Free Only the Wicked by Gary Phillips

that things were gonna change.
    These cats were telling in their music, but few were listening, that they were part of a people that expected allegiance from the government and the people down south and up north, not to loyalty oaths worth their weight in toilet paper, but to a piece of paper with some real weight called the Constitution. That being a good American wasn’t about denouncing your fellows to political poseurs like Tricky Dick Nixon and closet gay bully Roy Cohen, but upholding ideals like equality and fairness.
    As these jazz players came of age in that time, it was no surprise that mid- to late-’fifties Jazz would blow the stanzas of the freedom suite. Collette and Mingus would integrate their musicians’ local in Hollywood. The music had an edge, and the Nile was one of the venues where one could come and commune with the masters who laid it all out in tumbling, preening notes and innovative musical annotations.
    Monk halted his ruminations, paying attention to Ardmore Antony, who was talking to his cousin. Clara Antony had the passenger door open to the Chevy, starting to get in the seat.
    â€œYou and your cousin tight?” she asked Monk abruptly, stopping midway into the car.
    â€œFact is, I haven’t seen or heard from him since I was a kid.”
    She considered his words, then sat heavily in the Bel Air. Monk closed the door for her.
    â€œBut you know about him, right?” she asked, rolling down the window. She rested her head on the back of the seat. She removed her hat and fanned her face, which was warm from the booze.
    Her tone told him she wasn’t talking about baseball. He was about to inquire further when her husband and Kennesaw Riles wandered over.
    â€œWe got to talk, you know what I mean?” Riles slapped a large hand on the Bel Air’s fender. He leaned in to the car on his cane as if a harsh wind had suddenly whipped down from the San Gabriels. “I want to tell my side.” The older man was staring at Clara Antony, and she was making an effort not to return the look. “I need to,” Riles pleaded.
    The fat man stood on the driver’s side of the car. “We’ll talk, Kennesaw, really, we’ll talk. Now don’t forget, I gave you my card.” He pointed at Riles’ breast pocket. “I’ve got a concert coming up at the Olympic next month I want to give you tickets for, all right?” The round man squinted at something that wasn’t sunlight. “I know where you’ve been, Kennesaw.” Antony got in the car and ignited the fine-tuned engine.
    â€œI think he said his office was in the Dunbar,” Dellums mumbled, rubbing his head with both hands.
    The Chevy melded into the light traffic on Broadway.
    Kennesaw had Antony’s card out, holding it far from his face. “Says the Somerville Two on it.” He looked blankly at Monk.
    â€œThose’re new buildings the economic housing people built after taking over Dunbar,” Monk illuminated. He unlocked the car for the men.
    â€œHey,” Kelvon Little called from the doorway. “Why don’t you gents take this, otherwise it will Just go bad.” The barber came over with one of the serving tins that he’d folded over to hold its contents inside.
    Dellums took the food and got in the back behind Riles in the Ford. Monk waved goodbye to Little and drove away.
    â€œThem ‘Killin’ Blues’ is playin’.” Riles was slumped in the seat, his right leg moving with nervous energy. “Marshall is gone and Charlie Patton is strummin’ for me.”
    â€œWhat’s all that about, Kennesaw?” Monk continued piloting the car south along Broadway.
    â€œTestament and sacrifice.”
    â€œWhose sacrifice? Yours or Patton’s?”
    â€œThe people who cared.”
    â€œWhat people?” Dellums chimed in.
    Riles rubbed a hand over his whiskered jaw and began to sing softly. “ The levy