“Some of Chicago’s wealthiest and most influential people are here tonight, but I can’t see a thing.” Honoree craned her neck. “There are way too many couples on the dance floor and too many tall cigarette girls with leather trays strapped around their throats.”
“I can’t neither.” Colethea leaned into Honoree’s shoulder. “Where are the VIP tables?”
“How would I know?” Honoree exclaimed.
“Let me look.” Hazel pushed Honoree and Colethea aside.
“Point out the most famous people,” Honoree said. “I don’t recognize anyone by sight. Oh. Oh. There’s Oscar Micheaux!”
“I see him.” Hazel lifted her chin. “Over there. Sitting at the table in the second row, across from Micheaux, is mob boss Papa Johnny of the Chicago Outfit. Capone’s crew.”
Colethea butted between Honoree and Hazel. “That ain’t Papa Johnny. I heard he’s on the lam in Italy,” she said.
“He resembles Papa Johnny.” Hazel nodded toward another table. “There’s Alderman Louis B. Anderson.”
“He’s the second Negro man in Chicago to hold an elected office,” Colethea chimed.
Hazel shrugged. “I think he’s with his friend Mr. Abbott.”
“He runs theDefender,” Honoree said.
“Oh, my! The Black Valentino.”
“Lorenzo Tucker!” Honoree and Colethea said in unison, followed by a round of giggles.
Hazel hushed them. “He’s the most handsome Negro man in the world.”
“Even Ezekiel might take a back seat to Lorenzo.” Honoree still held a hand lightly over her mouth. “Who’s with Alberta Hunter? She’s sure having a helluva time.”
“That’s Charlie Chaplin.”
Honoree squinted. “That’s not him. Where’s his mustache?”
“He doesn’t always wear that toothbrush mustache. It’s a costume for the movies.”
“I had no idea.”
“Norma Shearer,” Hazel whispered, pointing. “She’s talking to Paul Robeson and his wife.”
Colethea raised a brow like it would help her hear better. “I bet they’re talking Race politics.”
Hazel nodded in earnest agreement.
So many different people coupled up, sitting together at the same round table with colored waiters filling glasses and serving food. Dark skin, light skin, white boy, white girl stitched together in a quilt called the Dreamland Cafe. All listening to the same jazz music played by the greatest trumpet player in the world.
And Honoree Dalcour, she smiled giddily, the best dancer in the world, the next Queen of Sheba, and her next stop, Broadway’s bright lights—if she worked hard enough, had enough good luck, and not too much more bad luck.
* * *
The band started up, and the jazz rhythms made Honoree’s heart race faster, matching the quick feet of the hoofers on the dance floor.
This was Honoree’s throne. Here, she was Josephine Baker and Florence Mills in one small, vibrant package, showing off her talent and dazzling the audience watching her.
She shimmied and high-kicked across the stage, the beads of her Egyptian costume sparkled, her jeweled scepter majestic, and her gold headdress perched elegantly atop her head.
The number ended, and she galloped across the stage to a fanfare of trumpets and cymbals and castanets.
Taking her bow, Honoree lingered near the lip of the platform, enjoying the applause and the cheers. She waltzed to the dressing room, her thoughts in the clouds, her Mary Jane pumps barely touching the hardwood floors.
