The Song Is You by Megan Abbott Page B

she sighed, as if deciding. Then, “At a joint on Adams near Jefferson Park. King Cole is the name.”
    Hop felt a ripple of relief. Not a complete dead end. He looked back at the woman, leaning on the door frame. “What’s your name?”
    She smirked. “Just call me Gorgeous,” she said, beginning to shut the door.
    “Thanks, Gorgeous.” Hop quickly pulled out a five-spot. “You’re swell…”
    Smirk sliding away, she tucked her fingers around the bill and the door swung shut.

King Cole
    It was a large place with green damask walls, long, narrow tables, and private booths with heavy curtains. On the long wall behind the bar was a smoke-patina mural of a bushy-browed king enthroned with pipe and bowl. It ran all the way behind the small stage, where it depicted three fiddlers looking more like German barmaids than musicians.
    A white girl in a spangled gold dress sang Rosemary Clooney style, while a long-fingered Negro played piano. The crowd was just as mixed.
    Hop slid into a seat at the bar and ordered a soda to keep things simple. The bartender didn’t quite roll his eyes at the order but perked up when Hop left a two-dollar tip.
    “Is Iolene singing tonight?”
    The bartender lifted his eyes, pausing a second in wiping a glass.
    “Not these days, pal. She doesn’t come around here anymore. Not in weeks.”
    “That right? How come?”
    “Most people here knew her as Sweet Louise. Guess you’re kind of a friend.”
    “I am. Haven’t seen her in a while, though.”
    “Not so much of a friend if you don’t know.”
    “Know what?”
    The bartender set down the glass and pointed, rag still in hand, to a man sitting alone at the far end of the long bar. He looked like he’d been drinking for several hours or years.
    “That’s the man you want to talk to. Jimmy Love. Played piano for her when she was on regular.”
    Hop thanked him and made his way down the bar. The man spotted the approach and gave Hop a long, unblinking stare the whole way.
    ‘Tour name ain’t Hippity Hop, is it?” he muttered. And the minute he spoke, Hop recognized him as the man he’d spoken to on the phone when he’d tried to reach Iolene.
    “Uh, no, Gil Hopkins. They call me Hop, though.”
    “They do, do they? Who’s they?”
    Hop smiled. “Just about all the theys.”
    “Oh, then you’re the one,” Jimmy Love said slowly. His voice,
    coated with drink, still had a funny kind of dignity that made Hop sit up straighter in his seat. “I thought so when you called.”
    “The one what?”
    “The one Iolene went to see. She said she’d done you a favor, a big one, of the ‘mouth-shut’ variety, and now, with all her trouble, you would step up.” His eyes turned from the mirror behind the bar to Hop.
    “I don’t know what…” Hop felt three hairs above sea level, and sinking fast.
    “Those boys have been closing in. Boys you don’t want to make unfriendly with, Hoppity.”
    “Connected?”
    “Hell, ain’t we all?” He shrugged, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. “You can’t live in this town without it sticking to you like tar paper. But no, these fellas were up some notches.”
    Hop lowered his voice. “Cohen connected?”
    Wiping a drop of Jack Daniel’s from his upper lip, Jimmy Love shook his head. “What did I just say, greenhorn? You’re much slower than she let on. She acted like you knew a damn thing.”
    “She was wrong,” Hop said. Boy, was she.
    “More ways than one, looks like. You didn’t help her for jack, Jack,” he said, shaking his head again and slipping his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Now it’s later than you think.”
    Recognizing he’d been dismissed, Hop stepped out of Jimmy Love’s way. He was starting to tire of conversations where he only followed a whisper of meaning. Each step into Iolene’s world made him feel like he was pulling away filmy veil after filmy veil and never getting any closer to her honey skin. This was how he’d always felt with