The Wingthorn Rose. Melvyn Chase

smiled, and looked down at her hand. And all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss it.

      When they arrived at Babe’s Place, it was only nine-thirty. Recorded jazz was playing over the sound system.

      Babe herself greeted them at the door. She was a tall, black woman in her seventies, with deep-set gray eyes and a friendly smile.

      The small club was almost empty. She led them to a table near the bandstand.

      “I’ve got a real treat for you tonight,” she said. “A young man named Marvin Connor. Blows tenor sax. Keep your eye on him. He’s gonna be big someday. Soon. And he’s startin’ out right here at Babe’s. Not in New York City, or New Orleans or Chicago, but right here. You remember that.”