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there was a God.
    Unfortunately, when I noticed what was
dominating center stage beside them, my triplet fantasy burst like
a balloon in a briar patch, evaporating at the sight of what looked
to be a massive Little Bo Peep. Step back, Aretha. A woman stood at
center stage, several feet in front of a back-up chorus of women in
glittery gowns who swayed back and forth as they held down the
harmony. There must have been six of them on back-up, but they were
small fry indeed compared to the lead singer. She was at least as
big as my boss, Bobby D., and that was saying a lot. It meant she
tipped the scales at well over three hundred pounds. But while
Bobby tended to favor leisure suits and gold medallions, this woman
was wearing an enormous white dress with rows of ruffles cascading
down the front and flowing out behind her in a milky river of
taffeta. Her hair—if, indeed, it was hers—had been molded into an
elaborate waterfall of bouncy brown curls topped by a floppy white
hat exploding with ivory flowers and pink bows. Even more
inexplicably, while she held a microphone in one hand, she held a
beribboned staff in the other. The tool of a shepherdess calling to
her flock? A giant toothpick to ensure a head start at the
post-performance buffet? She was Mega-Bo Peep meets
Mothra.
    I could not decide, nor could I take
my eyes from her. She was magnificent. She sailed across the stage
like a queen, or maybe the Queen Mary, bowing and sweeping her
staff toward the crowd as she sang, raising it high when her voice
climbed into its upper register, lowering it when she took deep
breaths. She was a one-woman symphony orchestra, conductor and all,
and she had one of a handful of voices on the entire planet that
could have out-belted the massive band arrayed behind
her.
    Which reminded me—I was on the job. My
drummer was there somewhere.
    I searched the lineup, peering behind
the back-up singers, but found no African drummers at all. This was
a thoroughly modern, electronic, totally juiced-up version of the
Word. It was the Gospel according to Marshall and
Fender.
    Just the same, it was impossible not
to respond. The whole crowd was dancing, even the little old
ladies. I was busy busting out some moves I had not attempted in
fifteen years, when a very large young woman, caught up in the
throes of passion, trundled past and threw me against a window
radiator. I caught my balance and, for the first time, noticed
someone staring at me. A distinguished-looking gentleman was eyeing
me with more than a modicum of suspicion from his spot at the end
of a nearby row. And no wonder, I was dressed in a black pair of
slacks, black tee shirt and black jacket. In other words, my look
implied  “cop,” while his look implied he was getting ready to
scream, “Cop!”
    I decided to move on and make it
quick.
    I pushed closer to the front, veering
even further to the side, through a doorway that led to backstage.
Reasoning that if one wanted to find an African drummer, one should
first find an African drum, I followed a man carrying musical
equipment down a passageway into a large backstage room filled with
performers waiting their turn to take the stage.
    My man wasn’t hard to spot. Most of
the room was filled with a traditional gospel choir dressed in
purple and gold robes, listening intently to the group still on
stage. Behind them, against a far wall, stood a trio of men dressed
in African robes. They were clustered tightly together, as if
trying to discuss a private matter they did not want others to
hear. I had been wrong in my guess about who owned the bread truck.
My quarry was part of a group. And I was pretty sure I had found
him. Behind three men in daishikis, a tall black man with long
dreadlocks was tightening the frame on a stand of drums while
listening placidly to his bandmates. Whatever disagreement the trio
was having, he clearly had no stake in it.
    I was across the room and at his side
before he even noticed me. “Hey,” I