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“So show me,” I say.

Shorty smiles. “You have twelve dollars in your pocket right now.”

“How do you know that?” I reach the rest of the way in and pull my money out.

“I just counted it.”

“How?”

“With my hand. While I was distracting you.”

Puzzle pieces fall into place. “Then you somehow told Frankie how much I had on me.”

“Yeah. That way, he knows exactly when to pull the plug before you walk away with any winnings.”

I feel like the biggest dupe. But at the same time, it’s pretty dang funny. “I want to learn that,” I tell him. “The money part and the cards, too. How does he switch out the cards?” It looks so cool when Fat Frankie shuffles faster and faster. And guarantees your win or loss, depending on how he wants it to be.

Shorty keeps walking again. “It’s just sleight of hand,” he says. “A trick.”

“But how could you count my money with a briefcase in your other hand?” I ask.

“Briefcase? Oh, that’s my sax case. I set it down for a second.”

I shake my head, because I don’t remember seeing him do that. “Cool. You play sax?”

“I’m a musician,” he says. “I mean, I’m trying to be. That’s what I want, to perform in a jazz band. It’s why I came here.”

“Wow.” That seems like the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s so easy, just listening, to get lost in the jazz tunes and rhythms that fill my head in Roxbury. How amazing, to be a part of making that.

“What do you want to do, homeboy?” he says. “Why’d you come here?”

The question makes me uncomfortable. “To figure it out, I guess.”

Shorty seems OK with that answer, which is a relief. All that matters to me right now is getting to the bottom of the Three-Card Monte hustle.

“Instead of counting my money, you coulda just picked my pocket, you know,” I tell him.

Shorty’s grin becomes epic. “Well, that would be a crime.”

Soon as I have some money saved, I go into the haberdasher and buy myself a fedora like Fat Frankie’s. I stroll through Roxbury all afternoon, tipping my new hat to every lady I pass. Slapping skin with every Negro I know.

“Yo, Red.”

“Red, my man.”

“Red! How’s my homeboy?”

I’m making friends. Feeling good. My new name makes me feel lighter on my feet. With a new name, anything is possible.

I can learn to hustle, learn some sleight of hand of my own. In Roxbury, there’s always a way to get what you need. A way to start over.

Roxbury’s a clean slate, my fingertips the purest chalk. Ready to write a new destiny.

The one thing still missing from my fresh ensemble is a zoot suit. I try to tell Shorty I need more time to earn into it, but he’s all, “Let’s go take a look.”

He takes me down to this shop he knows, the same place where he buys his own zoots. “What color do you like, homeboy?”

I run my hand over the row of hangers. Pick out a suit in a rich royal blue.

“That’s nice,” Shorty says. The salesman nods. He draws back a curtain and lets me go behind.

I slip out of my shoes and pants, into the zoot. The fabric plumes around my legs, but down at the ankles I have to tug to get the tight cuffs over my long feet. The jacket hangs long and smooth. The broad shoulders make me look wider and tougher. Just like one of the cats off the block.

I duck out from behind the curtain, holding back my smile. Acting cool.

“Looking good, homeboy.”

“Yeah, I think so,” I say. “I can’t wait until I can have it.”

“Don’t look now, Red, but I think that day’s today.”

I shake my head. “I can’t afford it.”

Shorty laughs loudly. “Afford it? What are you talking about, Red? You never heard of credit?”

“Shorty’s gonna vouch for you,” the salesman says. “It’s yours if you want it. Five dollars down.”

I finger the lush fabric, thinking.

I remember Papa talking about credit.
Don’t ever owe anybody a cent. You pay your debts up front
. We learned it the hard way after he was gone. What it meant to be in debt. What it meant to owe. It meant what you had wasn’t really yours, no matter how you worked for it. It meant there was always a hand in your business, someone else’s hand, some white man who could make it rain dollars, and then came through sweeping up more than what he dropped.
Owe
rhymes with
low
, we learned, for a reason.

“Yo, Red,” Shorty says. He whistles. Waves a hand in front of my eyes. “
Pssh
.” He makes a sound like radio static. “Come in, homeboy.
Pssh.
”

It jolts me. “What?”

“Where’d you go, man?” Shorty nudges me. “You want the suit or what?”

Yeah, I want it. I rise out of the thick cloud of the past. Only way I can afford the zoot: credit. My fingers smooth one crisp, tailored sleeve. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I can’t go back. Can’t even imagine putting on that country coat again. Not after seeing myself new.

I grab up my fedora and flip it onto my head. Can’t get over it. Is that really me? I shimmy my shoulders a bit. Give a little shift, smooth my collar. Run my thumb down the side of my nose, the way I’ve seen the cats on the block doing. Looking fly.

“Whoa-ho,” Shorty says.

“Yeah.” I grin. Settle a little deeper into those broad shoulders. “Yeah.” I toss down a couple steps of something approximating the Charleston. Raise my eyebrows at Shorty in the mirror.

Everyone uses credit. It’s the city game. I’m here to play.

“I’ll take it.”

Ella shakes her head when she sees the outfit. “I should have known it would happen,” she says. “No real way around it.”

I strut through the living room, modeling it for her anyway. She disapproves, but I don’t really care. It’s clearer now, how different we are. She’s really a Hill woman, through and through, while I am a creature of the street. No way can she understand what it feels like to go down there, to be folded in.

Most people who live on the Hill take a strange pride in it, I’ve noticed. Being above. I don’t want that. Ella can have it. Down the Hill, everyone lives for the now and everything is raw. No going wrong down the Hill. No manners to mind and no one pointing fingers.

In the mirror, I practice. Try to perfect that swaggering kind of walk. Arm swinging out front just so. A little lilt to the hips, a little bend and sway. Like a dance-floor move. Just rolling out down the sidewalk, all six foot four inches of me, turning heads and looking fly.

At closing time, there’s plenty of business to be had up in my office. Guys are coming at me, left, right, center.

“Can I get a rubber, Red?”

“Any reefer, man?”

“I need a girl tonight.”

I dole out the packets and the joints and the folded slips of paper. I ride high on being the guy who can get it for them. The guy they can’t live without, for those fifteen minutes at the end of the show. The guy who’s going to make or break their night. Everything’s a hustle, and I got my own hustle now.

“Thanks, Red.”

“You’re the best, man.”

“Catch you later.”

The swirl and the excitement quickly fade until it’s me alone in the men’s room. It starts to seem again like toilets and stalls and fixtures, nothing special.

I click the lights up full and sweep the floor clean, like I’m supposed to. The maids will come in the morning to scrub down everything with soap, but I do my part anyway. Grab the dirty towels. Gather my tips, carefully folding the bills. One unusual tip tonight — a mostly full bottle of whiskey given in exchange for a handful of rubbers, from a guy who was as close to falling-down drunk as I’d ever seen.

The Roseland itself is no longer a thing of magic once the dancing’s done. The lights go up, and what seemed glitzy and alive moments ago now seems like a shell of itself.

Bottles and bottles, a ton of bottles, strewn among the tables and even on the empty dance floor itself. A few shawls and jackets and bags, forgotten amid the swirl of liquor and the lull of the tunes. I take a turn around the floor, just to see if there’s anything worth picking up.

I think how amazing it would be if I wasn’t behind the scenes, but just one of the throng out on the floor. Right in the swing of things. The thick of it.

At the doorway, Shorty’s waiting for me. Passing the time with Clyde, the big guy who watches the door. We slap good night, and he steps back into the coatroom.

I’m holding the whiskey by the neck. “Where’d you score that?” Shorty says. “That’s a nice bottle.”

I tip up my shoulder. “Some cat left it for me.”

“That’s a good tip.” Shorty chuckles. “We’re gonna get some use out of that.” He reaches for the bottle and takes a long swallow. Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Takes another. “You don’t mind, do you, Red?”

“Course not,” I say. I’ve never even tried any kind of liquor. Never been around it until I came to Roxbury.

When Shorty hands the bottle back, I just hold it for a minute. He goes, “Well, you have to take some, too.”

I sip. It burns on the way down.
Liquid fire
, I’ve heard some of the cats say. That makes sense now. The flames spread over every inch of my throat.
“Whoo,”
I say, shaking it off. I push the bottle back at him.

“Naw,” Shorty says. “You barely got a swallow.”

I drink a little more, a little faster. Just try to choke it down. I like how it makes me feel after a minute — a little fuzzy. I no longer mind the burn so much.

“Yeah.” Shorty takes the bottle, takes another swig. “It’s gonna be a good night.”

We head out into the street, huddling in our jackets against the chill night air. It’s only a matter of time before we’re passing the bottle back and forth as we walk. It’s nothing wild, I realize. Just a little liquid in my mouth. A little fire in my gut that burns so nicely.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Anywhere we want,” Shorty answers.

We wander. We sip. Minute by minute. I’m bounding with it. Where are we going? Anywhere we want. I realize the power and the potential of that. Absolutely anywhere.

The house party’s jumping, warm and alive. Shorty himself isn’t really into the dancing. We stand on the side of the room, near the spread of liquor bottles on the kitchen counter.

“You ought to get out there,” he tells me.

“Nah. I’d just like to watch for now.” The minute I get onto the dance floor, my secret’ll be out. I don’t know how to dance a lick.

Back in Lansing, all the white folks knew all the steps to all the dances somehow, but I never learned them, and so I never got out on the floor. Too easy to make a misstep when you don’t know what you’re doing. Anyway, black boys weren’t supposed to dance with white girls.

I danced around the house often enough. With my sisters, all silly, laughing and twirling them around. We’d put on a record, and Mom would sing, and Wilfred or Philbert would drum while the rest of us galloped and swung. But it doesn’t count. A thousand turns around the dance floor in my memory — our living-room rug — are not so helpful right now. This room is not so warm or safe, and everyone is looking to judge.

I lean against the wall by Shorty and just sip away. I manage to try a whole array of beverages laid out. Whiskey. Wine. Clear liquor. Not dancing is pretty fun anyway, watching the girls dance. The way they step, rocking forward and back. Twisting their hips and swirling their skirts, in all the different colors they’re wearing. Mesmerizing.

There’s one girl I watch closer than the others. Not on purpose, but my eye keeps straying her way. After a little while, I realize she’s looking back at me.

“Come here, cutie,” she says. “Why aren’t you moving?” She pulls my arms, giving me no choice but to follow. Over my shoulder, Shorty’s laughing. I’m turning to him to get me out of this, but he just leans against the wall and grins something fierce.

“She’ll school you in the Lindy, for sure,” he calls with a chuckle that makes me wonder if this was part of his plan all along.

“Relax,” she tells me. “Just move.”

Good thing I’ve been standing near the bar all this while. No way I could stand the pressure without a little drink in me. My shoulders work back and forth, following the movement of her arms.

“What’s your name?” I ask, but she just shakes her head like she can’t hear.

Soon enough, my legs start to loosen. It helps that everyone’s dancing close; no one can really see me. We become one with the crowd.

I discover there’s a kind of release on the floor. Arms and legs flailing. Following the music, getting filled by the rhythm. I’m dancing OK, it seems. Almost like it comes sort of natural to me. The girl smiles. Still has her hand in mine. I’m feeling good.

I stumble back toward the wall. Shorty gives a little smile, looking me up and down. “Not too bad, homeboy.”

He’s puffing on a reefer. He lights a second one, pushing it against the lit end of his until they both glow red-hot. He tips it toward me, and I don’t even hesitate. Take it between my fingers like it has always been there. The thin cloud of smoke clogs me. Fills me. Spreads me like butter against the wall.

“There you go,” Shorty says, sounding satisfied. “You’re getting the hang of everything now.”

Yeah. Yeah. I’m floating. Between the liquor and the reefer and the music and the girl . . . Yeah.

I’ve never had a better time. It’s like I can’t feel my body. My brain is quiet. My heart aloft.

Nothing tugging. Weighing. Haunting. I don’t even have to try not to think about how things were back in . . . the place I’m from. I can’t even get there in my mind. Not that I want to.

“Hey,” Shorty says. “You want to call it a night? Head home?”

The very idea is like a blur to me. “I’m not going back,” I answer. “Everything is here.” In this room, I feel like I’m getting close to the answer to something. It’s not safe and warm, but fresh and exciting. Not closed in, but wide open.

“The night is young,” I say, slugging Shorty’s arm. “And so are we.”

“What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” Shorty says out of nowhere.

I shrug. “Why?”

“That hair’s looking long enough now,” he says. “You ready to lay on your first conk?”