That Old Black Magic by Mary Jane Clark Page B

talking with them about?
    She edged her way down to the end of the counter, closer to the front door. She was able to catch snippets of conversation.
    â€œIf this bakery were somewhere else, would you still patronize it?” asked the man in the red shirt.
    â€œSure, if it had the same quality stuff that this one does,” answered the customer. “I’m only a tourist, but I’ve been here every morning during the trip. If this were near my town, I’d be there all the time.”

Chapter 35
    W hen the Saints Go Marching In” could be counted on to collect a crowd on Royal Street. Cecil nodded appreciatively at the onlookers as they applauded when he finished playing. Taking the clarinet from his mouth, he watched the dollar bills pile up in his instrument case.
    It was time to take a little break. He reached down and opened his cooler. As he took out a bottle of water mixed with bourbon, Cecil felt a tap on his shoulder. A gangly young man with acne on his face stood beside him.
    â€œHey, I’m Mike’s son,” said the teenager.
    â€œI know who you are, Tommy,” said Cecil, standing up and offering his hand. “Sorry ’bout your daddy.”
    â€œThank you,” said Tommy. “I came because my dad always liked jazz funerals. My mom and I wanted to know if you could organize one for my father.”
    Cecil considered the request. When a respected fellow musician died, other New Orleans musicians played in the funeral procession from the church, the funeral home, or the home of the deceased to the cemetery. It was a sign of respect. Jazz funerals were sometimes done for young people, too. No matter the circumstances, when someone young died, it was always a tragedy. Prominent members of the community also qualified. Cecil wasn’t quite sure if Muffuletta Mike would be considered a prominent citizen of New Orleans, but if his family was willing to pay, Cecil would be able to round up musicians always hungry for gigs.
    â€œWhen’s the funeral?” he asked.
    â€œTuesday. My mother wants to get it over with, but the priest won’t do a funeral Mass on Sunday, and Monday is St. Patrick’s Day.”
    â€œSt. Patrick’s Day would be bad,” agreed Cecil. “It’d be real hard getting men together to play then. So many have gigs in bars and restaurants. How y’all doin’ anyway?”
    The teenager shrugged. “My ma’s doing what she has to do, I guess. She wants to reopen the shop as soon as possible,” he said glumly.
    â€œWho gonna run it?” asked Cecil.
    â€œShe is, and I’m going to help her.”
    Based on some of the conversations between father and son that Cecil had overheard in the sandwich shop, he was pretty sure the kid was none too happy about the prospect. The kid would have to suck it up and get over it. Life was tough, and you had to do what you had to do.
    â€œWell, tell your mama that I’ll get some boys together,” said Cecil, pushing his hat back on his head. “Where the funeral at?”
    â€œOur Lady of Guadalupe. Tuesday morning at ten.”
    As the young man walked away, Cecil knew that it was the right thing to be accommodating. The kid and his mother were in charge now. He wanted to stay on their good sides. He didn’t need anyone else telling him to move away from his lucky spot.
    Muffuletta Mike had been wrong to do that.

Chapter 36
    E ven though it was part of his job to create goodwill for the radio station and hopefully boost ratings with public appearances, Aaron enjoyed his role as a local celebrity. Much of his free time was spent attending fund-raisers, acting as master of ceremonies at charity auctions, or attending the dedication of new buildings. This morning he would be wielding one of the kissing canes at the St. Patrick’s parade. Held the Saturday before the actual feast of St. Patrick—so that work didn’t keep people from