Agent 6

Harlem Bradhurst 8th Avenue amp; West 139th Street Nelson’s Restaurant

None of the staff were working, none of the customers were eating, all were turned towards the radio, listening to the news broadcast. Nelson was standing, hand on the volume dial, turned up as loud as it could go. Several of the women were crying. Several of the men were crying. In contrast, the voice on the radio was clipped and without emotion.

– Last night the once-popular singer Jesse Austin was murdered, shot dead in public. The suspect is a Russian woman, a Communist, suspected of being his lover. A source inside the NYPD reports that the Russian woman told police officers after the murder that she shot Mr Austin because he failed to live up to his promise to marry her and rescue her from Soviet Russia. Mr Austin is already married. The tragic affair did not end there. Last night his wife, in revenge for the murder, took a gun and entered the police precinct, where she shot the Russian woman. After killing the suspect Mrs Austin turned the gun on herself…

Nelson picked the radio off the counter, pulling it from the power socket, raising it above his head. The customers watched. He reconsidered, put it down. After a moment, he addressed the room.

– Anyone want to listen to those lies, they can do it someplace else.

He walked into his office, returning with a large glass jar that he placed on the counter by the cash register.

– I’m setting up a collection. Not for the funeral, this isn’t a time for flowers and Jesse wouldn’t want them anyway. I’m going to hire someone to figure out who really murdered Jesse and Anna. We need lawyers. Private detectives. I can’t speak for you. But I need to know. I have to know.

He took out his wallet and emptied it into the jar.

By the end of the morning the jar was full, waitresses contributing their tips, customers donating too. As Nelson counted out the collection, noting it down in a ledger, he heard one of Jesse’s songs. He left his office to find his customers and waitresses standing by the window, looking out onto the street where the music was coming from. He crossed the restaurant, opened the door and stepped outside. A young man called William whose parents Nelson knew well was standing on top of a crate, singing one of Jesse’s songs. He didn’t have any music in his hands. He knew the words by heart.

People stopped in the street, gathering around the crate, forming an audience. Men held their hats in their hands. Children paused from their games and stood, listening, staring up at the young man. I’m only a folk singer

And that’s enough for me

I’m only a folk singer

Dreaming one day we’ll all be free.

Regarding the audience, Nelson knew that with a little effort he could pull together a crowd of thousands – he could address the crowd himself, he had ply to say, maybe not with Jesse’s voice but he’d find his own. Remembering what Jesse used to answer when asked why he’d risked so much, Nelson finally understood. Running a restaurant, even a successful restaurant, just wasn’t enough.