Oliver was planning ahead. He’d been sitting in a stinking cell for a night and the better part of a day. Because he’d argued with the cops, they’d stuck him all alone. It was Saturday and he was fairly certain that no one would spring him before Monday. So he had plenty of time to think. The night before a fight had broken out in the honky-tonk where he was playing. When the police arrived, they arrested everyone—including the band. Ever since he returned from Chicago, Joe Oliver had had nothing but trouble. He spent enough nights in jail over the years to know that he didn’t want to spend many more. The South wasn’t safe for a black man. Train porters brought down copies of the Chicago Defender. He’d read of the Mississippi boy whom some white gentlemen had burned at the stake. Another boy who’d had his fingers and toes chopped off. Joe Oliver shook his head as if he could make those thoughts go away. As he munched on a crust of bread, a mouse scurried into his cell. It came right in front of him and stood on its hind legs.
