EIGHTEEN

EIGHTEEN

The Sultana

EASY STREET HAD always loved playing his horn. The music naturally flowed from him. His mama had never been able to afford him lessons when he was younger.

When he was alive.

He’d stolen his sax—Ms. Maxine, as he’d lovingly named her—from a white man who owned a pawn shop long since bulldozed. Old man Gene loved to beat on black people, especially children. Nobody cared back then. Mostly, they still didn’t care, from what Easy Street had seen.

So, he stole Ms. Maxine. But try as he might, he couldn’t get a sound out of her.

Until a man named Reggie explained what a “reed” was and taught him how to blow into the horn all proper. He even taught the boy how to hold the instrument. Reggie played records for him, and young Easy Street listened, then noodled on the horn until he found the right notes. In less than a month, the kid was able to play old Ms. Maxine like a pro.

“Boy,” said Reggie one day, “I never heard nor done seen the like. You is a natural,