prejudice--which even the months with Frank had not entirely overcome--would not allow her to think of herself as a girl whose only friends in all the great city of New York were colored.
But as September turned to October, and October to November, it became more and more clear to her that she must, must, must make human contacts other than with the trio of gay souls who produced the Machine Tool Journal. The mad round of cinema palaces had now so far palled that she could summon no shadow of sympathetic passion for Gary Grant or Van Johnson, Bing Crosby or Montgomery Clift. No longer could she identify with Elizabeth Taylor or Olivia de Havilland, and she had never liked Frank Sinatra in the first place.
When she finally decided to go see Jerry, the problem became one of finding a reason. It could not be admitted that she wanted to see them just because she wanted to see them. She never for an instant believed that her own personality was sufficient to engage their attention. There had to be an excuse--and the excuse was, of course, the fine thing that she had first discovered with them: the green grass that grew greener where music dwelt.
It was a Friday evening when the impulse finally came that sent her into the hurrying subway, through the rushing tunnels, and out into the piercing winds that swept through the street canyon in which was the Golden Horn. It was almost like a homecoming.
Louie, the Italian waiter recognized her immediately. "Good evening, Miss Taylor. Anyone meeting you?"
"Not tonight, Louie," as though she were an habitue. "I just thought I'd drop in and see Jerry and the boys."
"I'll get you a table right up front," Louie said. "Let me just chase those people over there. Haven't seen you or Mr. Burdette in the longest time." The dark-trousered, white-shirted figure glided through the gloom to a front table where a mildly intoxicated trio were giving a minimum of attention to the music and a maximum to the liquor.
After a moment she saw the three, two girls and a man, get up to move to another table, and then Louie came and led her up to the vacated table only a few feet from where Jerry Best's glittering trumpet was juggling a melody with skill and grace and passion. His face was intense, dedicated, rapt as it always was when he took a riff. But Don, filling in rhythm at the piano, saw her and winked. Then, when the sax took over the melody and Jerry took his trumpet down from his lips, Don reached out and touched Jerry's arm and pointed to Joyce.
Jerry saluted her with a loose, graceful gesture, pointed her out to Louie and then tapped himself on the chest, a gesture that clearly meant put everything on my bill.
Suddenly Joyce was aware that she was the focus of attention in the room. Who, she imagined them saying, is that girl up front? They made some other people move to give her a table. Who is she?
And even this mistaken flattery went to Joyce's head like wine. A homecoming. A welcome.
She felt reinstated in her own respect.
Then, as the piece ended, Jerry pulled the microphone to him, and in a voice that was half a whisper, said, "We got a special request from a charming young lady who ain't even requested it yet So the next number we're going to play is for Miss Joyce Taylor, a very special friend of ours, and it's going to be them Royal Garden Blues."
When the set ended Jerry left the stand and came directly to her table. "Come on out back with us. Ginger's out there. Louie'll hold the table for you," and she followed him through the narrow passageway that led through the kitchen and into the dressing room that was also the office of the club's owner, a man named Michell.
Ginger, in a strapless gown of gold lame pulled high to expose her shapely legs, perched on the corner of a desk. She said, "Hi, Joy! We really been missing you and Frank, kid." And the others came over in genuine pleasure.
Joyce felt her throat constricting with sentiment, and moisture gathering in her
But as September turned to October, and October to November, it became more and more clear to her that she must, must, must make human contacts other than with the trio of gay souls who produced the Machine Tool Journal. The mad round of cinema palaces had now so far palled that she could summon no shadow of sympathetic passion for Gary Grant or Van Johnson, Bing Crosby or Montgomery Clift. No longer could she identify with Elizabeth Taylor or Olivia de Havilland, and she had never liked Frank Sinatra in the first place.
When she finally decided to go see Jerry, the problem became one of finding a reason. It could not be admitted that she wanted to see them just because she wanted to see them. She never for an instant believed that her own personality was sufficient to engage their attention. There had to be an excuse--and the excuse was, of course, the fine thing that she had first discovered with them: the green grass that grew greener where music dwelt.
It was a Friday evening when the impulse finally came that sent her into the hurrying subway, through the rushing tunnels, and out into the piercing winds that swept through the street canyon in which was the Golden Horn. It was almost like a homecoming.
Louie, the Italian waiter recognized her immediately. "Good evening, Miss Taylor. Anyone meeting you?"
"Not tonight, Louie," as though she were an habitue. "I just thought I'd drop in and see Jerry and the boys."
"I'll get you a table right up front," Louie said. "Let me just chase those people over there. Haven't seen you or Mr. Burdette in the longest time." The dark-trousered, white-shirted figure glided through the gloom to a front table where a mildly intoxicated trio were giving a minimum of attention to the music and a maximum to the liquor.
After a moment she saw the three, two girls and a man, get up to move to another table, and then Louie came and led her up to the vacated table only a few feet from where Jerry Best's glittering trumpet was juggling a melody with skill and grace and passion. His face was intense, dedicated, rapt as it always was when he took a riff. But Don, filling in rhythm at the piano, saw her and winked. Then, when the sax took over the melody and Jerry took his trumpet down from his lips, Don reached out and touched Jerry's arm and pointed to Joyce.
Jerry saluted her with a loose, graceful gesture, pointed her out to Louie and then tapped himself on the chest, a gesture that clearly meant put everything on my bill.
Suddenly Joyce was aware that she was the focus of attention in the room. Who, she imagined them saying, is that girl up front? They made some other people move to give her a table. Who is she?
And even this mistaken flattery went to Joyce's head like wine. A homecoming. A welcome.
She felt reinstated in her own respect.
Then, as the piece ended, Jerry pulled the microphone to him, and in a voice that was half a whisper, said, "We got a special request from a charming young lady who ain't even requested it yet So the next number we're going to play is for Miss Joyce Taylor, a very special friend of ours, and it's going to be them Royal Garden Blues."
When the set ended Jerry left the stand and came directly to her table. "Come on out back with us. Ginger's out there. Louie'll hold the table for you," and she followed him through the narrow passageway that led through the kitchen and into the dressing room that was also the office of the club's owner, a man named Michell.
Ginger, in a strapless gown of gold lame pulled high to expose her shapely legs, perched on the corner of a desk. She said, "Hi, Joy! We really been missing you and Frank, kid." And the others came over in genuine pleasure.
Joyce felt her throat constricting with sentiment, and moisture gathering in her
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