I knew the owner of the Dreamland and was allowed to sit in a dark corner of the balcony to listen to the music. I was only fourteen then, not old enough to be allowed in a public dance hall. But as long as I heard the music, the conditions didn't matter. The band played from about nine thirty to one a.m. and after hours they played the Pekin Cafe, one of the worst gangster hangouts in Chicago… In the summer the Pekin kept its windows open, so I'd sneak from home just about every night and sit outside on the curbstone listening to the music. Sometimes the goings-on would get rough inside, the music would stop, and you'd hear the flash of forty-five caliber revolvers trying to fire with the beat. Before I knew it, I'd be running home as fast as my feet could take me. But the next night would always find me sitting on the same curbstone. I thought the music well worth running the risk of getting shot by a stray bullet. << less