“Will you marry me, Sylvia?”

Delirious from the heat of the moment, she said yes.

He placed the ring on her finger.

“Make love to me,” she said, “and wash away the past.”

As Lewis poured himself into her, Sylvia felt fire in her heart and between her legs.

Standing backstage at the Blue Note on the cusp of his first New York engagement, Phil fidgeted nervously with his trumpet valves as tenor saxophonist Marshall Davis ran down the number they were about to perform. The gig had come about after some serious arm-twisting on Margaret’s part, and Marshall was getting edgy, because Phil seemed unprepared.

“Pabadabbadabbadabbadoobididoo, pipideebideebideebideebididee, spaa-rooo-sipsideeeee, deee-deeeeeee,” Marshall scatted, his acned face contorted as he reiterated the intro to his signature tune, “Kamikaze,” a hard-bop number that was aptly named. “Get it? That’s in unison. You and me together. Then we repeat that phrase, then it’s alternating improv for twelve bars each. You and me. I go first, then you. And we just work it like that back and forth till we run outta shit to play. You with me now? Cause you’re looking kinda spooked.”

“No, I’m fine actually. I’m just thinking of what I’m going to play,” Phil replied.

“Don’t do that cause you’re gonna forget it all when you go up there, and you’ll freeze and fuck up and make us look bad. Too much thinking makes your improvisation sound scripted. We’re going for that spontaneous feel. We wanna go out on the edge here—throw caution to the wind. Think of a Jap nose-diving in a Zero.”

“It appears problematic for you,” Phil replied, “and I’m sorry, but I need to think things out in my head first. Sketch them out a bit.”

“I can see this shit ain’t gonna work,” Marshall said, flashing his green-tinted dreadlocks out of his face.

“Well, it’s too late for that now, isn’t it,” Phil said with muted aggression.

Marshall turned to Margaret. “Where’d you get this fucked-up boy from? Coming in here acting like he know everything?”

“Relax, Marshall, everything will be fine,” she replied ingratiatingly.

“Fuck relax! We go on in five minutes and this nigger making me nervous.”

“I’m clearly not a nigger,” Phil retorted.

“So who’s a nigger, me?” Marshall replied. “You calling me a nigger, you cracker son of a bitch?”

Margaret jumped in front of Phil as Marshall lunged at him. Phil went to a corner away from the other band members and quietly tamped a cigarette against a chair.

“Marshall, look,” Margaret said, primping the lapels of the lanky sax man’s double-breasted jacket, “relax, okay? It’s only one number. You rehearsed with Phil and you didn’t have any problems. You were doing great out there. The crowd’s loving you. Now you’re on your break and you’re gonna go back, and they’re gonna love you even more. Now Phil’s only coming on for the finale. Can he really spoil all that for you? Marshall Davis? The Marshall Davis? I don’t think so.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Look, you’re doing me a favor, right, cause I’ve done some for you. I’ve had you on the station how many times this year? About four. I put your records in regular rotation. I can stop doing favors.”