Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

By late afternoon, more and more people came to hear them and his guitar case began filling up with coins and dollar bills. There was one man, dressed in a fine three-piece suit, with a slight mustache and pile of wavy hair styled up in a pompadour. He stuck around for a long time, smoking cigarettes, grinding out the butts beneath the heels of his shiny Stacy Adams shoes. In between numbers he’d call out to them, things like, “What’s the name of that one?” and “Where’d you find that song?”

  Something about this guy seemed familiar, but Red couldn’t place him. Figured he was a regular down in Jewtown. Red and Walter talked about him after they’d packed up for the day and gone into a tavern down the street.

  “Did you see the way he was eyeing me?” Walter dragged his sleeve across his mouth.

  “I saw it all right.”

  Walter pounded on the bar. “Let’s have us some service over here, huh?” He had already drained his flask on the walk over.

  The next day as Red was coming home from work, he saw Walter tearing down the sidewalk. Sober for once.

  “You know that cat who was hanging ’round us at Jewtown yesterday?” said Walter. “You know who that was? That was Muddy Waters.”

  “How do you know it was him?” Red thought that guy looked familiar. He had heard Muddy’s records over the radio and had even gone to see him play in clubs around town, but he hadn’t put two and two together.

  “Last night, after you left the bar, he come lookin’ for us. He’s puttin’ a new band together—all electric guitars—he wants you on guitar and he wants me on harp. Said to bring you ’round so we can start rehearsing.”

  Red paused, letting this sink in. Playing alongside someone like Muddy Waters meant exposure—the kind of exposure he’d dreamed of back in Louisiana. This was his chance to make something happen. He never would have guessed that his big break would come in the form of Muddy Waters. He gave himself a moment, wanting to mark in his mind the last moments of his old self, saying good-bye to that part of him that had been conditioned to play himself down. He no longer had to be a Negro afraid of calling attention to himself in a white world. Now all that was behind him; he could let himself all the way out.

  “Go get your guitar,” said Walter. “They’s waiting on us at the rehearsal studio.”

  Red ran up to his kitchenette, grabbed his guitar and amp and went with Walter to a small building down on West Thirteenth Street. It was nothing fancy. A warped floor, sheets tacked up on the windows, exposed beams and naked bulbs along the ceiling. Aside from the drum kit and piano, it was just a couple of folding chairs and wooden crates. Pints of whiskey were being passed back and forth between the musicians.

  Red and Walter shook hands with Muddy and were introduced to the rest of the band. Elgin Evans was a drummer with light skin the color of caramel and a deep, gravelly voice. Otis Spann, the piano player, had a mustache and wore his hair slicked straight back. When he smiled he was all teeth.

  They rehearsed for almost three hours without taking a break. Elgin beat those drums, his sticks propelled by some force deep down inside him, and Otis Spann kept a cigarette—one after the other—pinched between his lips the entire time he played piano. Walter was blowing a double cross harp, his head rocking from side to side, his foot stomping to the beat. Red paid close attention to Muddy—how he used his fingers, never a pick, and how the slide on his pinky could deliver a shrieking open A. Red watched how he twisted the strings, making a single note cry out for more, working with the feedback and reverb, never trying to quiet it. Red had a few of his own tricks, but each time he got a little too fancy, Muddy would come in with a strident guitar lick. The message was clear: Muddy was the bandleader and ain’t no one about to upstage him. Especially not Red Dupree.

  FOURTEEN

  • • •

  “Ain’t Gonna Give Nobody None of My Jelly Roll”

  LEEBA

  When Leeba and Aileen entered Lyon’s Deli on Maxwell Street they were greeted with the smell of grease and fried onions. Hard salamis hung from hooks in the ceiling behind the cash register. Leeba heard a tall, young colored boy behind the counter speaking Yiddish to a Jewish merchant ordering pickled herring. There were at least as many Negroes in there eating kosher beef and noodle kugel as there were Jews.

  Leeba and Aileen placed their orders at the counter and took a table for two. Aileen had just come from work and Leeba saw, lurking beneath Aileen’s jacket, her gray button-down uniform with “Knickerbocker Hotel” monogrammed across the breast pocket. While they were waiting for their food, Aileen brushed crumbs off the table and resituated the napkin holder, straw holder, the salt and pepper shakers, too. She didn’t seem to be able to hold still while Leeba told her about the new song she was working on.

  “This is the blues stuff you’re trying to do, right?” asked Aileen.

  “Yeah, but I’m stuck. I don’t know how to end the song.”

  “What’s it about?”

  Leeba rolled her eyes. “Infatuation. Heartbreak. Love gone bad.”

  “Sure sounds like the blues to me.” Aileen laughed and blew the paper wrapper off her straw. “So when you gonna let me hear this song?”

  “Whenever I finish it. If I ever finish it.”

  “And you’re positive you don’t wanna get up on stage and perform yourself?” Aileen gave her a look of disbelief. “The only time I feel alive is when I’m on stage.”

  “I’m a behind-the-scenes kinda gal.” Leeba thought about those neighborhood concerts her father had put together in their living room, when she’d been the center of attention. It had meant so much to her then, but now she couldn’t imagine wanting that. “I’d be a nervous wreck playing in front of a crowd.”

  After lunch Leeba and Aileen made their regular pilgrimage to the Maxwell Street Radio and Record Store so Leeba could see her piano. It was a crisp fall day and the sun was shining but the air was brisk. As the girls walked through Maxwell Street, the music swirled around them. The different beats and bass lines moved through Leeba’s body, causing her to pace her footsteps to the changing tempos. They kept walking down the crowded sidewalk, and when they came to the Maxwell Street Radio and Record Store, Leeba noticed something in the front window that made her mouth go dry. She felt like she had swallowed a fist.

  “What is it?” Aileen asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Leeba rushed inside the store, hoping that it wasn’t true. But there it was on the raised lid of her Bösendorfer: a red ticket with thick black lettering. Sold.

  Aileen caught up to her. “I thought that old geezer was gonna sell it to you.”

  “So did I.” According to Abrams, “a sale is a sale,” so even after she’d quit working there, he had agreed to save it for her. She’d even made arrangements to keep it at Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Moishe’s since they had more room. Leeba stood before the baby grand, something heavy stacking up in her chest. She’d saved five hundred and thirty-five of the six hundred dollars needed to buy it and now it was for nothing. Leeba swept her sleeve over the lid and bench to clear the thin layer of dust clinging to its lacquered surface.

  “C’mon,” said Aileen. “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet.” This was her last chance with her Bösendorfer. A proper parting was needed. She sat down and tinkered with the keys. “It needs tuning. Hear that?” She played a chord and smiled sadly. “Just a little off, just a little sour.” Still, each note hollowed her out, echoing inside her. She played a few more chords before settling into an old Spencer Williams song. “Remember this one?”

  Aileen laughed as Leeba played the intro and began to sing “I Ain’t Gonna Give Nobody None of My Jelly Roll.” They used to sing that song full of sexual innuendoes when they were too young to know what it meant. But now Aileen was singing it fully aware and shameless. And Leeba, knowing she’d never play this instrument again, let her fingers take over, her foot pumping the damper peda
l. They drew attention from a handful of customers inside the store, who gathered around, shuffling back and forth, smiling, some even blushing. When Aileen got to the line about not letting anybody taste her jelly roll, Bernard Abrams burst through the circle, flapping his arms.

  “Hey-hey! What do you think you’re doing? You can’t waltz in here and start playing.”

  He grabbed hold of Leeba’s arm and yanked her to her feet. Aileen started to cuss him out and Leeba found herself trying to calm them both down. When the yelling subsided, Abrams, still holding tight to Leeba’s arm, escorted both of them to the doorway.

  Leeba glanced back over her shoulder at the piano. “Just tell me one thing,” she said to Abrams. “Who bought it?”

  “A radio station.”

  This disappointed and saddened her even more. How cold, how empty. It was like turning a child over to an orphanage. Her baby grand needed a rightful owner—someone who would love and care for it. “But you knew I was saving up for it,” she said to Abrams. “How could you have sold it? And to a radio station.”

  “Six hundred and fifty dollars. That’s how I sold it.”

  Leeba was so distraught when they left that at first she didn’t notice who had started playing out front. But she heard the music and suddenly she stopped, her breath caught in her chest. She reached for Aileen’s arm and gestured toward Red Dupree. He was there on the sidewalk with Little Walter, his guitar case already filling with dollar bills and coins.

  “Damn, he’s good,” said Aileen. “So is his harp player.”

  Leeba nodded. She didn’t want to speak. She just wanted this moment to listen to him play and watch him in all his glory. When that wasn’t enough and she needed an excuse to get closer, she pinched open her pocketbook and took a bill from her wallet. Working her way through the crowd, she went up, her heart beating out of sync with the music as she placed her dollar in his guitar case. She paused, hoping he’d notice her, thinking maybe he’d recognize her from the store or Aristocrat, but he was too lost in his music. He never even looked at her.

  Leeba retraced her steps and stood once again next to Aileen. The swarm of people around Red Dupree and Little Walter had grown even bigger. She waited and listened to two more songs before she let Aileen lead her away, feeling as foolish as a schoolgirl.

  But it wasn’t all for nothing because when she got home that day she went straight to the piano. She had finally found the ending to her story, the hook for her song: “No, not a romance. No, not a chance.”

  Two days later, she played the song for Aileen. Though Leeba’s voice wasn’t right for the style, she closed her eyes and sang with conviction, feeling every note, every phrase. While her eyes were still closed, she heard Aileen begin to clap along with the beat. She moved into the chorus, the hook. “No, it’s not a romance. It don’t stand a chance.”

  When Leeba played the last note Aileen let out a laugh. “Girl, I do believe your lily-white ass is playin’ the blues.”

  • • •

  The following week Leeba and Aileen performed the song for Leonard and Evelyn in the Cottage Grove office during Aileen’s lunch break. She didn’t look like a blues singer, dressed in her hotel maid’s uniform, her hair tucked beneath a scarf, but she sure did sound like one. While Leeba played, Aileen began to sing, turning Leeba’s skin to gooseflesh. This was Leeba’s song—she’d created it—and Aileen’s voice was perfect for it.

  Leeba saw Evelyn whispering to Leonard. He nodded while Evelyn toyed with her earring and whispered something else. When Aileen finished singing, neither Evelyn nor Leonard said a word. The room went silent. Leonard had an opinion about everything and the longer he went without speaking up, the worse his verdict.

  It wasn’t until Leeba prompted them that Leonard pinched the end of his cigarette and drew a deep inhale. “Aileen, you know I’ve always said you got a great voice. And, Leeba, I like this new direction. This blues style ain’t exactly what I was expecting, but . . .” He paused and scratched his head. “But . . .”

  “But?” Aileen’s voice sounded small and frightened, nothing like the big booming one she’d just sung with.

  “But like I’ve said before”—he raised his hands, palms up—“girl singers don’t sell records.”

  Leeba watched Aileen’s shoulders slump forward. “What about Ella Fitzgerald?” Leeba said. “And Billie Holiday? Dinah Washington?”

  “What Leonard really means,” said Evelyn, “is that there’s nothing wrong with your singing. Or your song, really. There’s just nothing special about either one. And Leonard’s right, girl singers don’t sell.”

  Leeba was disappointed, but not like Aileen. She could tell that rejection hit her hard. She was on the verge of tears.

  Leonard knew it, too, because he went over and put his arm around her. “You got the pipes. You got the look.” He turned back toward Leeba. “You girls just need to come up with the right material.”

  Aileen nodded and sucked in her lower lip.

  Leeba walked her outside just before Aileen broke down and sobbed.

  “I’m so damn stupid,” she said, wiping her hand across her eyes. “I thought maybe—maybe this gonna be my big break. I’m such a damn fool. I hate my life. Nothing ever works out for me. Ever.”

  Leeba wasn’t happy, either, but she pushed her disappointment aside to keep Aileen from sinking. “You heard Leonard. We just need the right material. We can’t give up.”

  “Maybe you can’t, but I’m done.” She looked at Leeba as the tears rolled over the rims of her eyes. “I’m so tired. I didn’t think it was possible to feel this tired. This beat up. All I ever hear is no. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Don’t think like that. We’ll keep working on more songs. We’ll get there. I promise.”

  Aileen glanced over Leeba’s shoulder. “Oh no, somebody’s coming.”

  Leeba turned around. It was Muddy Waters walking up the sidewalk in a handsome suit and tie. His pompadour proud and high, a far cry from the man in the dirty overalls she’d met at Universal Recording a year and a half before. Ever since that day she helped him sign his name the two of them had formed a special bond. He was always bringing flowers for her desk or giving her chocolates. And it wasn’t that he was sweet on her; he was just showing his appreciation. She waved while Aileen covered her face in her hands and turned toward the side of the building, her shoulders shaking.

  “Hey there, now,” Muddy said. “What’s the problem here?” He tilted his head, trying to get a closer look at Aileen.

  “It’s okay,” said Leeba. “Just having a bad day is all.”

  “See now, the good thing about them bad days is they don’t last but for twenty-four hours.”

  When Aileen lifted her head and glanced back at Muddy her shoulders began to shake even harder. Leeba thought he had broken her, until she realized Aileen wasn’t crying. No, she was laughing.

  Slowly she turned around and fluttered her lashes, a thin smile rising up on her tearstained lips. Muddy didn’t take his eyes off her and Leeba could feel the air pulsing between them. It was like she was intruding on an intimate moment. Something powerful had just started and Leeba wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. For either of them.

  FIFTEEN

  • • •

  “Paying the Cost to Be the Boss”

  LEONARD

  It was one of those Indian summer days in October with temperatures in the high seventies. Leonard walked around the car one more time, a Cadillac Coupe de Ville, midnight blue with chrome trim, tail fins, power windows and a V-8 engine. This automobile was nicer than some people’s homes. It set him back three thousand, four hundred and ninety-six dollars, but he needed a new car and had wanted a Cadillac his whole life. Muddy’s record was selling and soon they’d start making some money. He worked hard. Didn’t he deserve this one bit of luxury? He ran his hand alon
g the hood. What a beauty. He shook the dealer’s hand, opened the door and climbed inside. The leather was soft as suede and the smell intoxicating. He gripped the steering wheel, revved the engine and took off, leaving his junkyard Buick behind forever.

  Leonard rolled down the windows and blasted the radio as he drove along Douglas Boulevard, going slow just to watch heads turn. There was nothing subtle about the car and when he came to a red light, he pulled up alongside a mint green Starlight Coupe Studebaker. The freckly-faced young man behind the wheel looked over at Leonard’s Cadillac longingly. At the next light Leonard looked through the rearview mirror and was disappointed to see that the couple in the car behind him were more engrossed in their conversation than his car.

  As he turned onto Millard Avenue he crept past the greystones, keeping his eyes wide open. He knew where the apartment was and would be lying if he said he hadn’t gone out of his way countless times before to drive by it. It was a small building, nothing special. He had Revetta in a bigger place and on a better block. Leonard pulled up a few doors down and threw the car in park. Idling in his showpiece, he lit a cigarette and gazed through the rearview mirror. There was a Chrysler parked out front. A ’45 with rust spots on the side panels. C’mon, Shirley. Just come outside. Just this once . . .

  Two cigarettes later he saw a man, about his age, walking up the sidewalk with a briefcase, his eyes shielded by his fedora. Leonard had heard that the husband was a door-to-door salesman. He watched him walk up the front steps and fit his key in the door. When the man had gone inside, Leonard squeezed his steering wheel. The sun was going down; the streetlights had come on. It was time to go home.

  When he got there he stayed in the car, honking the horn until Revetta came to the door. He called to her through the open window, “Don’t just stand there. Come take a look.”

  She disappeared from the doorway and reappeared a moment later pulling on her sweater, the front door clapping shut behind her. Leonard turned off the engine and got out of the car, watching her walk around it twice before she said a word. Her mouth was agape. He didn’t have a clue what was going through her mind. He was prepared for her to demand he take it back.