The Last Dance at the Halo
The saxophone was the only thing Tommy O'Brien owned that was worth more than five dollars. It was a Conn tenor, lacquer peeled, bell dented, but the keys still sang when he blew. He played it on the fire escape of his Harlem apartment, sitting on an upturned crate with the city spread out below him like a spilled jewelry box—neon signs and taxi lights and the long black ribbon of 125th Street,...
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