Strivers Row by Kevin Baker Page B

the band, he could hear their cries of, “Go, Red! Go, Red! Work that white girl!” He was the center of all their attention, it was another daydream come true, and it spurred him on to move even faster, pushing her as fast as she could go.
    But she could keep up. He had never seen a dancer like her, moving with him as if she knew what he was going to do before he did it. He circled slowly backward toward the center of the dance floor, his own feet moving more easily and naturally than they ever had. Bringing her with him, swinging her up over his hip, his elbow, his shoulder. Straight up, sideways, backward—all of it as if she were weightless.
    When he pulled her to him, he tried to get a good look at her face—but all he saw was that her eyes were watching his. Large and grey and steady, anticipating everything he could do. He reached for her waist—and she was already vaulting up into the air. Whirling around, her loose skirt snapping as he split, stood up, spun her up the other way, split again, stood up and caught her in his arms. Her heels gone now, flung off somewhere along the way, doing it all in her bare feet.
    Flying home! Flying home!
    Joe Newman’s trumpet was swapping riffs with Hampton’s vibes now, back and forth, back and forth, the music still building relentlessly. Through a veil of sweat Malcolm made out that he and his partner were now making their way up toward the section Sandy had pointed out as Cat’s Corner. He could see the long man with the twisted mouth watching him as he came, and his stomach knotted. He tried to look down, to see where his feet were, save himself from the lightning-fast kick that he was sure would leave him lying on the floor in pain and humiliation—but there was no time for that.
    He slid her through his legs, and she came out the other side, whirled around, and caught his tie in one hand. Leading him forward while he followed dumbly for a moment—a little embarrassed, unsure of what she was doing—but then grinning, snapping his fingers, putting a step into it. Letting her lead him until she turned again , slid back through his legs and clung tightly around one pants leg, just waiting for him to pull her up. He boosted her off his left hip, then his right, then back again, over and over—as all the brass jumped in now, the saxes and the trombones and the trumpets, and Hamp’s band headed at last to the big finish. Her eyes still following his, mirroring everything he did, and he knew in that instant he had never danced so well in his life. Even the tall man in the white suit grinning at him— at least Malcolm thought he was, through that twisted, sardonic mouth —and backing away, giving him room as they conquered every inch of The Track, and the band made its last, dizzying turn, and came back to earth.
    Then the other couples were all around them again, shaking his hand, asking where he came from. Twist Mouth Ganaway himself half-bowing to them, grinning, pretending to wave away smoke from the boards— “Oh, no more dancin’ here for a while! No dancin’! He left the floor too hot to follow!” Lionel and Willard and Sandy pounding his back like lunatics—
    â€œOh, Red, oh, Red, this is your night !”
    â€œWhere’d you learn to dance like that, you marin-y son of a bitch!”
    Malcolm only looked around frantically for his partner, thinking she had slipped out in the confusion. But no—she was right there in front of him again, as Hamp’s band swung into a slower number. Sliding her hand into his again, putting his left one around her waist, he remaining too stunned for the moment to do it himself.
    He felt slightly uncomfortable, embarrassed by the sweat sticking his zoot jacket to his back by now. She still looked as cool as lemon ice somehow, even the purple orchid that she wore in her hair to match her dress still in place. That was the one, unhip part about her,