Leavin' Trunk Blues (16 page)

Stagger Lee just watched him as he picked up a stray pickle and flopped it on his huge tongue. His hands were folded before him and he wore a spiked black leather dog collar on his neck There was a gold ring on his left hand that read never.

“Ain’t nobody want to see someone bring discomfort to you, man,” Peetie said. “I just thought it would be in both our best interests to give you a little four-one-one on this man kickin’ around. Billy Lyons’s name really caught my attention. Hadn’t heard that shit in years. Man, ain’t that a trip?”

He could tell Stagger Lee was listening.

“He’s been to see Jordan and Ruby. Heard he’s trying to get her out of jail. Believes she didn’t kill Billy. Ain’t that some shit? Thought you like to know that.” Peetie leaned in close and whispered. “He ask me this momin’ about Franky and Leroy. He knew the whole deal, man.”

“You did right, coming to me.”

“Me and you stayed in the South Side, brother. Some folks slippin’ round the Jacuzzi sippin’ champagne while we drinkin’ Thunderbird and fartin’ in the bathtub. You know what I’m sayin’? I know you don’t care about no cops. Don’t care about no jail. But I know you care about business. This seemed like business some folks might want to know.”

Twon walked in from the side door with his parka over his head like he was an Eskimo. He looked over at Stagger Lee and the big man nodded. Twon walked back outside where it looked like it was going to snow. Real dark clouds. Heard the weatherman say they were in for a world of shit tomorrow.

“Who is he?” Stagger Lee asked.

“Said he teaches blues history but don’t make no sense... studyin’ blues.”

“Where can I find him?” Stagger Lee asked.

“Listen,” Peetie said. Things ain’t been too great with my store, man. I ain’t sold but two suits this week and some homeless fucker takin’ my shoes. But he only take one of each ‘cause he only got one leg. How the hell am I gonna sell one shoe?”

Stagger Lee stood and put on his black leather trench coat and kicked a hamburger box beneath the table with his silver-tipped cowboy boots. His belt buckle was even with Peetie’s head.

“I ain’t never asked you for nothin’, man,” Peetie said.

“Where can I find him?” Stagger Lee repeated.

“Man, I don’t know.”

Stagger Lee wrapped his thick hand around the back of Peetie’s skinny neck and asked again. Peetie could barely speak through the pressure.

“I can find out,” he gasped. “I can find out.”

“You better, nigger,” Stagger Lee said. “You try to con me and you’ll find yourself full of holes just like your friend Billy Lyons.”

Peetie wiggled out of the booth as Annie and Fannie slinked around the corner. The girls stood beside Stagger Lee.

Annie on the right, Fannie on the left.

Annie was all dolled-up today, had on some blue leather outfit with a fur collar.

“Y’all go with Peetie,” Stagger Lee said. “You got that, Peetie? You show the girls this man and keep your mouth shut. Got that?”

Peetie looked at the two girls and shook his head. How was he supposed to follow the man with two dumb whores on his ass? White girl had her hair slicked down on her head like a man and the black one wore her hair in pigtails. Looked like some travelin’ freak show. This was fucked-up even for Stagger Lee.

“Listen, man,” Peetie said. “I got this. Everything cool. All right? I’ll get what you need, man. I don’t need ‘em going with me.”

Stagger Lee played with the huge ring on his hand and his jaw muscles twitched.

“Ooh, well, well,” Peetie said. “That’s unless you feel real strong about the thang and we can work it out, man. We can work it out.”

Fannie looped her arm in Peetie’s and led him to the door. Annie walked behind him and pinched his ass.

“We gonna have a real fine time, Peetie,” Annie said.

“A real wang dang doodle,” Fannie said, leading him to his car.

About a quarter of a mile away from the scuffle, Nick reached another row of storefronts. It had been a couple of years, but he still remembered the corner with the beauty shop and decaying church across the street. On the other side of the barbershop’s window, a group of old black men watched Nick’s movements.

Place was a classic glass storefront with a fake snow merry x-mas sprayed on the glass and tired, plastic holly lying on a dirty ledge. A broken electric barber pole hung by loose wires below a sign that read uptown.

Theodis must’ve changed the name, he thought walking inside.

The men’s heads turned back toward him. There were three old-time spinning chairs and mirrors illuminated with bright fluorescent lights. A poster of a black woman in a bikini holding a beer bottle was posted over the plywood where the men sat. No trophies or old pics of Theodis. Smelled of chemicals and burnt hair.

“Theodis around?” Nick asked.

One of the men gruffly said “no” and another spit some snuff into a bucket. Not exactly the fun crew he’d met who had shared their memories like Nick was a trusted friend. Nick smiled and walked over to the group. He felt like the party crasher who’d pissed on the wedding cake.

“You know when he’s comin’ back?” Nick asked.

“Never,” said the spitter, as a long strand of brown drool dipped into the bucket. He wiped his chin and leaned back into his chair.

“What happened?”

“Moved,” said the old man next to him. This guy had skin the color of ebony and steel-gray hair. He had scissors poking out of six pockets in his white shirt.

“Moved?” Nick asked.

“Mmm hmm,” the barber said. “Sold me his business last year and drove back to Georgia.”

Nick looked around at the loose group of five men. Didn’t recognize a single one. Most of them looked to be in their fifties. Three of them wore checked flannel jackets and baseball hats, permanent looks of disappointment in their eyes.

Nick thanked the barber and walked back out into the cold. A police car flew by with its siren wailing. Icicles hung from a metal overhang. Rap music poured from a tenement building across the street.

He turned around and walked back into the shop. The same man spit. The barber read a paper. The others had cleaned off a moving box and were passing out cards. Nick could hear a loud ticking clock by the cash register.

“Can I get a shave?” Nick asked.

“Sure,” the barber said. “My hands don’t shake like Theodis.” He neatly folded the paper, got out of his seat, and reached into the bottle of blue disinfectant for a long straight razor.

Nick rubbed the overnight growth on his face. Felt like the side of a matchbox. Maybe if he lit a match, they’d think he was tougher and open up a little more. More likely, they didn’t give a shit. Nick took off his coat, folded the long part around the gun in the pocket, and laid it on the next chair.

“C’mon, c’mon,” the barber said, rubbing the razor on a leather strop that made a popping sound.

“Just got off the train yesterday,” Nick said, as the barber covered him with a sheet and snapped it around his neck. He pulled a lever on the side, and Nick was thrown back and his feet propped up all at once. A La-Z-Boy with whiplash.

The other men in the barber shop remained silent as the barber covered Nick’s face in hot foam. There was a plink of the poker chips and the sound of the man spitting. The clock continued to tick. Barbershop symphony. Maybe he could whistle, Nick thought.

“Yeah, I’ve come all the way from New Orleans looking for Theodis,” Nick said.

“You must feel like a real ass right now,” the barber said. “Phone call only costs a quarter.”

Nick gave a short laugh and stopped.

“Actually, I wanted to find Theodis because I’m really looking for another friend and I thought he could help me. Knew a bunch of folks round here.”

Nick kept one eye open to watch his reaction. The barber intently scraped his cheeks. The dull razor pulled his beard, making his eyes water.

“Any of y’all know Jimmy Scott?” Nick asked.

The barber continued to scrape.

“Nope,” the barber said.

“Why’d Theodis leave?”

“Why do they all leave?” the barber asked. “It look like Disney World? He just got tired of the muggin’ and the killin’.”

“Thought he loved Chicago.”

“We all did. Once.”

The barber had a sing-song quality to his voice as he worked. His voice almost hummed with resonance. If he started waving a watch in front of his eyes, Nick could go to sleep.

“You work for the government?” the barber asked.

“Do I look like I work for the government?”

“No, but ain’t a lot of white people come around askin’ questions.”

The barber ran the blade under a faucet. He eyed Nick as he wiped the blade and started back to work. Nick could see the other men, all old and tired, studying his reflection.

“Folks call my friend Dirty Jimmy. You ever heard of anyone by that name? Used to be a musician. I think he drives a cab now.”

The barber’s face didn’t show a thing as he moved to Nick’s chin. The barber scraped away the stubbled gray hair that made Nick look like a stray dog. The hair on the sides of his head was almost completely gray now. Approaching forty real fast, felt like he was sixty.

“Y’all ever hear of him?” Nick asked again a little louder. He tried to be polite and keep his voice conversational.

“Nope,” said the spitter.

Nick heard the squeak of a man pushing a chair away. It was one of the poker players. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his deep black face. The man coughed and walked into a back bathroom.

The barber lifted up Nick’s nose and scraped away the hair above his lip. He cleaned the blade again and started on Nick’s neck. The blade was hot from the steaming water as it scraped away around his throat. Maybe he should shut up until the man was finished.

“Men must really trust you around here,” Nick said.

The barber pulled out a hot towel with tongs, held it over the sink.

“You like it hot?” the barber asked.

“Medium broil.”

No one laughed, and the barber slipped the towel on his face. It felt great. He could feel the travel soothe away. In the dark, with the towel over his face, Nick heard the shuffling and wheezing of the men around him. Somebody whispered, “Don’t make no difference.”

The barber removed the towel and jerked the chair straight. Nick stretched his jaw and ran his hand over his smooth face. The poker player had walked back into the room. He was standing, watching Nick’s eyes in the mirror.

“Fine shave. How much I owe you?”

“Two-fifty,” the barber said, sticking his thumbs under his belt.

Nick stood, paid him five bucks, and threaded his arms into his coat. He looked at the row of old men. Not a single one looked him in the eye.

“I’ll give fifty bucks to anyone who knows how to find Jimmy Scott,” Nick said.

No one reacted.

Nick patted his coat pocket for his gloves and gun and walked back out of the shop. The late afternoon gray was beginning to fall into the night. Beaten cars rambled by on Forty-third Street. A prostitute wobbled down by the sidewalk and stuck her finger into her mouth. Nick looked down the endless urban row of crumbling storefronts and sighed. A crooked Christmas tree’s lights blinked from a window.

Long walk back to the El. Maybe he shouldn’t have turned the car back in at the hotel. He lit a cigarette and watched the tip burn as he walked toward the platform.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder as he felt for his gun.

“That money still good?” asked the poker player with the dark face. “Could use me some backup for the hand I just lost.”

“Jimmy Scott?”

“I know where he’s at.”

“You fucking with me?”

Nick looked into the man’s wind-burned eyes. He didn’t blink or look away.

“Nah, man. I known Jimmy for thirty years.”

“Heard he was dead.”

“You heard wrong. Give me a hundred and I’ll give you an address. Hell, he’s sittin’ there right now waitin’ for you.”

“Some friend.”

“Last time I seen him, he clogged up my toilet. Ain’t paid me yet.”

“I’ll give you fifty,” Nick said flatly.

“Ninety.”

“Fifty.”

“Eighty.”

“Fifty,” Nick said, looking down the road and wondering if he should just toss his money to the wind. Instead, he counted the cash into the man’s hand.

“You got yourself one broke-down old man, mister.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Nick said.

The old man gave him the address before he walked back inside.

The hotel seemed like a great place to check in after you’d lost your way in life. The lobby resonated with the same emotions as old folks homes, prisons, and insane asylums—complete abandonment of hope. Reminded Nick of the Riverside Hotel in Clarksdale where many great blues singers had spent their final hours. The place where Bessie Smith had died when it was a black hospital in the thirties. You could almost smell the death in its walls. In the lobby’s dim light, a wrinkled black woman sat at a cracked rolltop desk. She had a bag of Cheetos before her as she watched a tiny black-and-white TV with a comatose indifference. Her fingernails were dirty and her thumb was covered with a Band-Aid.