NOVEMBER 3, 1934
ANOTHER NIGHT IN THE rundown dumpfest. Good old Room 217. By all measures, this should be my last. If the innkeeper gives me one more funny look, I’ll clock him in his ugly mug. But even if he wasn’t getting so damn wary, my stack of bills is down to a leaf and an IOU.
Oh, I finally got an answer to my question. Not one of my numbered questions, unfortunately. The flophouse does have a name. It’s the Three Rivers, although you wouldn’t know it to look at the place. Only place I’ve found the name actually written down was on a signed picture of Louis Armstrong, made out to the owner of the Three Rivers. They oughta put up a sign. “Satchmo slept here.”
Went to the cemetery. Nice part of town. Nowhere near the Welcome Mat. Miss Claudia must’ve been a rich b***h, although I
