by Sarah Black
"So what you think Elroy's doing here, Rafael? I thought he didn't like the blues."
Rafe tipped his Coke bottle up. “He doesn't have the heart to understand the blues. But he's here to see if I want to drop to my knees, give him a suck job in exchange for a good write-up. Fuck that. I give the blues a blow job every night, man. I don't have time for the little pricks."
Elroy pushed away, and if looks were razors, Rafe would be sliced up and bloody, dead on the floor.
"You got a talent for making friends, I can see that."
"Yeah, you too, man.” Rafe studied him for a moment. “He's right, though. He is the music guy. Why are you here?"
Deke leaned back against the bar. “I'm not sure, tell you the truth. Either my boss is trying to find something to keep me busy over the holiday, or he's expecting a dead body to turn up."
Sally-Rose leaned over the other side of the bar. “How much has Blind Pete had to drink tonight?"
Rafe shrugged and wouldn't meet her eyes.
"You remember what the doctor told him? And where's that light girl calls herself a nurse's helper? I'm about ready to send that girl back where she came from, get him a real nurse. We need somebody who'll do the job, not just stand around like she's a flower, waiting to get plucked."
Rafe was inching away, and he held up his hand. “I'll go see where she is. Let me make a pit stop first.” He moved toward the men's bathroom, and Deke was watching him move through the crowd when a big man wearing a black silk shirt, his hands stuck in his pockets, peeled off from his group and started to follow him. Maybe he just needed ... Deke glanced back at Sally-Rose. She was watching the man, too, a frown between her eyes. She looked at Deke, but she wasn't asking.
"I'll go.” He set his Coke on the bar and started pushing his way through the crowd.
The men's room was just big enough for three if they wanted to get friendly. Rafe was at the urinal in the corner, and the big man had pulled out a flick knife with a bone handle and was cleaning his nails with it. He looked up when Deke pushed through the door. “We busy in here, man."
Deke squeezed on in, his heart sitting in the middle of his throat. He leaned back against the door, tried to look tough. He jerked his chin toward Rafe, who just kept on peeing, staring at the wall. “He's my business.” He stepped toward Rafe, and the man moved in front of him for a second, the knife sliding under his nose. They stood there, eyeing each other, then Deke pushed past him and stood next to Rafe at the urinal, unzipped and dragged his cock out and started to pee.
Deke looked back over his shoulder and Rafe leaned against him and sighed. “I told you he's my business."
"That kind of business get you cut around here.” The man flashed him a grin with a bit of silver, put his knife up and pushed out the door.
Rafe straightened up and shoved his cock back in his jeans. “Thanks. I had a feeling him and me were about to get real close, you know what I'm saying?"
"No problem.” He looked into Rafe's face, but just saw tired. “You know it's always gonna be like this for you. It's 1966, man. White and black, it's not ever gonna get better, no matter what the preachers say. These people didn't watch you grow up. They don't know you."
"Yeah, I know. I don't ... I don't know what to think about it. I didn't expect it to be this bad.” Rafe washed his bleeding fingers in the bathroom sink. “Why you being so nice to me all of the sudden? You looked like you wanted to sink your fangs into my throat earlier."
"I don't like to go along with the crowd, now everybody hates you. I'm contrary that way."
Rafe grinned at him. “Want to go with me to find Leona? The staircase is dark. You can cop a feel if you want."
"What makes you think I want to cop a feel?"
"You didn't punch me in the face just then, when I suggested it. You got hungry-looking eyes, like a wolf, like you could eat me up. Or maybe I just want to eat you up. Black Comanche. You got skin the color of that Christmas candy Mama Rose got in the kitchen, those sweet caramels."
"How much you had to drink tonight?” And Rafe laughed and moved back through the club.
Deke followed Rafe up the narrow back staircase. Rafe knocked, then pushed open the door, talking in a honey-sweet voice, “Leona, you beautiful thing, we all wondering where..."
He stopped speaking, stopped walking, and Deke bumped into him, looked over his shoulder. Pretty Leona was shot dead on the bed, right through the heart, and the room stank of gunpowder and blood and shit. Rafe turned, his face shading to green, bolted to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Deke studied the scene, listening to Rafael vomit behind him, then he unpacked his camera and light. Rafe came back, his face clammy and his lips faintly blue. “Deke, what should we do? She's dead, man."
"Hold this."
Rafe blinked and held the light, and Deke got a couple of good photos before Rafe looked at him and lowered the light. “Are you fucking kidding me?"
Deke shrugged. “It's my world, Rafe. News, I mean. I didn't know her.” Rafe stared at him, those blue eyes as wet and deep as a mountain lake. “Fine. You need to go lay down? I'll call the cops."
He looked lost for a second, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, then he shook his head. “I need to go tell Uncle Jimmy. He'll know what to do. And Blind Pete, I guess, and Blue Otis. He was screwing her this afternoon loud enough to wake the..."
Deke packed away his camera, pretty sure Uncle Jimmy and the cops would not approve of the photos. Hot damn, he had a story. A real story, not some silly throw-away feel good for Christmas week.
* * * *
Rafe stumbled onto the stage, already talking, and Blind Pete stopped playing first, reached out a hand for him. Then James stood up, set his guitar aside, and took Rafe by the shoulders. After a moment he looked up sharply and met Deke's eyes. Deke nodded, then moved over to the bar.
"Mrs. Johnson?"
"What is it, baby?"
"We need to call the police."
"No, we sure don't! What kind of trouble you think those boys will bring in here?"
"It's that girl, Leona."
"What she done?"
"She's laying up there in the bed, shot dead."
"Oh, shit, no.” They both looked up as James and Blue Otis pounded up the stairs, and it wasn't long before half the club was crowding after them, the laughter and the shrieks of the bright, pretty girls turning into something different. Rafe had stayed behind, had his arm around Blind Pete's shoulder.
Sally-Rose was shaking her head. “That girl has been nothing but trouble, nothing. I should have kicked her sorry butt ... and now she's got herself shot."
"Ma'am? Mrs. Johnson? Why don't you let me call the police now."
* * * *
The first two cops came in swinging their sticks, but the club was nearly empty by then. When the word spread there was a woman shot upstairs, Deke stood by and watched as the men checked pockets and ankles for their shiny silver pistols and flick-knives. He even thought he saw a few razors getting shoved in ladies’ little purses. He'd been real tempted to take some pictures, but the hard eyes and assorted weaponry made him rethink, and he'd kept the camera in the case.
After the place had cleared out, Sally-Rose turned up the lights, and she and Rafe started picking up beer bottles from the tables, slotting them into the empty wooden racks behind the bar.
The cops looked around at the empty club but didn't put their clubs away. Deke was sitting at the table with James, Blue Otis, and Blind Pete, trying to get some information about the girl, but they weren't talking, and there was a strange tension between the three men. James was sitting bolt upright, both hands flat on the table top. His hands looked old, Deke thought, studying the heavy knuckles and the calluses on his fingertips. Blue Otis was slumped back in his chair, hands in his pockets, eyes remote. Blind Pete had put his hat on his head, for some reason, and was holding his white cane between his knees.
One of the cops, a young guy with short, blond hair, knocke
d on the edge of the table with his nightstick. “Okay, who said there's a shot girl?"
"I called the police.” Deke pushed his press pass over, then lifted his camera from his lap. “Do you mind?"
The cop reared back. “You just put that thing away! Jesus Christ. Where's the girl?"
"Upstairs. Last room on the left.” The cop turned, whistled under his breath, and his partner joined him.
They were down after a few minutes, and the blond cop pointed to the three old men sitting immobile at the table, then his finger swerved to Sally-Rose, Rafe, and Deke, loading empty beer bottles. “Okay, you all just stay right there. Nobody go upstairs."
Deke and Rafe looked at each other, didn't make the obvious comment that anyone who wanted to go upstairs could have done so long before they showed up. James just kept his hands flat on the table. “Yes, sir."
The detectives were a different sort all together. They were both wearing white shirts, the collars wilted and curling against thin black ties. Neither man looked like he'd been to bed yet. They spent nearly an hour upstairs before Leona was brought down in a body bag. Deke took a picture of the ambulance crew loading her up. The detectives looked at him, but didn't tell him to stop.
"I'm Detective Macaren, and this is Detective Weaver.” Weaver was tall, a beanpole with dark hair that curled over his ears and collar. Deke wasn't sure if he was trying to grow it out, but it looked like he was overdue for a haircut. The other guy, Macaren, was the talker of the pair, with beefy arms and shoulders, like he lifted weights in his spare time.
Weaver pulled a chair up to the table, and Macaren grabbed another. “Gentlemen, I understand you are musicians of some fame. Is that why the reporter is here?"
"Yes, sir.” James spoke for them, looking immensely dignified.
"Sorry, I don't really follow black music. So you were playing here tonight?"
"Yes, sir."
"How many people in the club?"
James looked over at Sally-Rose. “Mrs. Johnson, can you give us an estimate?"
"Maybe 70, 75,” she said. “I don't really rope off the upstairs when we got the club open. I've never had a problem before."
"Yes, ma'am. What do you know about the dead girl? Anybody recognize her?"
"It's Leona Washington,” James said. “She's nurse's helper to Blind Pete, here. He's got diabetes, and she was helping him with his insulin."
"Did you hire her up here?"
"No, Miss Anne Hurt, down in Hattiesburg, she found her. It wasn't easy to find a girl willing to travel with blues musicians. Leona didn't have any family, so she didn't have a mama to object."
"And Anne Hurt? Who is she?"
"She's the nurse in our town, and that boy's mama.” The cops turned to stare at Rafael, and they noticed Deke scribbling in his notebook. Weaver was at the bar in about two steps, and Deke gave him his press pass. He studied the name, and looked back up at Deke. “You're Deacon Davis? You did those articles about the riots in Detroit."
Deke nodded, a little wary.
"You gave the cops a fair shake. I didn't know you were black."
Deke was considering if he should get pissed off about that remark when Rafe spoke up. “He's part Indian, too. Comanche.” Deke stared at him, but Rafe just bit down on his bottom lip and turned away.
Weaver turned to Rafe. “How well you know those old men?"
"I've known them all my life. I can vouch for their character. Mr. Hurt and Mr. Watson, they both served honorably in WWII, and I grew up with all three of them and their families. I've never known any of them to become violent or use a weapon or drink to excess.” Somebody snorted, Deke wasn't sure who.
"Uh, huh. Okay, Mr. Hurt."
"Sir, I can assure you..."
Macaren had joined Weaver at the bar. “Nobody's on trial yet. You can save the character reference. Mrs. Johnson, can we speak to you about Leona?"
"You sure can,” Sally-Rose said. “I didn't see her since last night, when she was drinking whiskey like it was water with some light boy had a shiny car outside, and I heard him saying something about he was gonna take her for a ride. She didn't give Blind Pete his insulin this morning, so I helped him. I didn't look for her, ‘cause I heard her snoring up in that bed and I was about ready to send her lazy ass back home on the Greyhound bus."
Macaren stared at Deke's camera, then Weaver handed over his press pass. Macaren looked at it, then he nodded and handed the pass back.
Deke pulled Rafe away from the bar. “What was that all about, Mr. Rafael Hurt? You gonna vouch for their character? That's sweet. Those men are three times your age, Rafe. You think because you're white, your word means something? Your word means more than theirs? That was the most patronizing bullshit..."
Rafe pulled away from him and ran upstairs, and Deke might have gone after him, he was so pissed off all of the sudden, but Blue Otis was standing in his way. “That boy just doing what he's asked to do every day back home. A black man doesn't stand a chance of getting out of jail but if a white man, especially one with an old and important name, and plenty of money, shows up and vouches for his character, pays his fine, well, then ways will be found. Men will be home with their children that night. Rafe, he just gets scared about his Uncle Jimmy.” Deke looked down into Blue Otis’ eyes, the whites tinged ivory with age and wild living. “You ease up on Rafe. He likes you, I don't know why, and you acting like some kind of asshole. I think he must be desperate to talk to somebody who's under seventy years old, best I can figure. He don't have any friends up here. He's a good boy, just trying to do right, trying to do more than he knows how to do. Way you acting makes me think you got a hard-on for that boy. Or have you just got a hard-on? For that boy?” Blue Otis smiled and narrowed his eyes, his glance as sharp as a razor.
Deke cleared his throat and ignored this. “What do you mean, he's trying to do more than he knows how to do? You mean his music?"
"Oh, Lord, no. Rafe's got hands like an angel.” He hesitated. “He's one of those people like his mama. Wants to fix things that are wrong. Wants to take care of people. And right now, if you from Hattiesburg, Miss'ippi, there's a lot going wrong. Don't you know why his mama sent him up here?"
Deke shook his head. “I'm listening."
Blue Otis bared his teeth, and the smile wasn't very friendly. “I don't think so, boy."
"Blue Otis, you have a relationship with the dead girl?"
"A relationship? You don't need a relationship to be fucking a girl who decided life would be easier on her back. She just wanted a little folding so she could buy herself a couple of shiny drugstore rings. Leona, she wasn't very smart. She didn't understand her young pussy wasn't gonna stay fresh for long, she handing it around like a pie at the county fair, letting everybody take a piece. I don't know why anybody would bother to kill that girl. Be a lot easier to just walk away."
Rafe was back from upstairs, with a pillow and a blanket tucked under his arm. “I'm not sleeping up there,” he announced, and he climbed up on the stage and made himself a little nest. He looked exhausted, his face pale and drawn.
Macaren looked exhausted, too. “Okay, Ma'am, let me ask you to keep the club closed for tomorrow. We'll be back in the morning, finish up then, unless anybody wants to confess now?"
No one took him up on this offer.
* * * *
Deke spent a half-hour calling the story in to the news desk and they sent a courier over to pick up the camera. Then everybody climbed the stairs to their rooms except Rafe, who was still curled up on the floor with his guitar in his arms. Sally-Rose gave him a fond look before she climbed the stairs. “Look at that baby, sleeping with his guitar. Every bluesman I ever knew slept with his guitar one time or another, but they was usually drunk. I can't remember any one of them as beautiful as Rafael."
Deke waited until she left, then walked across the stage to where Rafe was curled up. Rafe didn't open his eyes. “You can just keep walking. I'm mad at you."
"Well, I thin
k you're full of shit, curled up here like a six year old taking a nap. You waiting for me to come over here and talk to you?"
Rafe sat up and lay the guitar over his lap. “Maybe so. Don't touch the guitar."
Deke sat down cross-legged next to him and they looked at each other. Rafe went first. “You seen a lot of dead bodies?"
"A few."
"So did you get the feeling she'd just been shot, or had it been..."
"I thought she'd been shot earlier. Afternoon, maybe. Like before the club was full of people."
Rafe plucked at the guitar strings absently. “Yeah, that's what I thought, too. There's a back entrance to upstairs. Anybody could have come in here."
"What about this guy she was with, the one Sally-Rose was talking about?"
Rafe shook his head. “I never saw her with anybody but us. She tried every night in the club, don't get me wrong. Maybe she got some wild boy to go upstairs with her while Blue Otis was on stage, but I never saw it."
"Blue Otis was with her?"
"Yeah, but he was always with a girl. He was just going through the motions, I think. His heart got broke a long time ago, and he never got over it. I mean, Leona was dumb as a rock, always talking about how she needed to look to her future. Taking good care of Blind Pete would have been a future. If she'd taken care of him, taken real care of him and helped his diabetes, well, my mama would have sent her to school to be a nurse. Blind Pete, he's sick, and he needs somebody to watch over him. But working hard wasn't really of much interest to Leona. She'd roll her eyes and sigh when she'd have to do something, like he was putting such a heavy burden on her. Blind Pete, he's proud, Deke. It didn't take long before he stopped asking."
"So who shot her?"
Rafe flinched. “You didn't see a gun, did you? I mean, maybe she shot herself."
Deke shook his head, and Rafe set his guitar aside and lay back down on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. He reached for Deke's knee. “You can scoot a little closer if you want to."
"I will if you tell me something."
Rafe stared up at him, a little smile on his face, and Deke could feel himself drowning in those blue eyes, endless as the horizon. Something tight in his chest started to soften and uncurl.