Chicago · 1927 · Back Entrance
Behind the barbershop. Knock twice, ask for Eddie. The gin is real. The jazz is better. Leave your name at the door — and your trouble.
Al Capone's favourite haunt. If you saw him at the bar, you did not comment. You ordered another drink and thanked God for your continued health.
The bar runs forty feet. The stage is raised eighteen inches — just enough that the musicians can see the doors. They have their reasons.
Harlem. The greatest musicians alive, playing for an audience that would never have let them in the front door. Duke Ellington considers this irony.
Sherman Billingsley's kingdom. Celebrities, columnists, FBI informants. The trick is not knowing who is which.
Louis Armstrong holds court. The band plays until 4am. The police look the other way — for reasons that are mutually understood.
Omertà is not a Sicilian concept. It is a Chicago one. It is a New York one. It is a universal concept understood by anyone who has ever had a good time somewhere they shouldn't have been.
There are people who know the password and people who don't. Both kinds visit regularly. One kind uses the front door. The other uses the one behind the icebox.