“You lost your mind, boy? This establishment ain’t for your kind.”

Jonathan did not understand, or maybe just feigned it. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean, kid. Now beat it!”

Horace made way for a well-dressed White couple and then placed himself firmly in front of the door, not looking in Jonathan’s direction.

Jonathan realized there would not be any compromising and walked around the block into the alley. He stood at the backside of the club, waiting. A worker walked out of the kitchen door and tossed trash into the dumpster. Jonathan slipped in through the door just before it closed and found himself in the Ebony Cabaret Kitchen. He snuck in through the back kitchen, zipping past waiters, dishwashers, and cooks. Jonathan walked past Bessie, the woman that whispered to the White fellow in the street, and received a crumpled pack of paper money. She was washing dishes and she looked at Jonathan suspiciously. “You lost or somethin’?” she asked Jonathan.

“No, I am just...” and he pointed toward the main room and kept walking.

Jonathan walked down a few steps into a packed, dark room. The staff was Black, and the clientele was all White. People were eating, drinking, standing around, talking and smoking. Jonathan was trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. He hid behind a column. On stage, King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band stood in a haze of smoke, and were poised to play. After an extended snare-drum roll, J.D. Lincoln’s, the cheerful and effortlessly cool cornet player, revved up the crowd from his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, big cheese and little cheese, you are about to embark on a journey into the deep dark jungles of jazz, a domain where one man is king and the law of the land is brutal and direct.” The drum roll ended with a rim shot. Then J.D. continued, “I present to you: King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band.” He winked at the crowd. “Dance until you drop!”