Leroy was sure he was getting hives. He focused on the day they turned down Ornette Coleman as a possible supervisor for independent study—Composition—but approved Steve Lacy, who wasn’t even in the country. And even though he’d had to import a bunch of cats from New York for his graduate project because the white boys said it was impossible to “read” his notation system, even though he had graduated with honors because of the beauty of this Suite that was impossible to “read,” his advisor’s last words had been, “You don’t need all that ethnic flourish, Leroy, you are too good to work in the Negro idiom.” So the issue wasn’t “where were they,” the issue was how could they make it in a place like the Golden Onk.

It had been closed down three times for fire code violations, once for selling alcohol to minors, another time for being underneath the food code . . . beneath the food code, humph. They probably sold rat dung as a matter of course. Leroy felt the wall slide onto his back. Maybe Cypress didn’t even remember how he loved her last night. Maybe she didn’t even care.

“Cypress . . .” he sighed, running his fingers through the hair below his navel. Cypress liked women, or so the rumor went. Now the sister, Sassafrass, was the one who was into men and horns and babies; but everybody from Oakland to Fort Greene had heard that Cypress belonged to some bull-dyke cult, and the queen of Azure Bosom had laid right into whatever Cypress’ trip had been.

“Dammit, shit. I sure do pick ’em.” Leroy stomped his foot. Why hadn’t it been Sassafrass? He designed ploys that Cypress had used against him. She had been so close to him to prove to herself that she was as much a woman as her sister, because that’s when she had warmed up to him, after recognizing him from that party in San Francisco. Oh shit. That party had been in Cypress’ house, and Sassafrass had been wandering around like a new member of the Catatonic Virgin’s Club. Why, Cypress had even encouraged him to seek out her sister.

But here in New York, Cypress had been the one. She had been too drunk to lie, too open to make believe all night long. He was certain of that. Not all night long. Not quite like that. Leroy packed up his horns and set off for the Onk. A quick cognac and a good reed would be all he needed until that hussy crossed his mind again. Then he’d smell the scent of her on his moustache and wait. She’d turn up.