The Starlight Appraisers
Part One The Savoy Café on 135th Street smelled of fried fish, beer, and possibility. Marcus Sterling sat at a corner table with his trumpet case beside him, watching the Harlem Renaissance roll past his window like a river of light. At twenty-eight, he had two lives: by night, he played jazz at the Cotton Club, his fingers finding chords that made white society women weep; by day, he was an...
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