The music never rested, swirling aimlessly through the notes and not settling into a clear tune. Though the instruments played together, their melodies seemed completely unconnected – independent and atonal. The gentle murmuring of voices blended with the haze of smoke in the dark room to create a cloud of what tried to serve as a sedative. The attempt proved futile because the cacophonous music grated incessantly against comfort. "Follow us into oblivion," the haze cried, and the music amended, "Follow us into chaos."

Though he frequented a few of these establishments in town, Tony rarely found any pleasure in them. There were exceptions. When the band embarked on one of the newer tunes, Tony felt impotent to resist the tapping of his feet. The "Chicago jazz" appealed to him on many levels, and when the singer added her sumptuous tones to the striking chords, Tony liked to close his eyes and immerse himself in the sensation. It seemed to wrap him up, make him sweat, and then wring him dry.

Because of the fog in the room, Tony didn't at first see his friend approach, and he closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Within seconds, he could feel the ice-cold liquid pour down the back of his shirt and pool inconveniently at his beltline.

"Cretin," Tony hissed at his assailant, and a deep rumble of a laugh bellowed from behind him.

"You know," came the gentle thunder of a voice that matched the laugh. "You're never gonna fit in down here if you keep callin' people names out of a dictionary. You'll just keep bein' useless."

Tony gritted his teeth in irritation at the moisture before answering, "I am useful precisely because I'm not like you. I fit in out there in the modern world."

"We're modern," came the reply, the tone somewhat incensed, and Tony finally turned to face his conversant.

The man stood well over six feet tall, his skin almost ebony. In one hand, he held a trumpet and in the other, he nursed a cigar, a relatively benign form of chemical alteration compared to the other drugs available in the room. Tony admired his companion greatly; to overcome such oppression and reach such heights spoke of an indomitable spirit. Of course, the man's size probably guaranteed that few would mess with him regardless of his character.

Rising, Tony slapped his friend on the back, sure to dip his own hand into his drink before planting it firmly on the larger man's shirt. "Jerome," Tony smiled, "Leonard is modern. You were modern twenty years ago. Now? I'm not so sure."

A look of menace swept through Jerome's eyes, but Tony knew that the larger man wouldn't hurt a soul. "All I know is," Jerome offered acerbically, "that you're so mad at the world that you may not be able to help us at all. How you gonna convince anyone to change when they all run away from you, scared to death?"

Despite the harshness of the words, Tony bared his teeth in a grin. "You'll just have to show me the error of my ways."

"Don't tempt me," Jerome threatened.

"So, you have a rally planned for tomorrow," Tony changed the subject abruptly. "Do you expect any trouble?"

"I always expect trouble," the man answered, and his jocularity melted into a serious scowl. "Nothing specific, though. Have you heard anything?"

"Just the usual grumblings. The whites hate the blacks, the Irish hate the Italians, everyone hates the Pollacks. And everyone forgets the difference down here." Tony grinned at his friend again.

"Well, it's better than New York," Jerome chuckled.

"New York's a jungle. Even the underground is segregated." Tony tried not to indulge his anger at the thought.

"Well," Jerome continued, "we're watching the new campaign because Crenshaw doesn't know where he's going to throw his support. I like him, because he's basically honest, but McReynolds is equally corrupt across factions. If Crenshaw bows to the powers that be, then my race will be -"

"Let's just pray that doesn't happen," Tony answered the unfinished sentence.

A shadow fell across the table, and Tony and Jerome looked up simultaneously into the face of the bar's owner. "Hello, gentlemen," the man crooned facilely. "Is the music to your liking?"

"You know you have the best band in town," Jerome returned with a glib smirk, and the new face grimaced a smile.

"I do. And how modest of you to say so," the man agreed, nodding at Jerome's instrument which now rested on the table. "Who's your friend?

"Marcel, meet Tony. Tony, Marcel."

Instead of extending his hand, Tony nodded noncommittally at the new visitor, and Marcel returned Tony's coolness in kind. "Looks like you've got a smart one there, Jerome."

"Yeah, he's smart," Jerome agreed. "But his heart's right, which is more than I can say for you."

Despite Jerome's harsh words, Tony noted a definite air of teasing between the two men and began to relax. If Jerome engaged Marcel with such ease, it spoke of familiarity and camaraderie. Anyone Jerome trusted, Tony trusted.

"So, you still playin' at politics, little man?" Marcel leaned in and spoke more quietly.

Tony almost laughed at the term "little" attached to Jerome.

"You better believe I am. I'm getting a lot of support from the neighborhood, and I don't need much beyond. I'm just runnin' for a council position."

"A council full o' white folks," Marcel narrowed his eyes. "No, offense, young'un." Marcel nodded at Tony.

"You becomin' a white hater," Jerome glared into his friend's eyes.

"I'm a pragmatist," Marcel answered without emotion. "Right now, I can't meet a white man on the street who doesn't look at me like I'm a stupid animal."

"Tony doesn't look at you that way," Jerome shot piercingly at the cynic.

Marcel grinned, "No, Tony looks at me like I'm a smart animal."

At this, Jerome and Marcel shared a laugh, and Tony's granite face melted into slight abashment.

"Well," Jerome offered through a dying chuckle, "the good news is that Tony looks at every man that way. He saves the dumb animal looks for the women. Like, the dumb animal that can get you killed while you're tryin' to save it; isn't that right, Tony?"

Tony couldn't resist a smirk.

"I'm no hero," Tony mumbled. "If women act dumb, then that's their problem. Same with men. I put in with the smart ones. If we get the right smart ones in power, then the dumb ones will be safer by default."

"Sounds to me like you take a pretty dim view of most of mankind," Marcel accused gently, almost as if he pitied Tony.

"No more so than you. Sounds to me like you've got me wrapped up in a pretty tight package, and if I tried to break out of it, you'd probably misinterpret my intentions and condemn me on the spot."

With this declaration, a silent exchange occurred between Marcel and Tony, and Tony got the feeling that he had somehow passed muster with the proprietor of the underground jazz club. Tony didn't know why that mattered, exactly, but he actually felt a little grateful that he had risen in the man's estimation.

"Don't listen to Marcel," Jerome responded, either unaware or choosing to ignore what had transpired between his friends. "He talks big, but I never seen him refuse a plea for help regardless of a man's color or position." Leaning in, Jerome lowered his voice as he said, "You should see the back-alley charities he has runnin' outta this place."

Tony saw Marcel's head whip around in surprise, and a hiss of displeasure escaped the proprietor.

"Do you think," Jerome turned to his friend, "that I would tell someone that I didn't trust about something so sensitive? I trust Tony with my life."

"In that case, maybe he wants to help."

"I told you, I'm no hero," Tony interjected.

"Tony's a little busy with my projects," Jerome smiled. "And he has some projects of his own that take up quite a bit of time." When Jerome said this, he glared at Tony. "If he keeps them up, he may not help anyone. He'll help himself right into the rodents' trunk."

Tony shrugged at the reference to his safety.

"He goin' up against the macks?" Marcel gasped in disbelief.

"I'm not going up against anyone. I just interfere when I see something that isn't right. And I try to win some converts."

"Tony isn't picky. He goes against the macks, the guidos, whoever exploits those 'dumb people' he acted so callous about a few minutes ago," Jerome offered conspiratorially. "And he's pretty persuasive, too."

"They're not dumb," Tony sulked.

"You called them that; not us," Marcel accused. "Besides, Tony sounds pretty much like a guido to me."

Tony tried not to respond to the exposure of his poorly-protected secret. Hadn't he purposely reverted to his Italian name as a protest against hiding his heritage?

"The point is," Jerome continued as if no one else had spoken, "that I need Tony to keep himself out of trouble. He's gonna be my go-between with the white community, such as it is. He has a way with words."

"He doesn't look like much. How's he gonna do that?"

"Well, his father is Professor Garner."

"A college boy," Marcel smirked. "And everyone pretty much loves Professor Garner."

"I don't have that much to do to convince my father. He'll support Jerome because Jerome is an honest man who wants what's best for the town. You don't need to worry so much, Jerome."

Though he had determined to stand against the local gangs, Tony had always been shrewd, and he felt little fear that someone would connect him with any activity detrimental to the criminal underground. He had little power, and he would describe his interference as petty at best. He held no delusions of grandeur.

"Well, look," Marcel lowered his voice even more. "If you're ever in a bind, come to my back door and maybe I can help."

"Your back door," Tony queried.

"Off Park, behind the old burlesque. It's pretty well hidden, but someone is always there to answer the door. Just tell them Selma sent you."

"Selma?"

"You did it to yourself, Marcel," Jerome chastised gently. "Selma was Marcel's sister. She had some pretty awful things happen to her when she was little, and didn't make it past childhood."

"She died fifty years ago, my angel," Marcel looked wistful before planting a determined expression on his features. "And I used that name on purpose, Jerome. Anything good that I do, I do it in her honor and with God as witness. She taught me that being a man didn't mean beatin' the other guy, or even avenging her death. Bein' a man meant goin' on when I felt like dyin', and doin' my best to stop the kind of men who hurt my sister."

"And helping the ones who are hurt, even if they're guidos, or macks, or pollacks," Jerome expounded with a glimpse of pride toward his friend.

Moved despite himself, Tony could say nothing for several seconds, and the trio sat pondering what had passed between them.

"Well," Tony finally agreed. "I appreciate the offer. I don't foresee any drama, but I'll remember if the need arises."

Marcel smiled weakly and rose to end their conversation. "I'm neglecting my other clientele, old buddy," he offered Jerome. "And I think the band is badly in need of a tuning."

"Off you go, then," Jerome offered, and this time both he and Tony extended their hands to the proprietor.

"Come back anytime," Marcel exclaimed loudly. "Just don't bring any trouble." He winked at his new friend, and Tony smiled in return.

After Marcel had fully extracted himself from their table, Tony turned back to Jerome. "Just give me a timeframe when you decide how to announce your candidacy. Until then, I can only talk to my pop in hypotheticals; I need to mention you by name as much as possible."

"I'll do it. The public announcement should be within the next week, but I'll let you know when I decide the specifics. Communication between our communities isn't always the best, so if I leave it to the public, you may never find out."

Tony smiled at his friend. "It may be a while, but this thing'll work out."

"If I didn't believe that," Jerome agreed, "I'd have bought my plot of land in the countryside and run away from this mess."

Rising, Tony patted his friend on the back and made his exit into the twilight.