revue with 30 Beautiful Brownskins 30. It was a strange riffing jazz that Bandfield had never heard before. Millie had her arm through his, and he could feel her bobbing to the music.
A table was found for them near the line of miniature churches, houses, streets, and tiny stores that served as barrier to the stage. Someone, probably for a theater production, had created a good flat facsimile of a town, with lights winking from different windows, and it served here to conceal the footlights.
The waiter brought setups automatically, and whispered to Band- field to "put his bottle in his pocket, not on the floor." Above them were the "beautiful brownskins," and beautiful they were. Bandfield became so raptly involved that Millie kicked him sharply in the same shin he'd barked getting in the car.
She watched intently, moving to the sound of the music for almost half an hour before leaning over to yell in his ear: "The performers sure look different from the people in the street."
He studied them and saw instantly what Millie meant. They were young, confident, uncompromising. There was no servility in their glances, no sense of inferiority, and they seemed to share a common contempt for the people watching.
Millie was upset. She liked the music, but the contrast with the streets outside was just too great.
"It's just not fair. Let's get out of here—I feel like a creepy peeping Tom."
Bandfield shrugged—he was along for the ride. Frances sensed something, and glanced at Jack, tapping her watch. He signaled the waiter, and whispered briefly to his wife on the way out to the car. Yelling as if he were still inside, he told Bandy: "One more stop— French onion soup at the Brevoort."
The prospect of soup made out of onions didn't excite Bandfield, but the way Millie sidled across the soft leather to sit close to him did. As they rode through the streets, she'd point to people on the sidewalk, unaware of their own poverty, indifferent to the passage of yet another Rolls.
She leaned forward and shouted to Jack,
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