by Tim Marquitz
Isaac peered over the counter, his mind not following the vision his eyes presented him. From the ash, a small tendril of smoke wafted up to eye level. Isaac stood entranced by the wisp, unconsciously drifting back and forth with its movements. He didn’t have time to register when it shot his direction and slithered up his nostrils.
By then, everything had gone black.
#
Liberation. He had forgotten what that felt like. This body was so much younger, so much fresher than His own. If only Don Pedro and Queen Marie Laveau had known the true extent of their power, the lengths to which He had expanded and blended them together. A hundred years after their deaths, He had finally perfected the art of transmission of the soul. For over sixty years, He had studied Laveau’s rituals on allowing souls safe passage into the next world, along with the Petro’s violent energies and the Danh-Gbwe. He alone had gathered this power, this ability to be nigh invincible. But dislocating Himself into this wretched, albeit fresh, excuse for a man was only the beginning. Now He must be patient, bide his time until the right vessel presented itself.
#
Nina entered the pawn shop, hoping to find a gun. Life in the city was a dangerous proposition for a young woman, especially an aspiring musician. The vultures of society floated through the streets on those lonely, early morning walks home like steam from the manhole covers she passed over.
“What can I do for you?” the employee asked. His nametag read ISAAC.
“I’m looking for a gun.”
“What would a nice young lady such as yourself need a gun for?” he asked.
“Because pepper spray seems to have minimal effect against men who think with the wrong head.”
“The wrong head!” the man guffawed, and with it his voice took on a deeper, rougher quality, like he was gargling gravel. “That’s a good “un!”
Nina didn’t respond. She stared in rapture at the saxophone behind the counter. Isaac followed her gaze and smiled.
“You play?” he asked, his voice returning to its original, almost womanly, falsetto.
“Not really,” she said. “I sing, mostly.”
“Really? What type of music?”
“Oh, a little of everything. Blues. Jazz. Sometimes a little Motown. Anything they want me to sing down at The Brick downtown. As long as it’s got a little soul to it.”
“A little soul!” Isaac roared laughter again, his voice scratchier than ever. “Oh man, that’s Jake!”
“That’s what?”
Isaac blinked, tilted his head, blinked again. “Sorry. Got lost in my own thoughts there for a second,” he said. “So you interested in the sax? It’s a 1923 Buescher, still wails like you wouldn’t believe. Been here three weeks, amazed nobody’s walked out with it yet.”
“I was looking for a gun,” she said.
“Sorry. Sold my only pistol same day I acquired this sax. Sure you don’t want to give it a look? It’d be perfect for a singer down at 18th and Vine.”
“I highly doubt my band could afford that relic. Besides, we already have a saxophone.”
“Not like this one, you don’t,” Isaac said, grabbing the case and sitting it on the counter. “As for the money, I’ll make you a deal. You put the word out about my shop down around the District, give me a little free advertising, and it’s yours. I’m sure all the fellas down around 18th and Vine would listen to anything a doll like you told ‘em.”
“Excuse me?”
Another series of blinks. “Oh, don’t listen to any of my nonsense,” he said. “My mouth tends to move before I know what it’s going to say.” He opened the case, and slid it closer to Nina. “Whattaya say? We have a deal?”
“No tricks?”
“No tricks.”
It was certainly tempting. She could always have Charlie take a look at it and make sure it was as good as advertised. Why not, she thought. “You have yourself a deal, Isaac.”
“Excellent.”
#
His time had come. The woman could not have been more perfect. For three weeks He had waited patiently, praying to Danh-Gbwe that a suitable host would present herself to Him. Now she was here, and had willingly made a pact with Him. He allowed His essence to spill out of Isaac’s body, coalescing Himself in a thin wisp of smoke above the counter. The woman, examining the saxophone, was oblivious to His presence until He’d entered her, spreading Himself throughout her body, making Himself at home within her. She gave a quick, audible gasp, and shuddered as though caught in a cold draft, then continued inspecting the instrument.
As for His former host, he could allow Isaac to resume his life, but for what purpose? The man was young, yes, but worthless in the grand scheme of things. The man had no power and no purpose. No potential to be great. So as His spirit filled the young woman, He cursed the soul of Isaac McClain in the name of the Petro. Looking through the woman’s eyes, He observed the man clutching his chest, his body jerking spasmodically, before collapsing to the floor.
He guided the woman, gently laying the saxophone back in its case and snapping it shut. Together, they took the instrument and left the pawn shop, His dream now on the cusp of reality.
#
Nina stood backstage, nervous for the first time in years, but not sure why. She could hear the packed crowd of The Brick, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Nina Simone and Her Rhythm Kings, just as they did every Saturday night. Her band bore the fruit of the recent revitalization in the 18th & Vine District.
But tonight was different. Nina felt changed, altered in some intimate fashion that she couldn’t explain. She remembered bringing a saxophone to rehearsal and giving it to Charlie, and loved seeing his shock and pure joy at the gift. But how had she gained possession of it? Her entire day leading up to rehearsal was a haze, her mind fogging up whenever she tried to remember.
“You’re on in five minutes,” said Jay, the sound tech. Nina nodded her head and smiled, and Jay ducked back through the curtain. Just five minutes, and she would be back in her element, singing and swaying to the music. Rhythm and Blues had a way of clearing her mind, allowing her to swim in the endless pool of music until the early hours of the morning.
Charlie, who had fine-tuned his new instrument all afternoon, came up behind her and patted her on the shoulder. Ty sat on stage, doing a final check on the snare and cymbals. The rest of the guys stood back, instruments in hand, awaiting the overhead speakers to announce their presence.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN! THE BRICK IS PROUD TO PRESENT KANSAS CITY’S VERY OWN, NINA SIMONE AND HER RHYTHM KINGS!”
“Let’s do it, boys,” Nina said as the curtains lifted, leading the way out on stage to thunderous applause and shrill whistles. Twin spotlights glared in her eyes like an oncoming train, and it took her a few seconds to adjust.
And see that everything was completely wrong.
#
He gazed out at the crowd filling the room, beyond pleased with the results. He would have praised the Danh-Gbwe, except He felt that perhaps his own power was now exceeding that of the Great Serpent. The lights were low inside the building, no longer The Brick, but its original name, The Blue Room. He hadn’t been here since he was eleven, back in 1923. One hundred years it had taken Him to reach this point.
Men in zoot suits and fedoras lounged at candlelit tables, their faces blurred by the haze of cigar smoke floating stagnantly in the air. Many of the men had women sitting with them, usually on their laps, and the dresses they wore told Him they weren’t wives. That little detail didn’t bother him in the slightest. These men had power, and they knew it. He respected that.
He also knew one particular man who ruled above the rest of them. Frank DeMayo. DeMayo ran a bootlegging business during the height of Prohibition, running moonshine from Kansas City to Chicago and Indianapolis. He saw DeMayo seated at a table next to the stage on the right. Next to him sat city councilman Tom Pendergast, a man who made sure his police force was underpaid, forcing them to take bribes from the likes
of DeMayo. Tonight was business as usual at The Blue Room.
Looking at the seemingly impossible re-enactment in front of Him, He recalled this same night, 89 years ago, when he was but an 11-year-old boy, taking out the garbage and scrubbing the toilets inside The Blue Room. The night he saw DeMayo, Pendergast, and their bodyguards grab the evening’s entertainment as she stepped offstage. The night they led her out the back door. The night they “took her for a ride”, as DeMayo put it. He had been standing at the back door when they exited with the woman, their hands covering her mouth and twisting her arms behind her. With a mop in his hand, he watched as they tossed her in a car in the back alley and drove away. He never saw her again.
Later that night, Joseph DiGiovanni, who owned The Blue Room, gave Him the Buescher saxophone.
“This is for you kid, direct from Mr. Pendergast. He says it’s his gift to you, as long as you forget anything you may have seen tonight. Or rather, what you think you may have seen. You’re a good kid, and smart. I trust you’re smart enough to not say anything, and to forget this whole evening.”
And He did keep his mouth shut. He never completely understood why the men would worry about a nobody like Him, a kid for goodness sake, but He respected their generosity, and He loved the saxophone. But He never forgot. Oh no. He remembered, and every day for the next 89 years he yearned to go back to that night, to walk out that back door with those men, drive away with them and take the woman “for a ride”, to feel what it was like to have true power.
And finally, tonight, He would have that chance.
#
The crowd was all wrong. Nina had been singing at The Brick for almost a year now, and never had she seen a man wearing a zoot suit. Tonight, it was nearly impossible to find somebody not wearing one. Besides, The Brick had a smoke-free policy, but these guys were lighting up fat cigars as though they’d ordered them off the menu. Gin poured freely from the hands of scantily-dressed waitresses. As for the women at the tables, Nina didn’t know what to make of them. Was The Brick hosting a private party she hadn’t been informed of? She planned to find out. The smoke alone would kill her voice.
“Umm, good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, the lump in her throat causing her voice to crack. “As you know, I’m Nina Simone and these are my Rhythm Kings.”
A chorus of whistles and crude comments fired back at her, many of which were lost on her. “Nice bubs, doll!”
“Hey Jerry, you see that vamp up there?”
“Yeah, she’s got some tight gams on her, alright!”
Nina looked back at her band, who all appeared as puzzled as she felt. Despite the growing dread in her stomach, she gave them the count and they broke into their opening number, “Minnie the Moocher.” An old favorite, it usually received thunderous applause the moment they began playing. But tonight, all she heard were more random remarks and obscenities thrown her way. They tried “Empty Bed Blues”, which garnered a chorus off booing, and “Makin’ Whoopee”, which the crowd seemed to enjoy a little too much. Nina thought if some of the men went any further with those girls on their laps, they’d be makin’ whoopee at the tables.
They managed to make it through the first half of their set with minimal damage, all things considered, but as they stepped behind the curtain for a short intermission, Nina knew none of the guys wanted to go back out there. To be honest, neither did she. She entered the back hallway, hoping to find Big John, the owner, and have a little chat before agreeing to go back on stage.
Lost in her swirling mix of emotions, she nearly ran over a young boy holding a mop in his hand.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the boy said, and went back to his work. Had she ever seen him here before? She didn’t think so. Par for the course, this evening. She looked at the boy a moment longer, then turned to find John. Instead, she saw two behemoths blocking the hallway in front of her. Their slicked back hair looked like they’d used a bottle of gel each, and their breath reeked of cigars and alcohol.
Nina spun back toward the backstage area, but rough hands seized her arms and yanked her back with enough force she feared they’d dislocate her shoulders.
“Let go!” she screamed, not able to think of anything else. In return, her arms were wrenched even higher up her back. At the same time, one of the hands wrapped over her mouth, squeezing her cheeks in an excruciating embrace. Ahead, the boy with the mop stood silent, staring at the bizarre entourage.
The men roughly guided her forward, and helpless against them, Nina relented and allowed herself to be led. As she passed the door, two men emerged. She recognized them from the crowd, two men that smelled of money, who had been sitting down front.
“C’mon doll. We’re gonna go for a little ride,” said the man on the left. He was short, not much taller than her 5’6” frame, with a pointy chin and nose, and greasy black hair. His pinstripe suit hung perfectly on his thin body. The man next to him was a polar opposite. Over six feet tall, with a round, hanging jowls and a double chin. Although he didn’t look terribly old, his hair was already thinning and going white in places. Oddly, he reminded Nina of Fred from I Love Lucy.
Nina twisted her neck, trying to find the rest of her band, but to no avail. The goons’ hands were like vise grips. The men ushered her down the hall, passing the boy with the mop. The skinny man patted the kid’s head as they passed, but didn’t speak. She pleaded at the boy with her eyes, but his face remained blank, unreadable.
The fat man opened the door, and Nina saw an antique car idling in the alley. It reminded her of the cars she’d seen while watching The Untouchables with her ex-boyfriend, and that thought triggered her panic anew. She thrashed, twisting and writhing, trying anything to escape the two thugs holding her. They held on, but she could feel their hands growing sweaty, and fought harder.
“Mr. Pendergast, sir?” one of the men behind her said. There was no emotion in his voice, but the fat man immediately turned and looked at her, his eyes cold, penetrating black orbs in the darkness. He reached inside his suit coat and pulled out the biggest revolver Nina had ever seen. She squeezed her eyes shut, her vision going black, awaiting the inevitable sound of thunder from the gun. But it didn’t come.
Slowly, she risked opening her eyes the slightest bit. The man named Pendergast smiled at her, raised the gun handle out, and whipped it across her temple.
Her vision went black again.
#
He could feel the fear of the woman coursing through her body, running through her veins like flooding rivers. He reveled in it, drank it up like a man who’d been stranded in the desert sun. He recognized both Pendergast and DeMayo, but it was Pendergast He needed. Pendergast, by once bestowing a 1923 Buescher saxophone on a young boy, had unknowingly invited something to crawl inside him. And He was only too happy to oblige.
Yet, for the first time in as long as He could remember, something bothered Him. It was the boy back inside The Blue Room. Moving along inside the woman, He had seen Himself as He was at eleven, mopping floors and cleaning vomit from the bathrooms. It was a horrible job for almost no pay, but it was all He had. His parents had been murdered in New Orleans the previous year while walking home from work together. He had hopped a train the next morning, not knowing where it was headed until he found himself in a stockyard in the West Bottoms of Kansas City.
He concluded, even back then, that He would not be a nobody, that His life would have purpose. And He had succeeded, working various jobs during the day while learning the vast wonders of His native voodoo culture at night, becoming as powerful as the men who now sat in the front seat of a 1923 Dusenberg sedan. More powerful, in fact.
But now, even in the midst of his crowning achievement, His thoughts clouded at that boy now holding the mop. For if He had transferred His soul into this woman, who controlled the boy? He had learned many tricks during his 100 years on this earth, but splitting his soul between two separate bodies at the same time was not one of them. It was a troubling prospect, to be
sure, but one He would deal with later. The Dusenberg had left the Jazz District, heading down into the West Bottoms. The slaughterhouses down here would be the obvious choice to dump a body, and He savored the euphoria of what was to come. They would have fun with the girl, play with her like a rag doll, and then discard her like so much trash, and move on to the next toy. The car came to a stop at one of the factories, closed for the night, and all four men got out, dragging the woman with them.
It was time.
#
Nina was dragged out of the old car and tossed into a gravel lot. Blood seeped from her palms and knees, and she bit back a cry as she tried to rise. A shoe landed in her gut, dropping her back down.
But with the pain came a sense of release. She felt some small, unexplainable part of her let go, and in that moment, she recalled meeting Isaac at the pawn shop this afternoon, remembered him dying before her eyes, his body lying prone on the floor as she walked out of the store. A moment later, looking up at the four men who had brought her here, she saw the fat one, Pendergast, give a brief recoil, as if slapped by the air. His face quickly returned to normal, meeting her gaze.
“Get on with it,” he said, shoving the short, skinny man forward. “I don’t want to be here all night.”
“Oh yeah,” Skinny said, sneering down at her. “I’ve had a crush on you for a while, little lady.”
Her face stung like a thousand bee stings as he slapped her left cheek. Then, so as not to play favorites, he hit her right one as well. Instinctively, she lashed out, scraping her long nails across his own cheek, drawing blood.
“Well aren’t you a little bearcat,” he said, jabbing his fist into her abdomen. Her breath rushed out in a torrent, and she collapsed, choking on air she couldn’t ingest. He lifted her up and slammed her against the side of the factory. Her head smacked the concrete with a dull thud, her mind instantly fogging up. She felt a small pool of blood welling up in her mouth from biting her tongue on impact.