This joint is jumpin, the piano’s thumpin’ and this here spot is more than hot. It’s a summer night in Chicago, round about 1922. The heat steams, rising from the asphalt like an entourage of frisky ghosts. Sweat beads like tiny diamonds on flapper foreheads as they dance a furious Charleston in one of the Andersonville dance halls. But down the street, tucked into the back of an alley where the men light their cigarillos in the shadows and their women purse their lips in bee-stung pouts, there’s a speakeasy where a ballad is being hammered out on an old, yellowed piano.