124

Saul has bought a club on 134 & 7^th. The “Club Hot-Cha” The cats are Jitter bugging with steam rising from their bodies and the whole joint stinks of weed. The fug is enough to get you high without the expense. I am billed as the “Limey from Poolville' With my suit newly pressed and my shoes shined I the look the business. My side men are the house band comprising of John Williams with a basic drum kit of snare bass and one tom tom and a cymbal plus cow bell and wood block. Those of you who are used to the ten drum kit of the Men from Alpha, the hottest act on Mars at moment, may think it is a little too basic, but in a small club on a small stage it is all that is needed, and on bass is Slam Stuart. Who could ask for more? Well I get more. Dina Shore in fact. This is a long time before she becomes famous singing for Dorsey and the likes, so the cats on floor don't know how lucky they are.

As you know I am not one to sing my own praises, but I make the whole ensemble click, and what is more fill the dance floor with every number. It's an art, to do this, feel the mood and play accordingly. When the dancers start drifting off through exhaustion, play some slow numbers, then when they have recovered, up the tempo.

The girls in short dresses and low healed pumps, brown skin glistening with sweat, are thown around by high stepping Guys in baggy trousers and loose shirts. Some with a bow tie some open to the waist. There is no wonder the Whites like to slum it in the Haarlem clubs.

There is one particular white skinned beauty that has caught my attention. She dances with full energy and abandon. Her partner is also white wearing a flat cap and suspenders. It is not only their skin colour that makes them stand out but the style of dancing, a mixture of Lindy Hop and Irish Jig. I call over to Slam and tell him to bow the Doghouse with a Jig rhythm. John plays the same rhythm with his sticks on the snare rim. I fill in with the melody. Soon the couple have the floor to themselves with the other Cats forming a circle whopping and hollering encouragement. They finish with her on his shoulders straddling his head, clapping encouragement while he hoofs his toes, Irish style.

Follow that? It's a show stopper so we take a break.

I join Saul at his table. Me and the Irish jiggers are the only whites in the club. But I feel at home.

'Some show, I knew you could do me right. But don't expect any extra pickings. This is strictly a one off. I got a key man name of Monk starting tomorrow.'

'Theolonious Monk?'

'That's the man. You know him?'

'I know his style, I wouldn't have thought he was right for a dance floor.'

'Comes highly recommended, I asked the piano prof at Juliard, he says he can do it.'

I haven't heard Monk as a young man, maybe he can get them on the floor, it'll be interesting to be around when he starts.

I change the subject.and ask Saul if he knows who the dancers are.

'Irish, the blacks of the British Isles,' he says laughing, 'there's no discrimination in this club. All are welcome, so long as they have a roll.'

He looks over to where they are sitting. 'She's a barbecue, ain't she? With those legs, a looker like her would bring in all the Mick's from County Hall.'

Saul waves me away as one of his musclebound bodyguards leans over him and whispers into is ear.A sign for me to go.

You can't trust the IGBI. Someone with the girls tallent could be a plant. The two of them have a table by the bar, I saunter over and introduce myself. She gives me a broad smile showing small teeth and a bit of gum. Very childlike as if she still has her milk teeth. She tells me her name is Maureen, but I can call her Mo, and, pointing to her partner, this is my brother Michael.

'I'm from the Pool, that makes me nearly Irish,' I say and add, 'Mo & MICK, I can see your names in lights, on Broadway'

'The Bowery more like,' says Mick.

I spot two suitcases under the table, they may be pretending to be imigrants looking for a new life. As brother and sister. The IGBI can be very sneaky as I have found to my cost, but by now you should know how my mind works, always looking for a new addition to my list, and Mo is probably unattached.

'If you're looking for a lodging I know a flea pit run by a Frenchie, cheap and clean, not far from here on East 116^th. I stay there myself, we can share a cab.'

'I've just spent my last dime on a Soda', says Mick. 'We'll be sleeping under the stars tonight.'

'As well as dancing, any other talents?' I ask

'We're Kelly's Uncle at the Irish music, Mo here, plays the fiddle and has a voice as sweet as a Kerry Morning, I play the pipes and the whistle.'

They need to be Midtown in Hells Kitchen, it's knee deep in Irish Bars.

I offer them a night, on me at Madame Victoria's and say they can pay me back when they are in funds. They accept graciously, maybe they are not an IGBI plant.