JACK MORRIS DID NOT MEAN TO DISCOVER THE END OF THE WORLD. He meant to play piano, collect old records, and maybe—just maybe—figure out why the woman he loved spent all her time looking at the sky.
The club on 135th Street was packed on that Saturday night in the spring of 1925. Smoke hung low, the kind of Manhattan smoke that clings to your clothes for a week and makes your dreams taste like bourbon. Jack played the upright piano in the corner, fingers moving over keys that had seen better decades, and the crowd danced the Charleston like the world might actually last. It was after...
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