Silence. I wait, eyes closed, fingers crossed, hoping he’ll reconsider cutting me off. If I don’t have the studio, color me sunk. There is muttering on the other end of the line.
“Two weeks, Sawyer,” Mitch says, minus the high-volume, pissed-off tone that nearly eviscerated my eardrums. “That’s all I can give you. Then, I’m booking your slot. Understood?”
“Thanks, man. Much love. Much love.”
I get off the phone quick—I don’t want to give Mitch a chance to change his mind. I sit up in the bed and make another call—this one to the Bronzeville Senior Living Facility.
It takes less than a minute to learn Honoree is refusing to see me. She must’ve been mad when I didn’t show, but I have a backup plan—Lula. The girl in the blue scrubs. She has influence over Honoree and will appreciate my recognition of her power. She also will be surprised as hell to hear from me, especially if I’m begging her for permission to see Honoree again.
Checking the facility’s website, I find an email address for Lula Kent and send her a professional-sounding message ending with a plea:Please, give me another chance with Miss Honoree.
If the email doesn’t work on its own, I will be forced to mention my grandmother, strategically implying some punishment for not granting me another chance with Honoree. A threat that would be more meaningful if Maggie knew I was here.
Fifteen minutes after I hit Send, I receive a reply from Lula. Fifteen minutes later, I am showered, dressed, and on my way to the Red Line L train for the six-mile ride to the Bronzeville Senior Living Facility.
CHAPTER 10
HONOREE
Saturday, October 24, 1925
Shortly after midnight, the cab stopped in front of a three-story, block-wide building where a colored fella in a tuxedo, tails, and a top hat stood beneath a black awning. Still as a statue, his face an expressionless mask, the doorman guarded the entrance of the Dreamland Cafe as if it were Buckingham Palace.
Clutching her belongings, Honoree ran from the taxi toward the entrance, but two feet from the front door, the “statue man” blocked her path.
“Excuse me, but I need to get inside the Dreamland Cafe,” she said, playing tag with his beefy frame. “I’m late for an audition.”
“Not gonna happen through this door, girlie.”
He widened his stance and folded thick arms over his chest, his body a wall.
“Why can’t I come in this way? The cafe’s a black-and-tan. Negroes allowed to come through the front door just like white folks.”
He grabbed her arm at the elbow. “You ain’t dressed well enough to come in the front door unescorted. Go ’round back.”
How dare he say such a thing. Her handmade fur-collared coat and the newly made dress looked better than anything sold at Marshall Field’s.
Rude son of a gun had no sense of fashion—just a pigheaded bully dragging her by the arm away from where she needed to be.
“Someone in the kitchen will help you.” He shoved her toward the alley.
Heat sped down her spine. She never liked being jostled by a man. Made her temper step in front of her common sense. But she forced some cool night air into her lungs. It was too soon to be on the wrong side of anyone at the Dreamland Cafe.
“So, I should go this way?” she asked, using her most proper-sounding voice.
The doorman looked at her like she’d spouted a horn between her eyes. “Yes. You go that way.” He nodded toward the alley.
“I appreciate your help. Thank you, sir.”
She retreated, moving away from him, smiling, but she’d remember his face. When she was a big star like Florence Mills or Josephine Baker, she’d pay him back for his rudeness.
The rear entrance was less than half a block away, and she covered the short distance in a dead run. Bounding up three steps, she reached the landing and pushed open the kitchen door. The room was three times the size of Miss Hattie’s kitchen and crammed with waiters, cigarette girls, cooks, and a line of men washing dishes.
There was plenty of food, shelves with bowls of fresh-baked rolls and vanilla pudding, and small plates with chocolate cake and cherry pie. Slender black waiters in starched white shirts and red bow ties stood in an orderly line waiting to load up their trays and whirl into the dining hall. They were like racehorses at a derby, rushing about carrying silver trays with plates of sizzling steaks and steaming potatoes and buttered beans.
Honoree had had a boiled egg and a cup of java for a late breakfast, but not one bite of food since. Her mouth watered.
A waiter strolled toward her. An older man, sixty or more, judging by the loose skin sagging from his jowls and the shoe-polish black hair that attempted to hide his silver roots. “You here for the audition?”
