Crime Plus Music Read Free

Goldner copped half the composer credit and put his name next to Frankie’s on the label. Then George got in deep to gamblers and had to give the credit to Morris, to get out from behind the eight-ball. So maybe this lady was a plant to help Morris get the rest while he was pretending to still be Frankie’s patron by paying for the studio time.
    â€œWe went down to Times Square to audition for Gee Records—Herman, Jimmy, Joe, Sherman, and me,” Frankie said uneasily, trying to stick to the story as he’d told it a million times before. “I wasn’t even the lead singer then. I was just an annoying little kid with a high voice. So we sang them all these songs the Jacks and the Spaniels did. But they said, nah, make that little one the singer and give us a new song. So I came up with ‘Fools.’ And then it went on the radio. And then we went on tour with Alan Freed and Little Richard and the Platters, and the rest is rock and roll history.”
    â€œYou know what I think?” Something at the corner of her smile cut him more than it should have.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œI think you’re a lying motherfucker, Frankie Lymon.”
    He stuck his chin out. “Yeah, why is that?”
    â€œYou never could have written that song on your own.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    He looked around at the other patrons to see if they were listening. But they were all deep in their own bags, either lost in each other or listening to Sam Cooke’s smooth insinuations with half-closed eyes.
    â€œBecause I wrote those words,” she said. “And you took them.”
    â€œHow could I do that? I never even met you before.”
    â€œThe letters,” she said, reaching for her purse on the counter.
    â€œWhat letters?”
    â€œYou know the damn letters I’m talking about.” She put the purse on her lap. “Before you made it big? When your friends were practicing in the hallway of that building on 165th and Edgecombe? Singing ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ and ‘Why Don’t You Write Me?’ over and over? Who do you think was upstairs?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe answer is me .” One of her lashes stuck together. “That’s where I was living. When I was in love with a man across the hall. Mr. Kenny Tyrone. Who made me feel things that no woman has ever felt before. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    He drained half his drink. “I don’t know why I’d care.”
    â€œBecause I taught poetry to little punk-ass students like you and I knew how to put my feelings into words. And I put those words into letters. And I gave those letters to Mr. Kenny Tyrone. And he gave those letters to your friends because he didn’t want his wife to find them and because he got sick of hearing you all sing the same damn words over and over. And then you put them in your song.”
    â€œThis is a lie.” Frankie shook his head, refusing to look at her.
    â€œIt’s not a lie.” She used her fingers to peel off the misbehaving lash. “Because at dawn every day, Kenny’s wife would go to work early at Presbyterian Hospital. Then I’d go across the hall. Because I had an hour and a half before the first class I had to teach at Stitt Junior High. And I lived for those mornings, because my life was so lonely the rest of the time. I’d sit by that window looking out over 165th Street, waiting for the sun to rise over Highbridge so she would go and I could live again. And I’d listen and I’d ask myself, ‘Why do lovers await the break of day?’”
    â€œThat’s just one line.” Frankie finished his drink.
    â€œThat’s the whole damn song, Frankie. It’s all about waiting for the break of day. It’s not about being in love. It’s about falling in love. Dumb as you are, even you understand that. Otherwise you couldn’t have sung it the way you