song of the saxophone. The glitter of her blue dressed was etched onto his retinas. Her neck. The short tufts of hair. He wanted to let his fingers glide over her neck, from top to bottom, feel the soft spot between the neck muscles, just under the skull, press gently. She would relax at once, throw back her head. He saw the thin lines on her throat, the texture of her skin, the endless web of minuscule lines and specks. The taste of her skin, salty on his tongue. Her tongue. She felt so near. In his imagination the barriers between their bodies blurred.
He took his glass, slid off the barstool, and walked over to Nona. Cooper eyed him furtively, the bastard. Just a few weeks ago they were right here drinking together. He’d arranged a few tape decks for Cooper, at a discount. Cooper liked to act like a big-time hustler. And he was definitely a handsome fellow. Hazel pupils, watery eyes, like he’d just got out of bed. That absent, melancholy look gave Cooper a kind of vulnerable, mysterious air, as though he was in some sort of trouble, and that you could save him just by talking to him. He was never short of women.
Omar said it again: ‘Nona.’
She smiled, showing her teeth.
‘Let me buy you two a round.’
She looked at her dance partner. Omar repeated the offer.
Nona pointed to her glass. ‘With plenty of ice.’
‘Ice,’ Omar repeated. He smiled with his eyes. She threw him a smirk in return, playful, you’d almost say timid. But he knew full well this shyness was a put-on. Same as his courtesy, which he feigned to hide his anger and desire. But he was enjoying himself. Felt his heart racing. The tingling in his head, like pinpricks.
‘You?’ he asked Cooper.
The man shook his head, looked into his glass.
Omar slid onto the stool next to Nona’s. Got a closer whiff. He felt as though it was pulling him toward her. Her smooth-shaven legs glistened with body oil. He extended his hand to Cooper. ‘What’s going down, Don?’
‘Nothin’.’
Omar signaled to the girl behind the bar to refill their glasses. ‘And put something else on.’
The girl pointed to the Wurlitzer at the back of the bar. A proud machine with lighted red and green bands all the way around. But Omar would have to worm his way through the sweating, dancing bodies, pick out a few numbers, put in the coins, wait. It would take too long. Timing is everything. He thought of his red Oldsmobile. Heard the rugged low bass notes. Ruffin’s voice as it modulated, about two-thirds of the way through the song. He always waited for it, every time; the whole song revolved around that one moment of release and euphoria. He waited for it while the craziest images whizzed through his mind: the dull gray water of Lake Erie; John Wayne taking off his cowboy hat and wiping the sweat from his forehead. That wound-up kid in his night class at the University of Akron, going on about studying law and his fabulous future. His fake afro. Until Ruffin hit that climax, controlled and sublime. I don’t need no money, fortune, or fame … It was a single phrase, a simple inflection of the voice that wiped away all of Omar’s thoughts and made his head so empty and clear that it felt like being reborn. Timing was everything. He reached under the bar and slid his hand over the stiff blue sequins of Nona’s dress. The curves of her buttocks. He felt her relax. Her body smoldered under that polyester. He pressed harder, squeezed her hip. Nona shifted back and forth with obvious pleasure on her barstool, rocked to his touch while Cooper eyed her, quasi-nonchalant, with that lazy look of his.
‘You crazy, or what?’ It wasn’t clear whether he was talking to Nona or Omar.
Nona pretended not to hear. Omar slid his hand over the fish-scale fabric of her dress until he reached her butt crack. He pressed gently. Felt her pelvis twitch. Tasted her in his mind. The music from the jukebox. Bare, stiff bass notes repeating the same melody over and over. Da-da da-da. Every second note went down and every fourth one went up. Da-da da-da. Da-da da-da. As if the notes too were waiting, expectantly.
‘Hard times over in Hough a couple of years ago, huh? Looked like a war zone.’ Omar looked Cooper straight in the eye while Nona’s heat burned in the palm of his hand. ‘Evans wants me to set something up in Akron. Pff. You know Ahmed Evans, right? The nationalist? Sittin’ up on the roof last summer, pickin’ off as many cops as he could. Were you there?’
Cooper didn’t answer. He seemed to be made of ice. His eyes fixed on the smoked-glass mirror behind the bar. The bottles of hard liquor. ‘You stay here,’ Cooper said to Nona in a monotone. He got up. Walked to the back of the bar, weaving through the dancing couples. Omar followed his every move. And it was as though there were a two-way mirror separating them and the rest of the bar patrons. He saw everyone, no one saw him. Only Nona. She sipped her bourbon. They didn’t talk. Listened to the saxophone as it provoked the bass. Soft purple notes wound their way around the earthy sound of the bass. Cool brushes on the drums. Da-da da-da. Da-da da-da. A spellbinding melody. Omar imagined the saxophone player standing above a basket of snakes, trying to charm them, hypnotize them. This wasn’t dance music. Those couples out on the dance floor must be hearing something he didn’t. They were draped over each other, their movements were gentle and rhythmic and sexy and beautiful. Under the bar, Nona’s fingers touched his.
‘It’s okay, baby,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘What?’ Nona asked, scowling. She jerked around to face him.
‘I love you.’
‘C’mon, Omar.’
‘C’mon Omar what?’
‘You been drinking.’
‘So?’
‘Don’ll be back soon.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘I need you.’
‘You need me.’
The way she repeated his words: languid and detached. Guarded.
‘I mean it, Nona.’
The sound of their words wafted around the smoky room like bubbles, seeking out the music and its dreamlike melodies. Cooper came back without Omar noticing. Not till Nona poked him in the ribs. He looked up, right into the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun.
‘Fuck off,’ Cooper hissed. ‘I’ll blow that shiny head o’ yours off your body, asshole. Beat it.’
Nona grabbed her bag from the bar and shrank back. Omar reflexively put his hands in the air. He observed his own movements in slow motion. Cooper’s grimace. Eyes bugging out of their sockets. ‘I’ll blow your head off, nigga, you understand?’ Cooper’s voice echoed in his head. The mirror behind the bar. One sliver of that glass and he could fix that mug of his so his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Omar looked down the barrel of that shotgun, two narrow dark tunnels. He felt Nona’s presence behind him. The damp warmth of her breath on the back of his neck. Her fear. His adrenaline rush. The music off in the distance. A busy, chaotic saxophone solo. The bass under it. The same repetitive drone. Da-da da-da. Da-da da-da. The impatience behind the notes. His blood tingled. The veins in his head were ready to explode. He was almost there. It was within reach, that elusive place beyond the crack rush.
‘What’s buggin’ you?’ Omar asked.
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘Shut your fucking mouth.’
‘Shhh.’ Omar slowly lowered his hands. Everyone in the bar seemed to be holding their breaths. Somebody had unplugged the jukebox. A glass fell onto the wooden floor. A girl cleared her throat. Not Nona. Omar was alone now. With Cooper standing right in front of him, frozen, his finger still on the trigger of the shotgun.
‘You’ll go in the slammer for good,’ Omar tried.
‘You’re nothin’ but a dirty arrogant nigger.’
‘Not