Driving the King

by Ravi Howard

  “This makes sense though, chicken livers and eggs pretty much started at the same exact place, so they go together,” I said.

  “No mystery on that plate. None whatsoever.”

  Ivie’s was like all the Central Avenue breakfast spots that used to be more club than restaurant. Lucinda said it changed after Ivie died. That was around the time when Negro bands started to play the Sunset Strip. The old stage was demolished to make room for more booths, so the only music played now came from the jukeboxes. Each table had a small tabletop model, no bigger than those milkshake blenders behind the counter. The music came through the ceiling speakers between the air ducts and the ceiling fans, each song dropping along with the cool air and the light.

  “Ivie was always sweet to me. She was touring with Duke until she got sick, but she’d saved enough money to open this spot. Gave singers jobs when we needed one. If one of us made a record, she’d keep it in the jukebox whether it hit or not.”

  Lucinda flipped through the pages of songs, some handwritten and some typed, their titles shortened to fit the space.

  “Billy Strayhorn used to write songs at the counter. If Stray did something, everybody in town wanted to do the same. We kept pencils in our aprons so they could sit here and write. Ivie got tired of them using her menus for scratch paper, so she kept notebooks in the menu racks.”

  Everybody at the counter seemed too young to write a song. The counter jukeboxes fed the same speakers, so we heard what the young ears craved. That Los Angeles sound was something like a junction. Some Detroit and New Orleans, Memphis coming in. Some homegrown Angelenos.

  When she found the page that listed her song, Lucinda paid a dime and dialed the number. 832. Before too long, it was our turn. I had thought I would have to pick her voice from a chorus, but she sang solo, a tune I had never heard about a city I had never seen.

  When “Calhoun Street” came through the speakers, that swing of the horns started it off, and that piano came in, and she put space among the lyrics, playing a little hopscotch with that easy Saint Louis stride.

  “They had two train stations across the river in Memphis, on both ends of the same street. Last thing I saw before I left. Wrote a song and got myself a deal, not much but enough for me to know I needed to stay here.”

  That piano had a little Down South and a lot of Midwest in the chords, city around the edges and country at its heart. Lucinda took her time but she got someplace, patient but with one eye on the time. And then it was over, much too soon.

  “Number nine on the Harlem Hit Parade chart. Top-ten record. My high point. Got to love your high point. Of course, I want to get a little higher next time, but still.”

  “Maybe I want to hear it again.”

  “The music goes around to every booth and the lunch counter, so everybody gets to hear their money’s worth. Besides, I can’t have my old song becoming your favorite, because you haven’t heard the new ones. When I finish and record someplace. Seems like you’re patient like me, Weary, so it’ll be worth it when I’m done.”

  We started the afternoon with her work, and we finished with me doing mine. Driving. Though I spent my working days doing as much, I was fine carrying Lucinda anywhere she wanted to go. We took the road up to Griffith Observatory, and we could see everything while the sun came on down and covered Los Angeles in that early-evening light.

  We got up to Griffith and found space along the overlook, where a guidepost on the railing listed the constellations. Proper stargazing required a trip up the mountain, because the streetlights did to the black sky what the smoky air did to the daylight blue. It was too early for stars, but that in-between color brought people out. The people who ended their daytime sightseeing left the place as the night crowd started to gather.

  “I come up here quite a bit when Nat needs a little time at Capitol and I want to stay close.”

  “Nat Cole’s a good man, getting you and Willie gigs like he did. Glad he stood up for you, considering.”

  “I guess Willie told you what happened.”

  “I knew about his jaw. And I’d heard about you even before he mentioned. I just didn’t know your name. When I toured, I’d hear all kinds of stories on the bus, and who knows what’s true. They used to talk about a soldier that jumped a stage. Some said Georgia and some Mississippi, but when I met Willie and Evelyn I heard it right. I had imagined what that fellow looked like. You’re the spitting image of the man I pictured.”

  “You heard the rest of it. Kilby.”

  “I never heard that name, but just the way you say it, I know what that place is. I didn’t want to ask. Why people come out here is heavy sometimes. They’ll tell it when they want to. If they want to.”

  “Can’t act like I’m ashamed. People might think I’m sorry for what I did.”

  “You’re here now though.”

  “Sometimes, but not always. Forgetting what you left is as much work as anything else.”

  “Stories I heard dwell on that fight, you being a hero and all, but they don’t talk about the rest of it. They told me you were at that show with your girl. I imagine that takes some time to get over.”

  “That’s why I came out here. Get some miles behind me.”

  “Takes time. When I got that call from Clora Bryant, that job, I was married. He begged me not to go on tour and told me he didn’t know if he could wait. He told me Paris wasn’t going anywhere. I said neither is the bottom, and I was tired of being there. If that’s where I was meant to be I’d end up back there eventually. But that day I packed for Paris.”

  “I know you’re glad you did.”

  “Just like I know you know you did right coming out here. That old feeling dies. Slow, but it goes. Plus I had a time over there. A few solos. Good choruses. That’s my career, Weary. All that and a number nine record. Made enough money to put down on my house to make this home. You got to make it home, too.”

  Lucinda took a nickel from her pocketbook. I didn’t intend for her to pay for anything but she was set on looking out at the city. While the telescopes inside were for nighttime viewing, the outside viewers were the daytime kind, and the dusk light was still enough to make it worthwhile. Five cents for five minutes so that we could see where we had already been and marvel at how small it seemed from the mountain. Lucinda kept one hand on the swivel and one on my shoulder, guiding me.

  “You ever see Montgomery like this?”

  “Got a little rooftop at the old hotel where our cabstand is. See a mile or two but not much to see.”

  The click of the telescope’s timer got faster, that nickel’s worth of view running out as the eyepiece slammed closed. When it did, I dropped another coin, and the city was back for a little encore. Lucinda moved the lens.

  “Take a look at Paramount.”

  A backdrop, a city skyline of New York or some likewise place, moved slowly along one of the back lot walls. For a moment I saw a little sliver of the red tractor that pulled it, with men out front directing the path.

  “If we were on the other side of the mountain, I could pay to see NBC, and watch you and Nat driving onto the lot. Doing what we all come out here to do. Make shows and sing.”

  “Not for much longer, though. You know it’s not going well. With the sponsors.”

  “People talk. Even if they didn’t talk, I suspected as much. Watching the show and not a single commercial as good as that man is. I don’t mind more singing, but I know how things work.”

  “I try not to dwell on it when he’s around, but something good needs to happen soon.”

  “You need to be ready if things don’t work. He’s the most famous Negro out here. That puts him first in line for the good and the bad. I heard the station back home won’t even show him. They’ll dance to him, but they don’t want to see his face.”

  Our viewfinder was still tilted toward the soundstages, but our change was gone. The sun was getting too low, and most of the valley was shadow-covered except for the lights that marked
the streets.

  “He steered clear of the nonsense, at least. Stepin Fetchit used to come into Ivie’s sometimes, and he never wore the same suit twice. Nat Cole never cut the fool to make his money. I can say that, too. I’ve never sung anything I’m ashamed of. That’s why Ivie hired us all, so we could pour coffee and make a living until a new gig worked out. If I never get another one, I never shamed myself trying.”

  “I still want to hear you sing again.”

  “I told you, once I get something down.”

  “No, I mean later this evening. Maybe in the morning. Maybe every so often. Whenever you feel like having me over to listen.”

  “I tell you what. Let me think about it while we drive.”

  And with that we were gone. Back down the mountain into the nighttime that was just then in the midst of falling.

  Chapter 25

  When I got my sister on the phone Marie had to raise her voice on account of the music, so she moved to another room. She asked someone to hang up the phone when she got there. Marie’s voice came back, I got it and thanks, and that front room phone went back on its cradle, and half the party noise went quiet. That bedroom door creaked enough to hear her closing it, and the rest of the noise that had followed her down the hallway went quiet as well.

  “So Dane tells me you met a woman out there. Happy to hear. Of course I wanted to hear in person, but it’s good to hear your voice at least,” Marie said.

  “Every time I call it just rings and rings.”

  “We’re careful about answering. The crank calls don’t stop. People never set foot on a bus still mad we don’t ride. Some of the nastiest gutter talk you’ll ever hear. One said he’d kill me dead. I never understood why people say that. Silly when you think about it. If they kill me, what else would I be besides dead?”

  “Don’t make light of it, though.”

  “Got to do something, otherwise we’ll all go crazy.”

  “So that’s why you’re having a party on a Thursday night,” I told her.

  “It’s a bail party.”

  “This connection must be bad, because—”

  “Bail party. We’re going to jail tomorrow, and by we I mean anybody who ran a carpool. Police want to round us up, but we decided we’d go early. Catch them by surprise before they come looking.”

  I wished she’d stayed in her party then, because the back room sounded lonely. Hearing her talk about Ripley Street jail in a quiet, empty place made it feel like she was already there. People were quick to say jail and prison were two different places, but that’s a distinction folks make when they have never been to either.

  “They just want to scare you,” I said.

  “They did, but we’re all scared together.”

  I grew up hearing that steady line of her voice. I missed that dearly when she waivered, from bad news or grieving or tiredness. She was quiet for a little too long, but I didn’t hear any crying. That breath, in and out, filled the receiver. Marie told me the walking wasn’t the problem, and neither were the rides. It was the worry about what might come next.

  “I think about that place, and I remember the last time I went. Couldn’t even get close enough to see you when they took you,” she said.

  “Once you post bail you’ll be in and out. Just like me, I’m out here.”

  “We’re meeting at the Centennial lobby in the morning, so we’ll be together at least. The women from the Council say we should call it progress. The city’s losing money and the mayor’s desperate. I’ll try to call it progress, but I can’t until I’m home.”

  “Like I said, in and out.”

  “We had a seminar the other night. What to do when you get booked. Taking a little tissue paper in our pockets. Leave our wedding rings and things at home. Strange, Nathaniel. In a Sunday school classroom studying how to go to jail.”

  “You’ll be all right. Do what they told you, and you’ll be out in a few hours. They’ll drag it out, try to make you sweat, but you’ll be fine.”

  She opened the door then, and that music came back in and kept her company.

  “You’re the disc jockey for our little set. The records came in the mail yesterday, so everybody told me to tell you hello and thank you.”

  “The new songs won’t be out until Tuesday, so you all got a jump on folks.”

  “Good to be first, ain’t it? You were there when he made them?”

  “A couple. I got two by Nancy Wilson, because she has Dane’s nose a little bit open.”

  “Yours, too, probably.”

  That bit of music just then was familiar, but it didn’t come from the Capitol stack I’d sent to them.

  “I heard that boy a few months ago. Dale Cook.”

  “That must be his brother or something, because this one’s Sam. Whoever he is, they’re about to wear out my needle, if the belt doesn’t break first.”

  “I’ll put some money in the mail. If I’m listening to your bail party records I might as well kick in. If I was there I’d buy some bourbon for the cause so you’d know I was committed.”

  “Committed means crazy.”

  “Nothing wrong with crazy as long as I have some company. Me and you can stay crazy together. Just be careful tomorrow.”

  “I will, love. Anyway somebody’s about to take the phone from me. Itching to talk to you.”

  He took the seat that Marie left. That wood creaked along with that sigh of his. I heard my father before he said a word to me.

  “How’s the car running?” he said.

  “Fine. So they got you in the middle of the bail party, too.”

  “Damndest thing I’ve ever seen. You know your brother’s getting arrested, too. He’s at the barbershop. They got a line out the door with folks going to jail tomorrow.”

  “Your son wants to look sharp for his mug shot. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Act like they’re happy to be there, then nobody will get scared off.”

  “As of tomorrow all of my kids will have been down to that jail. I’m proud of every one of y’all. If you raise hell then we brought you up right.”

  Marie had switched out the old records to her new ones. An instrumental started then, and the lone voice was my father’s baritone that he’d dropped to a whisper.

  “E. D. Nixon pulled me aside the other week and told me he needed a favor. A big favor done in a hurry. Asked me to drive a fellow named Rustin out of town in the trunk of my car. You hear me? In my trunk. Not the taxi, my Sunday car. They said he’s an organizer up north. Union man, he said. Me and Nixon go back, so I said yes. I figured we’d get a few miles out and I could let him out, put him in the front seat, but the fellow said no. Part of the discipline, he told me. The minute we relax and talk is the minute a trooper rolls up.”

  “That won’t get you anywhere good.”

  “No, sir. We got to where he was going, and I opened the trunk. He shook my hand, said thank you, and he was in the wind. Would have liked to talk to him, you know, be hospitable. Told me he respected the courtesy, but it was a discipline thing. Can’t argue with that, especially coming from a man ready to ride in the trunk of a car for that long. That’s why I’m glad I took the Lincoln. If we couldn’t have a decent conversation, at least I could give the man a little more room. The things that people have to do.”

  “You might as well be in it, if that’s how you raised us.”

  “I know, but they told me I can’t keep my pistol under my seat if I drive a carpool. Defeats the point of having a gun if you ain’t carrying when folks act a fool. I’m not in charge, though. I’ll leave it to your brother and sister and the rest. I can fix the ride cars and be good with that.”

  “That sounds like plenty.”

  “How’s that car running?”

  “I told you, it’s fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Better than fine. Wonderful.”

  “Your sister and Pete put some hours in that car before you came home. Me, too.”

  “And I appr
eciate you for it. Car’s running pretty good, Pop.”

  “Just pretty good?”

  “Better than good, then. I told you, Pop. It’s fine. Quit your worrying.”

  “Like you don’t.”

  “I’ll take care of mine out here, and you look after everybody back home.”

  “I’ll be out in front of Ripley Street when they make bail, don’t worry.”

  It was for the better that they had a party, because they wouldn’t sleep well. I lost sleep the night before I went to Ripley Street, but it wasn’t on account of knowing what would happen. I had just figured wrong. I expected that day to change things, but I was dead wrong about how.

  Chapter 26

  Montgomery

  DAY OF THE SHOW

  4:30 P.M.

  I had to take that ride out to Kilby. My father had told me to stop talking about that place, but I had made promises. I needed to keep it on my mind for a little while longer. After marching through Europe with Pritchett and George and Bone, I had promised them a show whether they were alive to see it or not. They weren’t the only ones, though. I had also marched on the roads around Kilby Prison with more boys than I could name. If anybody needed a show it was them.

  I remembered Nat’s father at First Baptist. He ministered to the sick and shut-in, and on First Sunday afternoons he took communion to the homebound and ended his route with the folks in our neighborhood. He took his church on the road and brought them all a little taste of it like you might bring somebody a foil-covered plate of something still warm. I wanted to do the same for my Kilby gang, take them a little bit of that show they’d never get to see.

  “I’m hoping you might take a little ride with me,” I said. “I told some of the boys at Kilby I was going to work for you. Some believed me and some didn’t. They been in there so long they don’t know who you are. Never seen a television. All they know is that wall. I want to go show my face. I want them to see yours, too.”

  He nodded and got his coat and put that houndstooth on his head. With that we were gone to Kilby. I felt every mile of that drive as though the prison road were on top of me, pulled a little tighter across my gut the closer I got to the gate. It was a hard labor camp, and everything was work. Breathing was work. Keeping my mind right was work. So was calming the shake in my fingers on the steering wheel and the tremble of my foot on the gas. It was a fight. My body was asking why my mind saw fit to go back there.