Down below, there were thousands of scowling black men, dressed in black suits, spanning the entire width of 125th Street, extending back as far as I could see, all marching to the beat of hundreds of drums, not just ordinary drums. but huge tom toms strung around the necks of the beaters.

There were also the massive bass drums one sees at football games, so heavy they had to be borne on wheels.. Men marched alongside them beating them with clubs the size of baseball bats. Their bomp bomp bomping pummeled my chest cage. There were no snare drums, no band music, only those thundering drums.

Their cadence was dictated by a single man from the back of a flat bed truck, waving his arms in broad exaggerated sweeps. A good half mile back, another platoon of drummers picked up the beat. There were battalions of marchers, separated by platoons of drummers, all following the lead of that one man on the truck.

These days, in movies. such masses are computer generated figures, stretching to the horizon. These men were real.

“Who are they?” I asked my companion. “Black Muslims,” he uttered in awe.”

“Why are they doing this? I asked in total wonder.

“”I guess, to show their strength,” he whispered. He stared at me straight on. ”You have to stay here until they are gone,” he said. ”This is no time for a white man to be on the streets of Harlem.”

I tried to pass it off. “They have no reason to bother me,” I said, bravado masking my fear. “I have always been a friend of black peop”…

He raised his hand to cut me off.. “A few minutes ago, one of them phoned me, demanding to know why we were allowing a white man in the building. “Someone in this building has given you away.”

“Given me away,” What the hell does that mean? They have no reason to give me any trouble.” I started to go back downstairs and leave.

“You are white and that is all they need to attack you, maybe kill you.”

That got my attention. I sank down into a sofa, totally flummoxed.

The deafening drums disoriented me. Drums can do that. I now understand those white hunters in the old African movies who went berserk under the relentless assault of the native drums, finally screaming, “Those drums are driving me mad.!” A couple hundred big drums crashing into your cerebrum is a lot more crazy making than the “tin tinabulation of the bells bells bells!.” immortalized by Poe.

My imagination ran rampant. There were thousands of black Muslims out there, some of them ready to do me in. At the very least, I was going to be late for the next morning’s show. I called Al Heacock.

“I’m in a bit of a schmetlach,” I understated. “I did a flawless job of bringing on the Drifters, but now there are a million Black Muslims out front ready to storm the theater and lop off my trophy head.”

It took awhile to persuade Al that this was no joke. He had known me for years and telling him that there was an army of enraged Black Muslims outside ready to storm the theater was just about what I would do to jerk his chain.

I had to bring the Stage Manager to the phone to validate my claim. “He’s not kidding,” The Manager assured him. “He is in grave danger.”

Al got me back on the line. “Stay put, Harry, He said briskly. “I’ll get back to you.”

He spoke like it was his problem, not mine. I just happened to be the one on the brink of extinction. To me, it was mortal danger. To him, it was a fascinating exercise.

By now, the Drifters were finished with their set, and the predicament about the white man under siege by Black Muslims had permeated the building..

The office began to fill up with Drifters and musicians, all chattering excitedly. Then, royalty arrived, and all fell silent. They cleared a path as Count Basie entered regally. “I heard about your trouble,” he said grimly, “Maybe I can help. They probably know me and I can escort you out.”

The Stage Manager smiled faintly. “Sir, I appreciate your offer but these guys are different. To them, jazz is sinful, and you are a Tom.” Basie looked at him incredulously, let out a string of oaths, then began mumbling to himself.

The drums fell silent. I got up and ran to the window in time to see the finale of the massive parade. The Muslims had fallen out and now were dissembling.

Then a black limo hove into view and stopped outside the theater surrounded by a menacing escort of a dozen or so men, their eyes darting in all directions. They were the body guards of the man inside the car, but who was he? Satisfied that there was no threat, the guards made a subtle signal to the occupant of the opaque limousine.

On cue, a smallish man wearing a shiny black cap emerged. Hundreds bowed reverently.

“Who is he?” I asked incredulously. “The Stage Manager whispered, “That is the Honorable Elijah Mohammed. He is their spiritual leader. Several of his phalanx walked up to him and pointed at our window. Listening to them briefly, he gazed upward.

The group in the office cowered when they saw him look up to us, like the first one whom he singled out among them would get zapped by some mystical force.

Mercifully breaking the silence, the phone rang. The Stage Manager picked it up, spoke a few words, then handed it to me.

It was Heacock. “Harry” He intoned.” Everything is fixed, but you have to do exactly as I tell you, otherwise,……..”

“Hey! Wait a minute. I didn’t do anything.” I protested.

” Shut up,” He suggested.”

To Be Continued

Claude Hall’s novel offer.

Claude Hall, who previously was Radio-TV Editor of Billboard magazine, has written a western novel titled "Huecos" and a science fiction novel called "Down on the Corner of Earth." I have read them, and heartily recommend them. They are a work of genius. Both are available from PublishAmerica.com. Just search for Claude Hall. The link to buy the book is http://www.publishamerica.com  Once there, you Google his name to see the two novels offered. The book is also for sale at Amazon.com.

Haresay

It is better to have loved a short woman than never to have loved a tall.

Ancient Chinese proverb……..

Lotta men smoke, but foo man chew