Time was when he was everywhere. Everyone knew Deco Love. Sliding into a jazz club, or shuffling past a beat cop, he’d flash a grin and a wink and leave you with a smile on your own mug. Some said he was a pusher, or a bootlegger, maybe a pimp, but no one ever saw him plying such trades. Maybe he just looked right for those parts, with his long custom dusters and his wide brimmed lids; and that walk, with the little hitch that seemed in sync with every basement playing band he passed on the avenue.

At night he’d arrive with a lady and leave alone, only to show up later at another club, with another lady. He’d drink with the heavies – the club owners who were connected with the powers on both sides, and after-party with the bands after three or four sets amid the sinewy smoke. Some said he played the ivories, and would sit in once in awhile when the joints closed up, with a coronet player or skin banger that needed tuning up. There were tap dancers around who said he’d frequent their hoofers’ clubs, learning musical hooks, rhythms that he’d weave into his speech patterns; Lady, Lady  Love-el-lee Lady…

At night, his long coats would hide every bit of him but his shoes, and they were enough of a sight on their own. He had this thing where he’d kick up a heel at a corner, like a sprinter in a block, then skip off with a little t-Tap against the asphalt, It would send him gliding off, coat tails in the air ever so slightly, so gracefully, vibing to some song bouncing around in his mind.

The echoes of the life we lead are with us while we are here and with others after we are gone.

-Danny Grosso

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