No one knew what was in Eddie Harlan’s brown paper sack. Almost any afternoon you could see the skinny old black man wandering down Wabash Avenue; the sack rolled up and held tightly against his chest like a mother cradling a baby. He was light on his feet, moving through the crowds on Michigan Avenue like a boxer.

Eddie’s age was a much a mystery as his paper sack. His face was furrowed and the thin, dark skin hung from his cheekbones like drapes. He could sign his name because he cashed his Social Security checks at the fruit market on the corner of Wabash and 15^th Street. He’d do odd jobs there occasionally for pocket change and if his sack got wet, they’d give him a fresh one.

Whether Eddie was a bum or not depends on your definition. He had a room in a boarding house somewhere in East Chicago so he wasn’t homeless, though he did wander around aimlessly and from time to time would sit and drink with those people in the alley behind the fruit market.

He was clean shaven and his clothes, while threadbare, were well maintained. Eddie remained sober for long periods, but when he tied one on it was a corker. During those times he’d hang around the alleys of jazz clubs, usually by their garbage cans.

He’d shuffle along the alley keeping time with music as it drifted out the kitchen door. Then he’d sit on the asphalt and lean his back against the building with his knees bent, keeping time with his feet. Eventually, he’d pass out.

A white man in a tuxedo with a white silk scarf twisted around his neck stood on Michigan Avenue across from the water tower watching a small black boy of about nine, tap dance on the sidewalk. The man turned to a tall blonde with short cropped hair, in a flapper dress, and high heeled pumps, and said, “This little guy can dance up a storm.”

“Come on, Harvey, we’re running late, honey,” she said.

The boy grinned, his teeth sparkling in the reflection of the passing cars and flashing neon lights. Every few minutes he’d take off his cap and do a smooth turn as he continued the keep a staccato beat. He’d hold the cap upside-down as he passed in front of people who’d stopped to watch him. A few dropped a penny or two in the cap and if he was lucky someone might toss in a nickel or dime.

The man and the blonde turned to leave and the boy followed them down the sidewalk for a few steps tapping the whole time. The boy called after the couple, “You and your lady look real swell tonight, Mr. Orley.”

Mr. Orley glanced over his shoulder and said, “Look me up in about ten years, kid.”

“Miss Polly, is that you?”

“Of course it is, Eddie. Who did you think it was?”

“I thought Carla might be in there pressing your dress for the show. Have you seen her?”

“She’s not coming in. I think she has the flu or something. Are you going to open for me tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am, you think she’s okay?”

“You can check on her after the show. I won’t be home for awhile.”

Eddie stood in front of a big oak desk facing the fat man.

“I need twenty bucks. I’ll give it back to you on payday,” Eddie said.

“Like hell you will,” the man said. “The last time I lent you twenty bucks I didn’t see it for six damn months. I ain’t giving you any money, Eddie. That’s final.”

“I’ve got an audition at the Arcadia Theater. I need some new shoes, man. Give me a break,” Eddie said. Then he undid his watch and handed it to the fat man. “I’ll give you my watch as collateral. It’s a Hamilton.”

“Hand it to me.”

The man looked at the watch and, once he’d verified its brand, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Then he peeled off a twenty, saying, “Saturday or the watch is mine.”

“You got it, Abe. I really appreciate this, man.”

“Get the hell out of here and don’t come back until you have that twenty.”

Carla stood in the wings of the Delta Club Speakeasy watching Eddie do his routine. She stretched and put her left hand in the small of her back. Her ankles were swollen and the high-healed pumps cut into her instep. She shifted from one leg to the other, trying to adjust to the extra weight.

Eddie was doing a slow number, almost a soft-shoe routine not using the taps on the heel and toe of his shoes. He was playing a cadence game with the drummer of the jazz combo. He stayed a half beat ahead, and then suddenly changed to a full beat and a half behind. The drummer would stop and Eddie would keep the beat, then Eddie would stop and the drummer would keep the beat. It was a lazy, easy going style that Eddie often started his show with.

Within a few minutes the drummer set a fast, steady tempo and Eddie responded immediately, the taps resounding off the hardwood stage. He’d twirl like a bullfighter, pull his thin frame to its full height and stand motionless, for a split second. Then with an incredible burst of energy he’d take off across the floor performing a flawless series of steps. He moved so quickly that the stagehand had trouble keeping the spotlight on him.

As the tempo increased and the volume of the music speeded up, the crowd began to chant, “Go, Eddie, go! Go, Eddie, go!” Responding to the audience, he began a series of spins landing first on one foot and then the other, finally falling to his knees and sliding forward until he almost hit the stage lights.

Suddenly he sprang to his toes, hopping on the taps, the drummer keeping time with each motion. Perspiration soaked Eddie’s shirt making it cling to his chest like wet tissue. He took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tux jacket and mopped his forehead.

He looked out past the stage lights, the darkness masking the smiles he knew were there, listening to the applause, feeling the warmth radiating from the audience. The tempo slowed and he started his famous exit off the stage: the one where he half-walked, half-danced to a slow beat, bowing from the waist at the last minute before going behind the curtain.

Carla grabbed him by the arm and gave him a kiss on the cheek just before he ran back on stage for his first encore. After the third, he said, “Just one more, baby. Then I’ll take you home.”

“Calm down, honey. You’re too high,” Carla said.

“I’m okay. I’ve just got to dance.”

“No,” she said. “Get your dancing shoes off and your walking shoes on and take me home.”

The street was deserted as they walked out the stage door. A fine mist shrouded the streetlight on the corner. At the end of the block some tuxedoed patrons of the Delta Club waited for their cars. Suddenly, there was the screeching of tires followed by the sound of a thousand firecrackers.

Eddie put his arm around Carla and pulled her onto the sidewalk. Down the street he could see the people in front of the club jerk violently as the .45 caliber slugs from a Tommy gun ripped into their bodies. Some, like ballerinas, pivoted in a slow, graceful turn before falling crumpled to the sidewalk.

Holding Carla close to him, Eddie continued to hear the loud reports and felt bits and pieces of bricks and mortar hitting his face and neck. Silence followed, the whole episode lasting no more than sixty seconds. After it was over, Carla lay beside him, blood trickling from a single bullet-hole in the middle of her forehead.

The kitchen door opened and a shaft of light fell across Eddie’s face. His eyes were bloodshot and he was three days unshaven. The brown paper sack was rolled up under his arm and he sat in the alley with his back against the building. An empty bottle of Four Roses lay at his side. Next to the garbage can a mongrel chewed on the remains of a T-bone steak. A rat strode boldly up to Eddie’s right foot, sniffed at it, and then ran into the shadows.

Four men in tuxedos came through the door. Each had a high-ball in his hand. The tallest asked, “You got any weed, man?”

“I got some white stuff, but it’ll coast you, brother. It’ll cost you more than you make in a fucking week.”

“Don’t jive me, man. Hand it over before I break your back in two.”

There was some scuffling, but nothing serious because those brothers were already three sheets to the wind.

One of the men noticed Eddie for the first time and said, “Hey, old timer. What’s coming down?”

Eddie was vaguely aware of their presence. He mumbled under his breath. The men looked at him and for the first time realized he was drunk. One of them had diamonds embedded in his incisors and he walked over to where Eddie sat. Turning the old man’s face to the shaft of light from the open kitchen door, he said, “This old dude looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

“Maybe he’s an old clarinet player,” the younger man said.

“No, he’s just a bum. Come on, we’ve got another set.”

As the kitchen door closed and the alley darkened, Eddie pushed himself up on his right elbow. He weaved slightly and fell back against the wall, the growls of the dog confusing him.

The spotlight was cropped until it made a small circle on the stage about sixteen inches in diameter. The theater was pitch-black. As the band began to play a lively jazz tune, the light moved slowly back and forth. Suddenly, it stopped on a pair of patent leather shoes. They appeared to be sitting empty on the stage. Slowly they began to tap, gaining speed as the tempo increased.

The shoes flew across the stage in a frantic, almost impossible routine. The stage light kept up with them as if it was a bubble and they were trapped inside.

The announcer’s voice came over the P.A. system overriding the sound of the band, “And now ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Eddie Harlan.”

At that moment the stagehand opened the shutters on the spotlight and it expanded to include the whole figure of Eddie Harlan dressed in white tie and tails, top hat and cane. The audience gave him a thunderous applause as Eddie and his patent leather shoes continued to dance back and forth across the stage. At the end of the routine there were three short encores and then the audience was standing, clapping wildly and shouting for more.

Eddie slumped into the chair in his dressing room, beads of perspiration dripping from his forehead. He wiped the wetness away with a handkerchief and looked into the mirror. He stared at himself for a long time, then reached down and pulled a bottle from the bottom drawer.

“Hand me your bag, sir, and I’ll take it to your room,” Eddie said reaching for the man’s suitcase. His uniform was too short, the legs two inches above his shoe tops.

“Let me have the key, boy. Where’s the bar?”

“Just on the other side of the reception desk,” Eddie said.

He picked up the suitcase and started for the elevator. Then he stopped and stared at the man. Finally, the man took a wad of bills out of his pocket and pealed off a dollar and handed it to the bellhop.

The spotlight landed on Eddie’s face. The brightness startled him but didn’t arouse him. The patrol car turned into the alley and stopped. The police officer walked over to Eddie’s prostrate body and nudged him with his night stick. Eddie opened his bleary eyes and looked at the officer.

“That you, Mr. Orley?”

“Get up, old timer. Can you navigate on your own?” the officer asked.

“I can do it, Mr. Orley. Just give me a chance. All I need is a break.”

“I need some help getting this guy in the car!” the patrolman yelled to his partner.

The headlights of the patrol car flooded the alley. The dog was gone and the rats were hidden in cracks in the wall or under garbage cans. The police officers surrounded Eddie, their shadows thrown against the wall larger than life.

“At least the old guy doesn’t weigh much,” one officer said.

“What’s in the sack?”

“I don’t know. I can’t pry it out of his fingers.”

“They’ll put it with his stuff at the station.”

The policemen propped Eddie up in the backseat of the patrol car and let him slump against the door jam. They climbed in front, and the driver backed out of the alley. The jazz quartet was playing loud enough for the officers to hear as they drove by the open kitchen door of the club.

“You like jazz, Denny?” asked the officer behind the wheel.

“Nah. I’m a rock-and-roll man.”

“Me, too.”

Minutes later the patrol car pulled into the parking lot of the police station. The driver said, “You get the old man out and take him to the tank. I’ll log us in.”

As the patrolman opened Eddie’s door, he said, “Come on, buddy, you can sleep it off inside.”

Eddie didn’t move. The officer shook his shoulder. When he got no response, he shook him harder and the old man slumped face forward and lay awkwardly on the seat.

The morgue attendant cut Eddie’s clothes off the body with a large pair of sissors and threw them onto a stainless steel table. The brown paper sack was still cradled in Eddie’s arm, rigor mortis locking it in place. The man pried the sack from Eddie’s fingers and placed it at the head of the table. Then he carefully emptied the pockets of the old man’s pants and shirt. There was some small change in one pocket and three one dollar bills in another. There was no identification.

A second man, older than the first, walked up to the table.

“What’s in the sack?” he asked.

“I haven’t got a clue.”

The older man picked up the sack and removed a pair of new patent-leather shoes with metal taps on the toe and heel. “Know what these are?” he asked.

“Shoes.”

“They’re tap shoes.”

“So?”

“Surely you’ve seen tap dancers on television.”

“I’ll send them to central and they can donate them to the Salvation Army. We’re going to cremate this bum in twenty-four hours.”

“But these are tap shoes, you don’t wear these things on the street,” said the older man.

“So they can take the stupid steel plates off and they’ll be regular shoes again.”

“But they’re dancing shoes,” the older man said.

“I’m not going to burn up a good pair of shoes so some old black dude can tap dance his way to heaven.”

“Forget it, I’ll finish up here, you take care of the paperwork,” the older man said.

The young man shrugged and left the room carrying a clipboard. The other attendant stared at Eddie’s frail, emaciated nude body on the stainless-steel table and sighed. He picked up one of the shoes and slipped it on the old man’s bare foot. It fit perfectly. After lacing both shoes carefully, he zipped up the body bag.

 

Mike Glasscock