Pigfoot said he wasn’t doing it for the money, at least not for personal enrichment. He just wanted to do something to show he’d been here and done something. He’d had things to say and he’d planned to say them with his words and his music, but they’d taken that possibility away from him. He couldn’t change any of that, but he hoped he could help others say what they wanted and make their mark in the world.
IT WAS PAST three in the morning when Rick came out of a commercial break. “Maybe I’m asking too much,” he said. “But I’ve been promising folks a reunion concert.” He looked at the four old men and held his hands out in a plea. “Y’all feel up to it?”
They did.
Smitty opened the guitar cases. Buddy took the Gibson, a J-185, a couple years younger than his own, and a little dinged up, but it fit in his hands just right and it had a fine sound. Willie opted for a traditional steelbody with a mahogany neck and ivoroid-bound rosewood fretboard. Earl took the 1950 Martin 000–28 with the simple spruce top and rosewood sides. It had a big sound and nice action.
Their fingers weren’t as fast or as strong as they used to be, but you could hear all that life they’d lived in the voices and the playing. They didn’t repeat any of the songs they’d been forced to play that night fifty years ago. Instead they played some favorites and some originals. Crippled Willie started off by proving you can keep your chops up just fine playing gospel. He opened with a lively cover of Willie Lofton’s “Jake Leg Blues” and then, moving from the profane to the sacred, he launched into a wrenching version of “I Know His Blood Can Make Me Whole.” With each note, the men seemed to tap deeper into a reservoir of youth they had stored for this very moment.
As Rick watched Willie’s old, dark-caramel hands moving against the gleaming body of that steel guitar, it dawned on him that he would be one of the last to see this thing, to witness the final rays of this remarkable sunset. This thing, and these men, were passing into history. Men who had been in the place, at the time, who were products of that dark circumstance. The last generation to create and contribute to the original body of work that could only be interpreted and imitated by future generations. People would always play the blues, the songs by the masters, but membership in this club was closed. To be a part of it, you had to be there.
After Willie’s set, Earl winked at the others and said, “Now here’s one I wrote that ole Leroy Ervin lifted from me.” They all laughed as he launched into a raunchy version of “Blue, Black, and Evil.” Buddy provided a churning, rhythmic backing while Willie blew some sinister sounds from a harp in the key of C. From there Earl led them into Tampa Red’s bawdy “Let Me Play With Your Poodle.”
Buddy took the next few songs, starting with his original, “Dust on My Memories,” before charging into the Muddy Waters classic “Trouble No More.”
Somewhere in the middle of all this, Rick looked over at Lollie. She was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, her head bouncing with the bluesy rhythm. Rick allowed himself a bittersweet smile. He’d solved the case he’d been hired to and, with Lollie’s help, they’d solved one of the great mysteries of the music world and, in the process, helped exonerate an innocent man. The story would get good play in the press and Rockin’ Vestigations would have a surge in business.
On the other hand, Rick figured he wouldn’t see much of Lollie anymore. Now that she knew who had killed her grandfather, she’d return to her life. She told Rick that she had applied for some teaching positions in Atlanta and Charlotte. He had some feeble hope that their relationship could turn into something lasting, but at the same time, he’d come to expect that in love, at least, his hopes would be dashed. And he was rarely disappointed. Still, it was fun while it lasted and, hell, he almost got to play with her poodle.
THE SUN WAS peeking over the trees when they walked out of the studio, exhausted and exhilarated. To their surprise, there were cars parked in every direction as far as the eye could see, nearly a hundred of them. It turned out that blues fans from all over Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas had driven through the night, toward the station, listening to the men tell their story and play their songs. Instead of stopping when the signal was clear, they just kept driving until they reached the studio. When they saw Buddy and Willie and Pigfoot and Earl, the people got out of their cars and began to applaud. A standing ovation. The bluesmen smiled and waved and waded into the crowd to sign autographs and revel in their new celebrity.
Afterward, Rick took them all to breakfast and then put Buddy, Willie, Earl, and Pigfoot up at one of the casino hotels, told them to stay as long as they liked.
As they drove back to the Vicksburg, Lollie said she was glad to know her grandfather hadn’t been there that night, that he hadn’t had anything to do with what had happened. She assumed he eventually heard the tapes but knew he wouldn’t have given a second thought to anything Henry said on them. “That’s just how they talked back then.” Of course, Lollie knew it was also the way a lot of people thought—her grandfather included. “Still,” she said. “When they convicted Pigfoot, it would’ve been nice if he’d stepped up and done the right thing.”
“Give him a break,” Rick said. “He was a man of his time and place.”
Lollie said she thought that was a cheap excuse used by too many to indulge their prejudice. But she said she wouldn’t hold it against him. “I guess I’m just a little disappointed I don’t come from better stock.”
“Not me,” Rick said as he pulled into the Vicksburg’s parking lot. “I’m still hoping your lack of integrity will encourage you to put out some.”
Lollie smiled and shook her head. “I’m gonna have to give you another rain check,” she said. “I’m exhausted.”
“Damn.”
They got up to the apartment, collapsed on the bed, and slept until noon.
After that, Rick and Lollie saw each other only periodically. She had to get back to Jackson and follow up on the jobs she’d applied for. She said living off alimony was boring her to death and wasting her talents.
She attended Crail’s trial in Greenville whenever she could, and Rick got up there when he had the time, but it wasn’t as often as he would have liked. He was busy working his two jobs as well as producing the Blind, Crippled, and Crazy CD, as well as the reunion concert and a DVD, The Pigfoot Morgan Story.
One night, toward the end of the summer, Rick was on the air playing the Grateful Dead’s version of “Smokestack Lightnin’” when the request line lit up. It was Lollie. “You want to meet me in Greenwood this weekend?”
“Sure,” Rick said. “What’s the occasion?”
“There’s the matter of an uncashed rain check.”
After a pause, Rick said, “Two, actually.”
They spend an indulgent weekend at the Alluvian, that fancy hotel at the corner of Church and Howard Streets. They had dinner at Giardina’s, the famed Delta establishment. They got one of the private booths, ordered martinis, and pulled the curtains. The mood was festive. They were celebrating the fact that the school in Atlanta had offered Lollie the job. Rick proposed a toast to her future. Then they toasted Ruby Finch and Beau Tillman and everybody else they could think of between fits of laughter and kissing.
They talked about that night at the radio station, the status of the trials, and the stuff Rick was producing with the bluesmen. At one point, straight out of left field, and not in keeping with their tacit policy of ignoring the elephant that had been in the booth with them the entire time, Rick said he was sorry to see their relationship end. Lollie gave him a sweet smile and said, “Yeah, but you don’t want a girl who snores after just two martinis.”
“No, of course not,” Rick said. “A guy would have to be crazy to fall for a girl like that.” He made a crazy face to emphasize the point. Then he looked deep in her eyes and in that moment something passed between them. “But I had to say it, at least once.”
She reached over and put her hand on his. “I’m sorry too.”
“On the
other hand,” Rick said. “At this point in my life, I’ve learned to take a small degree of satisfaction in knowing that if I keep my romantic expectations low enough, I’ll usually have those expectations met.”
Lollie smiled and said, “C’mon. Let’s go cash some rain checks.”
They went back to their room and disappeared beneath the 350-thread-count sheets. Some time later they fell into a sound sleep. If Lollie snored that night, Rick never heard it.
THE NEXT DAY, when they were leaving, Rick walked Lollie to her car. He said, “I got something for you.”
She looked embarrassed. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You gave me plenty.” He handed her a gift-wrapped box.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She pulled on the bow and opened the box. Inside was a picture frame. She turned it over and broke into a big smile. It was the picture Rick had taken of Lollie that night in his kitchen. She was laughing at the time and her arm was resting on the box of Ruby’s photos. “It’s great,” she said. “I usually don’t photograph that well.” She kissed his cheek and said, “Thanks.”
Rick pointed at the box. “There’s another one.”
Lollie dug through the Styrofoam peanuts until she found a photo of Rick with Crusty’s face next to his. “Puff Kitty!”
“He wanted you to remember him,” Rick said. “And I just happened to be in the picture.”
“I’ll remember.”
He pointed at something on the glass. “He even sneezed a reminder there for you.”
“How sweet.” She gave Rick a kiss, got in her car, and drove away.
Rick stopped at a store on the way home and bought another frame. When he got back to the Vicksburg, he put his copy of Lollie’s photo in the frame and set it on a table by the window. Crusty jumped up and rubbed it with his nose. Rick picked Crusty up and held him face-to-face. “Well, Crustus, it’s just the two of us now.” He rubbed Crusty on the head and said, “Here’s looking at you, kitty.” As he turned to gaze out the window at the confluence of the Mississippi and Yazoo Rivers, Crusty leaned toward Rick’s ear. “Ow! Stop biting me.”
Epilogue
Thanks to all the publicity, Rockin’ Vestigations had a surge in business. Rick hired a few more operatives and put a little money in the bank.
At Crail’s trial, the forensic expert testified that she was able to match the gram-negative intracellular diplococci from Crail’s amputated leg to that in tissue samples retained from the necropsy of Lamar Suggs. Based on advice from his public defender, Crail rolled over on Henry to get off the hook on Jeremy Lynch’s death. Then he confessed to killing Tucker Woolfolk as part of a plea deal to save the state a trial and avoid the death penalty. But he refused to testify against Cuffie. He was convicted of the murders of Tucker Woolfolk and Lamar Suggs and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. While he was at Parchman, Big Jim Magee kept Crail supplied with all the drugs he needed. They talked about planning an escape, but nothing ever came of it.
At her trial, Cuffie cried on the stand and said Crail Pitts had used her. She said he had wanted to find the tapes and get rich and had threatened to harm her family if she didn’t hire Rick Shannon to find Woolfolk and Suggs. The jury found her performance unconvincing and she was convicted on two counts of murder and sentenced to life.
The tapes, along with the testimony of Buddy, Willie, and Earl, were enough to prove that Clarence hadn’t killed Hamp Doogan. But since no one had seen the crime, and Henry wouldn’t confess, he couldn’t be convicted for the murder. But he was tried for a laundry list of other crimes, ranging from civil-rights violations to hiring Crail to kill Rick and Lollie. He was convicted and sent to Parchman, where he died after nine months.
Pigfoot had lawyers lining up to bid on his business. They filed a string of lawsuits and won them all, clearing Clarence’s name and bringing in enough money to establish a series of scholarships in the names of Buddy Cotton, Willie Jefferson, Earl Tate, and Clarence Morgan.
Shelby LeFleur donated the bulk of his estate to the scholarship funds. He died the next year knowing that the remaining LeFleurs would have to work for a living, so there was some hope yet.
Buddy died a few months later.
Rick produced the CD of the original Blind, Crippled, and Crazy sessions. Since there were only six songs on the tapes, he combined it with the recording of the reunion concert at WVBR. It went gold. The guys did a few concerts, a DVD, and a couple of TV specials and, when all was said and done, everybody got they nickels and went on home.
Acknowledgments
Most of the research for this book fell into one of three, sometimes overlapping areas: music, history, and medicine. My gratitude to the following for help in these areas:
J. Fred Knobloch, Alan Stoker, and Tim Whitsett for information on subjects ranging from the twelve-bar form to obsolete recording technologies. I also referred to All Music Guide (The Blues) for biographical information on the Delta blues artists mentioned in these pages.
Billy Johnson, proprietor of the Highway 61 Blues Museum in Leland, Mississippi, for permission to use information from his article “Skin Balls, Good Times, and the Blues” (published in The Leland Progress, 7/12/01). Thanks to Jamie Tate for introducing me to Billy and for showing me around Leland. I also found invaluable information on playing “skin” in Zora Neale Hurston’s “Mules and Men,” as well as in the University of Virginia “E-project” created by Laura Grand-Jean (http://xroads.virginia.edu/∼MA01/Grand-Jean/Hurston/Chapters/glossary.html).
The beautiful, brilliant, and funny Frances Powers, who shared her memories of growing up in Vicksburg, including the fact that she learned to smoke cigarettes down in Marcus Bottoms, and who, later, introduced me to Jamie Tate.
On issues of law enforcement and incarceration in the Magnolia State, thanks to Martin Hegwood, fellow novelist and attorney with the Mississippi secretary of state’s office, and Bill Greenleaf at the Mississippi State Penitentiary at Parchman.
Dr. Cris Glick answered all my medical questions, no matter how ridiculous. Judge Tom Givens shared his knowledge of Prohibition-era Mississippi. Carol Puckett Dailey showed me around Greenwood and the rest of Leflore County and hooked me up with Duff Dorrough, who helped out from Ruleville to Parchman and back. Fish Michie pointed me toward Po Monkeys.
Thanks to Dan Baum and Margaret L. Knox, for permission to draw on their article “Jake Leg” (published in The New Yorker, 9/15/03), which was in turn based on research by Dr. John Morgan, professor at the City University of New York.
Mike Corley and Jerry Rushing at WQBC and George Mayer at “The Vicksburg” for giving Rick Shannon a place to work and live.
In matters of language, dialect, and dialogue I referred to You All Spoken Here by Roy Wilder Jr. (University of Georgia Press); Juba to Jive—A Dictionary of African-American Slang by Clarence Major (Penguin); and A Blues Life by Henry Townsend as told to Bill Greensmith (University of Illinois Press).
In writing about aspects of the radio industry in the south, I relied on C. Joseph Pusateri’s article “Radio Industry” published in the Encyclopedia of Southern Culture (University of North Carolina Press).
In addition to time spent roaming around the Mississippi Delta, I referred to the following for images of the region: Juke Joint, photographs by Birney Imes (University Press of Mississippi); Delta Time—Mississippi Photographs by Ken Light (Smithsonian Institute Press); and “Junior’s Juke Joint,” a Web site created by John L. Doughty Jr. (www.deltablues.net)
Thanks as always to D. Victor Hawkins, Janine Smith, Kendall Fitzhugh, and Tom Dupree for their notes. And to Maureen O’Brien, who, putting it mildly, had a rough summer and still managed to shepherd the project to the end. Also a big thanks to her assistant, Stephanie Fraser, and everyone at HarperCollins who makes these books happen, most especially Michael Morrison. And to Jimmy Vines for everything.
About
the Author
BILL FITZHUGH was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi. He is the author of six previous novels: the award-winning Cross Dressing and Fender Benders, as well as Radio Activity, Heart Seizure, Pest Control, and The Organ Grinders. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, three large dogs, and a cat with a permanent sinus problem.
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Also by Bill Fitzhugh
Radio Activity
Heart Seizure
Fender Benders
Cross Dressing
The Organ Grinders
Pest Control
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HIGHWAY 61 RESURFACED. Copyright © 2005 by Bill Fitzhugh.
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EPub Edition © JULY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-062-04185-2
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fitzhugh, Bill.
Highway 61 resurfaced / by Bill Fitzhugh.—1st ed.
Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5) Page 32