Los Angeles, 1954

　　by David St. John

　　 It was in the old days，

　　 When she used to hang out at a place

　　 Called Club Zombie，

　　 A black cabaret that the police liked

　　 To raid now and then. As she

　　 Stepped through the door， the light

　　 Would hit her platinum hair，

　　 And believe me， heads would turn. Maestro

　　 Loved it； he'd have her by

　　 The arm as he led us through the packed crowd

　　 To a private corner

　　 Where her secluded oak table always waited.

　　 She'd say， Jordan......

　　 And I'd order her usual，

　　 A champagnecocktail with a tall shot of bourbon

　　 On the side. She'd let her eyes

　　 Trail the length of the sleek neck

　　 Of the old stand-up bass， as

　　 The bass player knocked out the bottom line，

　　 His forehead glowing， glossy

　　 With sweat in the blue lights；

　　 Her own face， smooth and shining， as

　　 The liquor slowly blanketed the pills

　　 She'd slipped beneath her tongue.

　　 Maestro'd kick the shit out of anybody

　　 Who tried to sneak up for an autograph；

　　 He'd say， Jordan， just let me know if

　　 Somebody gets too close......

　　 Then he'd turn to her and whisper， Here's

　　 Where you get to be Miss Nobody......

　　 And she'd smile as she let him

　　 Kiss her hand. For a while， there was a singer

　　 At the club， a guy named Louis--

　　 But Maestro'd change his name to "Michael Champion"；

　　 Well， when this guy leaned forward，

　　 Cradling the microphone in his huge hands，

　　 All the legs went weak

　　 Underneath the ladies.

　　 He'd look over at her， letting his eyelids

　　 Droop real low， singing， Oh Baby I......

　　 Oh Baby I Love...... I Love You......

　　 And she'd be gone， those little mermaid tears

　　 Running down her cheeks. Maestro

　　 Was always cool. He'd let them use his room upstairs，

　　 Sometimes， because they couldn't go out--

　　 Black and white couldn't mix like that then.

　　 I mean， think about it--

　　 This kid star and a cool beauty who made King Cole

　　 Sound raw？ No， they had to keep it

　　 To the club； though sometimes，

　　 Near the end， he'd come out to her place

　　 At the beach， always taking the iced whisky

　　 I brought to him with a sly， sweet smile.

　　 Once， sweeping his arm out in a slow

　　 Half-circle， the way at the club he'd

　　 Show the audience how far his endless love

　　 Had grown， he marked

　　 The circumference of the glare whitening the patio

　　 Where her friends all sat， sunglasses

　　 Masking their eyes......

　　 And he said to me， Jordan， why do

　　 White people love the sun so？--

　　 God's spotlight， my man？

　　 Leaning back， he looked over to where she

　　 Stood at one end of the patio， watching

　　 The breakers flatten along the beach below，

　　 Her body reflected and mirrored

　　 Perfectly in the bedroom's sliding black glass

　　 Door. He stared at her

　　 Reflection for a while， then looked up at me

　　 And said， Jordan， I think that I must be

　　 Like a pool of water in a cave that sometimes

　　 She steps into......

　　 Later， as I drove him back into the city，

　　 He hummed a Bessie Smith tune he'd sing

　　 For her， but he didn't say a word until

　　 We stopped at last back at the club. He stepped

　　 slowly out of the back

　　 Of the Cadillac， and reaching to shake my hand

　　 Through the open driver's window， said，