Free Jonah Man by Christopher Narozny Page A

right, Ray said. All right. I think I’ve got something to keep you afloat.
    Room and board?
    You should be able to work it out with her.
    Her?
    Ray wrote a name and address on a slip of paper.
    A Madame?
    With the business I throw her way, she can’t afford not to take you on.
    There must be acts on the circuit that feel the same, Jonson said. I don’t have to go it alone.
    I couldn’t, Ray said.
    You could.
    I won’t. I have a reputation. I promised Ginny I’d look out for you, but by God...
    Jonson held up a hand.
    Best stop there, he said.

    The walk up the macadamized driveway took him past flower beds, sculpture gardens, Rolls Royces. The portico was large enough for a man to live in, its roof doubling as a lanai with
marble balustrade and matching chaise longue. The Madame came to the door in a blue silk gown and diamond earrings, a fresh-picked corsage pinned to her breast. She’d rouged over the liver spots on her neck, wore opera-length gloves to cover the backs of her hands.
    Ray sent me, Jonson said.
    Right, she said, eyeing the basket.
    Inside, there were women with their legs crossed running the length of a batik-print sofa, one per cushion. A dark-skinned woman in a sarong. A pale blonde with her hair bobbed and marcelled. An Asian girl in a jewel-studded bra and grass skirt.
    He’s here for me, the Madame said.
    They quit smiling, let their shoulders go slack as they stood and disbanded, looking more like girls in costumes than women competing for a fare.
    This way, she said.
    She led him through a set of stained-glass doors into an adjoining room—a bar, newly constructed, dust still settling on the oak floor, a mammoth man in overalls and shirt sleeves coating the stools with shellac. Jonson and the Madame sat on opposite sides of a small, light-grained table. The Madame drank from a glass of clear, straight liquid, offered him nothing.
    What’s wrong with your kid? she asked.
    Ever have any of your own?
    Never wanted any.
    She glared into the basket as though forcing herself to stare down something repugnant.
    They get bumps on their skin. Nothing to it.
    All right, she said, pointing to a piano in the far corner. Let’s hear you.
    He played a song he’d sung with his wife, a happy little ballad, one of the few songs he knew by heart. He sang both parts,
hitting the keys soft, covering his playing with his voice.
    That’ll do, she said. Just keep it up tempo. The bar is an add-on. It opens in three days. I want to hear you practicing until then. Pay is eight dollars a month plus room and board for you and your kid. Room is in the basement—I can’t have a baby crying upstairs. One of the girls will show you around. Your job is simple: play when I tell you to play, stop when I tell you to stop. Max will handle any fights, but this isn’t that kind of place. In the meantime, I’ll get a doctor to look at your kid.
    Obliged, Jonson said.
    She motioned for him to wait in the lobby. He sat where the whore in the sarong had sat, let his body drop into the cushions. He felt as if his limbs had been struggling to keep pace with one another and now for the first time in a long while they could rest in unison. He shut his eyes, heard his son breathing in his sleep.
    The girl assigned to show him around smiled, bowed her head, called herself Cynthia. She was young with a young voice, pretty beneath the paint.
    What do you think so far? she asked.
    This could work, Jonson said. Better than a boat.
    I’ll show you where you’ll stay.
    The basement was well ordered, but crowded. A central aisle cut through long side aisles of identical and carefully stacked cardboard boxes. The concrete floor was swept clean, the ceiling dusted for cobwebs. Halfway down the center aisle was a cot set atop an area rug, a floor lamp plugged into an extension chord, a small bookcase for him to fill, an H&M trunk for his belongings. There were mouse traps at the mouth of every side aisle, most of them empty.
    Not bad,