Free Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford

asked.
    ‘Just through the weekend, then Oscar said we’d talk .’
    ‘Knock ’em dead,’ Henry said as he and Keiko headed through the swinging kitchen door.
    Sheldon smiled and held up his sax. ‘Thank you, sir, you have a fine day now.’
    Henry and Keiko threaded their way through the kitchen, between a large butcher block on wheels and racks of dishes,glasses, and silverware. A few of the kitchen staff looked puzzled as the two of them smiled and walked on by, heading for the back landing in the alley.
    The evening had been incredible. Henry wished he could tell his parents about it. Maybe he would, at breakfast tomorrow, in English.
    The door leading to the alley had been closed and locked. It was almost blackout time. When Henry opened the heavy wooden sway, lurching in the doorway were two white faces in plain black suits that blotted out what little light remained in the dusky twilight. Henry stopped breathing, frozen, as he heard for the first time the cold metal tumble of a revolver being cocked. Each man gripped a fistful of gunmetal. Short, piercing barrels pointed directly at his smallish twelve-year -old frame as he broke his paralysis to step in front of Keiko, shielding her the best he could. On their suit coats hung badges. They were federal agents. Music inside the Black Elks Club clattered to a halt. The only sounds Henry heard were his own racing heartbeat and men everywhere shouting, ‘ FBI .’
     
    Henry knew it. They were being busted up for bootlegging. For hauling bottles of Jamaican Ginger to some speakeasy where they’d get fingered for making bathtub gin. But as shocked as he was, stunned was more like it, Keiko looked terrified.
    Henry felt the heavy hands of the two FBI men as they escorted them both back through the kitchen, ignoring workers in the pantry, who Henry saw were busy pouring bottles of whiskey and gin down the drain. The agentsignored them. It doesn’t make sense , Henry thought.
    In the ballroom the agents ordered them to sit in the very same chairs they had been occupying previously. From there Henry counted at least a half dozen other agents, some with shotguns, pointing them into the crowd, shouting at some, pushing others out of the way.
    Henry and Keiko both looked for Sheldon, who’d been lost in the jumbled shuffle of agents and members of the jazz orchestra, who were quietly and carefully putting their instruments away, protecting the valuables with which they earned a living.
    Patrons grabbed their coats and hats if they were nearby; others left them behind, heading for the exits.
    Henry and Keiko looked on as Oscar Holden himself stood at the edge of the stage, microphone in hand, imploring everyone to stay calm. He lost his cool when an FBI agent tried to shout him down at gunpoint. Oscar kept on hollering, ‘They just listening to music. Why you taking them away?’ The old man in his white, sweat-stained shirt hoisted his suspenders, casting a long shadow across the dance floor from the halcyon lights behind him, like God yelling down from the mountain. In his shadow lay the Japanese patrons, both men and women – facedown on the dance floor, guns pointed to their heads.
    Henry looked at Keiko, who was frozen – staring at a Japanese man sprawled on the floor. ‘Mr Toyama?’ Henry whispered.
    Keiko nodded, slowly.
    Oscar kept shouting until Sheldon broke through the crowd and peeled him away from the FBI agent who stoodjust below. Sax still in hand, he did his best to try to calm the bandleader, and the agent who had just chambered a shell in his shotgun.
    The club seemed hollow without music, replaced by the barking of federal agents and the occasional clicking of handcuffs. The dimly lit dance hall still sparkled now and then as the candles on empty tables flickered light on half-empty martini glasses.
    The six Japanese patrons were handcuffed and taken to the door, the women sniffling, the men asking ‘ Why ?’ in English. Henry heard ‘ I’m an