Leavin' Trunk Blues (15 page)

Peetie bustled through a cupboard clanging around with some metal pots. He pulled out a tea kettle and tried to turn on his water. Under the sink, the pipes made a supernatural groan, and he scrambled to turn them off.

“Goddamn!” he yelled. “Sound like they hooked them thangs up to Cujo’s ass. . . . How ‘bout some hot tea?”

“That’s fine, man.”

He screwed the top from a couple bottles of Snapple and poured them into the kettle.

“Oh yes, I remember Miss Florida,” Peetie said, lighting a match and catching the flame on his stove. “Oooh. Yes, she was . . . how does a gentlemen say . . . big-boned. Yeah, that woman was hauling some serious boo-tay. But she was always sweet to me . . . drove Ruby around.” His voice got higher. “She was the driver you was askin’ me about.”

“What happened to her?”

“Ooh, well, well, 1 don’t know. Man, I ain’t seen that woman since Ruby was put in jail. Figured she left Chicago. Her cash cow gettin’ milked in prison and all.”

‘You know her last name?”

“Mrs. Big Bottom?” Peetie laughed. “Awe, man, I can’t remember. Hell, Billy was probably doin’ her too. That’s why he called his business King Snake. As in crawlin’ all night long. You see what I’m sayin’?”

“Got it.”

The tea kettle rattled over the flame. Peetie took off his shower cap and tucked it into a drawer. His relaxed hair was pulled in place by a series of silver barrettes. He didn’t seem self- conscious as he plucked out each one, and then leaned into the director’s chair with a small cigar.

“Nice collection of records,” Nick said, looking over Peetie’s shoulder.

“I figure I got to have more than three thousand in there. ‘Course I got lots of the same thing. Dumb-ass musicians who thought they could pay me that way. Now, if they suckin’ ass, why they think I want to hear their songs a hundred times?”

“Seventy-eights?”

“All speeds. All kinds. Blues, gospel, jazz, rap. All that shit.”

Peetie stood and lit the end of his cigar and held it high in his hand. In his silk kimono and with slicked-back hair, he looked just like a woman. There was something androgynous and confused about him. His legs were stick thin and hairless.

“Were you around the day Billy died?” Nick asked.

“No, man. Like I said, I was financial. I let him deal with the talent. I just made sure they was treated with respect.”

Yeah, and were never paid by Lyons.

“Why you lookin’ ‘round for her?” Peetie asked. “Thought I set you straight on Ruby. Thought you understood she lyin’ out the ass.”

“I need some more folks to tell me that.”

“History?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cool.”

“Hey, man, you know where Dirty Jimmy’s hangin’ out these days?”

“The cemetery?” Peetie said.

“When did he die?”

“Oh, man, I cain’t remember. But last time I seen him he looked like a skeleton in a suit. Drank himself into a world of shit.”

“But you’re not sure he’s dead.”

“I’d bet my ding dong on it.”

‘You should never do that,” Nick said. ‘You know where he was living?”

Peetie shrugged. “Nah, used to just see him down at Maxwell Street playin’ harp for some loose change. Didn’t sound right blowin’ without no teeth. Smelled real bad too. Raggedy ole clothes. Give a bluesman a bad name.”

Nick felt an uncomfortable silence grow between them. He took a deep breath, waiting for Peetie to keep talking. “So who you been talkin’ to?”

“You, Moses Jordan, and went down to the Palm Tavern last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I heard about what happened to Leroy Williams and Franky Dawkins. That must’ve been a rough time.”

Peetie scrunched up his eyes and acted like he was going to cry. “Dawkins got robbed, shot down like a dawg,” he said. “Man was like a goddamned brother.”

“What about Leroy Williams?”

“Leroy didn’t care for me too much,” Peetie said, puffing on his cigar. “He was real strange. You’d see him all feelin’ sorry for himself, slumped over his piano smokin’. You ask him somethin’ and he just grunt. Real strange. Then you’d see him at a party and he’d be all smiles, gettin’ you a drink. ‘Course I heard, don’t say nothin’ bout this, he beat his wife a lot. He’d beat her then get mad at himself. I went to his funeral—you know he jumped off a bridge—and his wife had a broken nose.”

“He was stabbed and dumped in the river.”

“No shit?” Peetie’s face contorted in surprise and wonder, his jaw hanging loose. “That ain’t what I heard.”

“So, no ideas where to find Jimmy or Florida?”

“Nah, man,” Peetie said, walking back to the kitchen and pouring the tea. He moved toward the bay windows, balancing the steaming mugs. Frost and crystals coated the panes.

“You miss the old scene?” Nick asked, warming his hands on the tea and wondering where he would go next.

“You got no idea,” Peetie said. “So, what you gettin’ at with them men dyin’? You think that has somethin’ to do with Ruby?”

“Could be.”

“What you gonna do with all this?” Peetie asked and laughed. “Let’s say you find out she didn’t kill Billy. You goin’ to the cops? ‘Cause you got me real confused. You sayin’ you historian but you comin’ on like somethin’ else.”

“I’ve taken a personal interest.”

“What that mean?”

“I’m still figuring it out.”

“Well, man, if you learn somethin’, let me know,” Peetie said. “I sure like to know if Miss Ruby is innocent. Sure would feel bad about all those years she spent in jail. ‘Course I ain’t the one that’s been stayin’ away. All them people that loved her forgot about her like yesterday’s garbage.”

“What about old friends of Jimmy’s?” Nick asked.

Peetie shook his head. “Don’t know a one of that fool’s, wish I could help. . . . Hey, you want to hit some clubs tonight? I can get you in free at the Checkerboard. They owe me a favor down there. Took care of some trouble with a band kept missing dates.”

“I may take you up on that before I leave,” Nick said. “But tonight I think I’m headed to Rosa’s.”

“I know the place,” Peetie said.

Nick took another sip of the tea, not to seem rude, and stood. He shook Peetie’s chilly hand and smiled. Peetie walked back to his shelves of records and carefully extracted a 45. He handed the record, embossed with the familiar coiled logo, to Nick and crossed his arms across his chest.

A copy of “Lonesome Blues Highway.” Original. Perfect condition.

“I can’t take this.”

“It’s yours,” Peetie said. “You been nice enough to believe in Ruby.”

“You’re all right, man,” Nick said, shaking Peetie’s hand again.

“Sure I am,” Peetie said, his face a broad smile of teeth and tight cheeks. “What you expect?”

Most winter days in New Orleans, the white sun would peak from the clouds and give a quick mental reprieve from the depression. Winter was a temporary inconvenience, not a way of life. Not Chicago. A flat roll of thick, gray clouds blocked the sun. Endless rows of concrete and brick buildings stretched tall as if seeking to break the barrier.

On Forty-third Street, aka Muddy Waters Avenue, Nick watched a group of teenagers staring at their reflection in a cracked mirror propped against an abandoned warehouse. Next door, a wino sat on a bucket looking at his rotted shoes as a bunch of kids played hopscotch by a liquor store. The kids smiled and giggled, oblivious to the poverty around them.

When walking through a depressed neighborhood, it was best to act confident. Especially when you’re white. Nick’s light coloring made him look like a napkin waving in the wind. But he’d learned long ago to walk with purpose. Don’t let others know you’re watching. Look like you’ve got business. The heft of the Browning underneath his wool coat helped. A little.

He passed a peeling graffiti message telling all the world to eat me as two guys warmed their hands over a fire in a barrel. He heard the word
cracker
and someone call him a
crazy son of a bitch.

He didn’t stop to argue. Besides, they were both true. This was insane. He was starting to wonder if any of the pompous intellectuals at any blues conference would care if he risked his ass to get information. But like it or not, this is what he did. He was a tracker. And unless he wanted to become one of those men who talked about blues all day but were afraid to live the life, he had to keep plugging away.

A few years ago, Nick had become good friends with a man in this neighborhood named Theodis Meyer. Theodis ran a barber shop called the Upper Cut. He used to be a boxer and later kept dozens of faded photos and trophies around the shop in case anyone forgot. The Upper Cut was a hangout for original southern immigrants and bluesmen. They swapped stories and told tall tales about the old South Side and the blues and jazz joints, and the house parties that lasted all night and day.

Nick had a great time with the old guys on the last trip. They talked about the Great Migration and gave him a real feeling of the excitement of old Chicago. Theodis said there was so much neon, blues, and women, a man could get drunk without having a drop of alcohol. He said everyone was either starting a shift at the mill or coming off one. He said the South Side never slept.

Nick walked past a burned-out theater and another liquor store advertisment with the cartoon head of a bull. He knew he was getting close. Nick knew this would be the place to start if he wanted to find Dirty Jimmy. He’d already called all of the numbers in the phone book without luck.

Jimmy would be a real find. He was a Korean War vet who came to Chicago to make it as a gambler. But apparently, Jimmy played three-card monte better than poker and occasionally got in trouble with the losers. When he was down, he played harp at the old Maxwell Street Market for a few bucks. It was at the market Jimmy caught the attention of some record producers and made some decent harp instrumentals in the mid-fifties. Nick had read where Jimmy took a job as a cabdriver in the seventies when the blues almost died.

After that, Jimmy disappeared.

Theodis would set him straight. Good to see the guy. He looked forward to sitting in the old spinning chairs and hearing the laughter of the old men. Maybe he’d get a shave, he thought, rubbing his jaw as a cold wind passed. The sky above was fat and gray with snow clouds.

As Nick looked back at the street, two teenagers in long NFL coats started to follow. They didn’t talk and wore sunglasses with tasseled ski hats. Nick kept walking. Buffalo Bill and Jacksonville Jaguar.

“Hey, man,” Buffalo Bill yelled.

Nick kept walking.

“You lost?” Jacksonville Jaguar asked.

So helpful. So kind.

There was a vacant lot filled with a jacked-up Oldsmobile and two men working on the engine. Nick felt someone push his back at his shoulder blades. Something snapped and he spun around and knocked the hand away.

“You better watch yo’self,” Buffalo Bill said, laughing. He had a rounded face with plump cheeks. “Get your ass back on the El.”

Nick stopped walking and sighed.

“Listen, kids, it’s cold and I’m tired,” Nick said. “If you want to get down, fight a little bit, that’s fine. I could show you I have a gun and I’m sure you’d be impressed. Maybe you would even show me yours. But instead of flashing our dicks out on Forty-third Street, why don’t you go home to your mamas? I bet they’re at home baking you cookies right now.”

“Fuck you, man,” Buffalo Bill said. His eyes thin slits.

“Fuck me?” Nick asked and gave a palms-up gesture. “All right. Fuck me. Now what? We through?”

Buffalo Bill bit down on his lip and rubbed his fist into his hand. His shoulder dropped and he took a swing at Nick. Nick caught the kid’s fist in his hand and twirled his arm behind his back. Jacksonville Jaguar elbowed Nick in the side, as Nick pushed the chubby kid down. Nick caught Jacksonville by the team jacket and tossed him yards away. Still as quick as when he shucked offensive tackles.

He breathed quickly and his knees felt weak. He waited for the kids to pull a blade or a gun from their jackets. This is how it happens. You’re walking along one day, minding your own business, and someone wants to scramble your brains. Never comes when you’re looking for trouble.

Nick swallowed, opened his coat, and showed his gun.

“Either of you kids have a piece?” he asked, trying to catch his breath. “No? Well, then I guess my dick’s bigger. I win ... now get the fuck out of here.”

Nick walked away feeling like a target had been drawn on his back.

“Did you know the first man in Chicago was a black man?” Stagger Lee asked Peetie Wheatstraw in the far corner booth of the White Castle.

They were the only ones in the top of the L-shaped restaurant, and Peetie felt buck naked. He shuffled in his seat and scanned the floor before looking at the man. Stagger Lee had fourteen small hamburger boxes in front of him as he sucked on a Coke until it was dry. Then he began to crunch on the ice. “Du Sable,” he said.

“No, I ain’t so much for readin’,” Peetie said, trying to keep cool, “Like my daddy said, ‘I’ll trade street smarts for school smarts any day. Books don’t reflect no bullets.’ My daddy was a trip, boy. Man sold hats down in New Orleans all from the top of his head. His whole store stacked on top of his own body, man. Can you believe that? On a windy day, business was just dead.”