The jazz spilled from the doorway of the Harlem club like liquid gold, spilling onto the sidewalk an
The Price of Freedom The jazz spilled from the doorway of the Harlem club like liquid gold, spilling onto the sidewalk and into the cold November air. Inside, the smoke hung thick as a curtain, and the band played something that made your feet move before your mind could catch up with the feeling. Marcus Johnson stood behind the bar of his small establishment two blocks away, polishing glasses...
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