by Renée Rosen
“Calm yourself,” Red said to Muddy. “Don’t be forgetting, you got kin here.”
Leeba looked over and there was Muddy’s wife. She was yelling at him, screeching, “Who is she? And don’t lie to me.”
Muddy let go of J.J. and went over to his wife. “C’mon, baby,” he said, running his hands up and down her arms. “She’s nobody. Just a fan.”
“Just a fan, my ass,” said Aileen.
J.J. stepped up and put his arm around Aileen’s shoulder. “Let’s go. C’mon.”
Aileen shrugged his arm off her. “To hell with you both.” She grabbed her pocketbook off the bar and brushed past Muddy and J.J.
Leeba turned to Red, flustered. “I have to go with her. I have to make sure she’s okay.”
Leeba started after Aileen, when the two women who’d confronted her earlier blocked her way by the cigarette machine up front.
“Just came to hear some music, huh?” said one.
Leeba didn’t know what to say. A sharp, pungent smell came to her, something acrid, like singed hair. She was still working up her defense when the girls backed off, their faces filled with alarm. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Like a chain reaction, one by one Leeba and everyone else inside the Macomba Lounge became aware of the club filling up with smoke. Gray and hazy smoke one moment, and thick, black, rolling plumes the next. Leeba couldn’t speak other than to gasp as a burst of flames erupted, dancing across the bandstand.
TWENTY-TWO
• • •
“Smoke Stack Lightning”
LEONARD
It happened so fast, Leonard was in shock. Flames were still shooting into the sky and smoke was clouding, fogging everything. He couldn’t get over how quickly it had exploded, devouring everything.
He remembered Muddy’s band had just finished their first set and gone on break. Something had been happening between Muddy and another guy at the bar and one of Muddy’s sidemen, the guitar player, Red, had stepped in and broken it up. It was right around then that he first smelled something burning. He thought it was something in the rib pit. But the next thing he knew the back end of the club was engulfed in flames. It had gone up like a matchstick. Everybody tore out of there, pushing and shoving. Leonard rushed back and opened the side door, hoping and praying that everyone got out. The smoke grew thicker, darker, and soon he couldn’t see anything. His eyes stung and his throat closed up. He was groping through the haze, hacking so hard his lungs felt squeezed. He heard someone calling from behind. “C’mon, let’s go. Let’s go.” He realized it was Phil, who had him by the waist, pulling him so that his feet barely skimmed the floor.
The sirens were now squealing in his ears and the whole area was crawling with firemen armed with axes and hauling hoses. Leonard must have counted a half dozen fire trucks blocking the intersection of Thirty-ninth and Cottage Grove. Flashing lights everywhere. People from the neighborhood and nearby clubs lined the sidewalks, watching. The air was thick with smoke and the sky lit up with flames.
Was Phil sure that everyone got out? Was anyone hurt? A whole new wave of panic shot through him. Without thinking, he started back toward the club. What he was going to do once he got there, he didn’t know. It wasn’t rational. He wasn’t rational. He got as close as the sidewalk before the police pushed him back.
“But—that’s my club. I gotta make sure everyone’s out.”
He couldn’t remember what they said, but it was clear they weren’t letting him any closer. Through the smoke he saw the familiar faces of the drug dealers, the pimps and the whores. They were shivering in the cold January air but they were okay. What about the others? Leonard raced through the crowd until he saw Muddy and his band off to the side, smoking cigarettes and passing around a couple flasks. Leeba and Aileen were there, too, along with Muddy’s wife. Phil was with them.
“Everybody okay?” asked Phil. “Anybody hurt?”
Leonard watched his brother checking in with them one by one. Leonard was at a loss. For once he had nothing to say. He seemed to separate himself from what was happening. Everything went still and silent inside his head as the flames in the background flickered off everybody’s faces.
Muddy’s wife was taking turns cussing out her husband and then Aileen. Aileen was fighting with the wife and yelling at Muddy, too. Then there was Leeba—something was going on with her and that guitar player. She was huddled up close against him, her arms around his waist. Walter was draining his flask, pointing to the flames shooting twenty, maybe thirty feet into the air like a goddamn Fourth of July display.
Leonard was watching all this when there was an explosion and he stood back with his brother watching the roof collapse, his heart nearly collapsing with it. Everyone gasped. There were more explosions, walls crumbling, sparks going off in all directions.
Before the sun came up, all that was left of the Macomba Lounge was a heap of smoldering rubble. And by seven that morning Leonard and Phil had already met with the police and the fire inspector.
They crossed the street and took turns at the pay phone on the corner, calling their wives and then their parents. Letting everyone know they were okay.
After Leonard hung up the phone, he squeezed his eyes shut. “God damn it. Motherfucker. Shit.” He banged the handset in the holder, over and over, until Phil reached in and stopped him.
“C’mon,” said Phil. “Get a grip. C’mon now.”
Leonard was still in a fog. He kicked a bottle across the sidewalk. He looked back at the ruins and shook his head while his younger brother led him down the block and into a diner. All Leonard could think was What now? With the club gone he had nothing. He’d never have the money to buy out Evelyn. He’d have to get a job—that was a given. But doing what? Maybe he’d learn a trade, become a mechanic, work with his hands. He didn’t know. He’d sell the new car, move Revetta and the kids into a smaller apartment. With each thought the dread and panic escalated. He was sweating, nauseous; his chest felt tight.
They took the booth in the back and Phil ordered a couple of coffees. Kids at a nearby table were screaming. Leonard’s head filled with the sound of dishes clacking, the smell of grease in the air. He looked at his hands, black from soot. They were shaking.
“What are we gonna do?” Leonard gazed up at Phil and was taken aback. He could have sworn he saw him smile. He kept looking. God damn it, he was. The motherfucker was smiling. Leonard wanted to clobber him. “What, you think this is fuckin’ funny? The club’s gone. It’s finished.”
With that Phil tried but failed to suppress a laugh. He took his hat off, set it on the table and began to laugh, his shoulders shaking.
“Are you trying to tick me off?”
Phil couldn’t stop. He laughed so hard he snorted. He planted his elbows on the table and hooted into his hands, his eyes leaking tears. “Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus!”
“I’m gonna fuckin’ knock your block off.”
“Leonard, do you have any idea what we’re insured for?”
“For that piece-of-shit building? Wake up. It couldn’t be worth more than a few grand. That’s all we paid for it.”
“But, Len,” Phil said, still laughing, “we have business interruption insurance—”
“What the—”
“Don’t you remember? I took out a policy when we first opened the club.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That policy pays for lost profits. The building may be worth shit, but that policy covers our lost revenue. You want to buy out Evelyn Aron? You want to buy Aristocrat? You got the insurance money for that now. And then some. That fire is a godsend, Len. This is the answer to our prayers.”
• • •
Six weeks later Leonard stood on a riser before a three-way mirror. The suit jacket was tugging across the shoulders.
“We’ll let thi
s seam out a little,” said Avrom, marking the fabric with a square of white tailor’s chalk. Avrom was the best tailor on Maxwell Street and, besides, Leonard had heard from someone in the old neighborhood that Shirley was working for Avrom now. It wasn’t so much that he had to see her, but rather the other way around. Leonard needed to be seen by Shirley as the man he was today.
He pulled the price tag from the cuff. Fifty-seven dollars. He’d never spent that much on a suit before in his life. Avrom ran the measuring tape from Leonard’s shoulder seam down his sleeve. Leonard glanced again in the three-way mirror and caught a glimpse of Shirley standing behind the counter. When he’d first walked into the shop, she was ringing up another customer’s order and got so flustered she rang the sale twice and had to void it out and start over. She said a quick, cool “Hello, how are you?” and then busied herself in the back of the store. Even before he saw her come back up front, Leonard felt her presence.
“I’ll take the other suit, too,” he said, loudly enough for Shirley to hear.
Avrom nodded.
“And I’ll need some more shirts and ties, too.”
Avrom pulled a pencil from behind his ear and jotted down the measurements on a notepad. “So, nu, tell me, how is Leeba?”
Leonard had wondered how long it would take for him to bring her up. She’d taken to calling herself Leah these days, but she’d always be Leeba to him. She was with Red Dupree now and driving Leonard crazy, hounding him about auditioning her boyfriend again. Leonard knew Red’s playing; he’d heard his demo and had seen him in Mud’s band. But Leeba insisted he had his own songs and swore he had something special. Muddy’s harp player, Little Walter, was on Leonard, too, wanting to audition. Christ, he told them to all slow down. He and Phil hadn’t even found new office space yet.
“So she’s well?” Avrom asked again.
“Who, Leeba? Yeah, she’s fine.” And she was. She seemed happy with Red, although Leonard couldn’t imagine her parents ever accepting a Negro for their daughter.
“Will you tell her I asked about her?”
“Sure,” said Leonard, still watching Shirley. “Yeah. I’ll tell her.”
When Avrom finished, Leonard went up to the cash register and handed Shirley a brand-new Diners Club credit card. He kept his poker face on as he watched the numbers popping up on the register each time Shirley rang up another item.
“It’s good to see you, Lenny. I’m glad things are going so well,” she said as she handed him the credit card slip and a pen.
“Business is good. Very good,” he said, scanning down the bill. Christ, he’d spent even more than he thought. “I’ve got no complaints.” He should have left it at that, but his ego wouldn’t have it. “Don’t know if you heard or not, but I’m a record executive now.”
“How wonderful. Very impressive.”
He had no idea how to interpret her smile. Was she patronizing him or did she really mean it? And why did he still care? It killed Leonard to sign that sales slip. Revetta would have a fit when she saw the credit card bill, but he told himself he needed new suits. He told himself this had nothing to do with showing Shirley he could afford them.
She handed him his receipt and let her eyes linger on his just a beat too long. He could almost see the memories replaying in her mind—wet kisses and groping sessions in the living room while her parents were asleep, making promises and plans for the future. Leonard wasn’t a cruel man, but he did take a ridiculous amount of satisfaction in that look of hers as he folded the receipt and slipped it into his wallet and left the shop.
As he got back into his Cadillac he thought about how it must look to others. The timing couldn’t have been more convenient. But he hadn’t set the fire. His friends had been in the club that night. Hell, his own brother had been in there. Besides, the authorities had conducted a full investigation and it turned out that faulty wiring was to blame. The electrician had warned them about that months before. Still, it looked suspicious.
But thirty days later when the insurance money arrived, Leonard didn’t give a goddamn what anyone thought. He wrote Evelyn Aron a check and he and Phil took over the company. One of the first things the brothers did was change the name from Aristocrat to Chess Records.
TWO
• • •
1951–1953
TWENTY-THREE
• • •
“Rocket ‘88’”
LEONARD
The drip, drip, drip was driving Leonard crazy. He could hear each droplet hitting the pail under the sink in the kitchen down the hall from his office, but he wasn’t about to pay the eight dollars the plumber wanted to fix it. It had been nothing but money going out for almost a year while they got set up. South Cottage Grove was the new home for Chess Records. They took the space after they lost their lease at the old Aristocrat office just a few blocks away. It may not have been perfect, but it was his. His and Phil’s.
“Red’s here,” said Leeba, poking her head inside his office. “He’s ready to audition.”
Leonard got up, grateful to be getting away from that plink, plink, plink. He followed Leeba down the hall to the main room where their makeshift studio was. “Studio” was an exaggeration. All they had were some music stands, a few microphones, a reel-to-reel and the upright piano he’d bought from Evelyn. It wasn’t ideal, but at least he could do some recording here without having to shell out for a studio. Bringing an engineer in and renting extra recording equipment was a hell of a lot cheaper than paying Universal by the hour and coughing up the money before they even walked through the door.
Red was standing around making small talk with Phil. That was Phil’s job. Leonard couldn’t be bothered with niceties. He said a quick hello and a “Let’s see what you got.” When Red picked up his guitar and began playing, Leonard stood with his arms folded across his chest, cigarette dangling from his mouth, listening. As Leonard watched Red he thought, Man, that is one tall motherfucker. Red had a great presence, but his style wasn’t unique enough. The music sounded familiar, and not the song—that was something Red had written himself—but the playing. When Red hit the last note, Leonard glanced at Phil, offered a nonapologetic shrug and said, “Sounds too much like Muddy.”
There was nothing more to say about it. He turned and went back to his office, knowing that Phil would handle the rest—shake Red’s hand, thank him for coming down and walk him out.
Leonard sat at his desk and there it was, drip, drip, drip, plink, plink, plink. Driving him goddamn bonkers. He couldn’t concentrate. A moment later Phil came into his office to report that Red was gone.
“I think Leeba’s more disappointed than he is. You might wanna say something to her.”
“You hearing this shit?” Leonard asked, ignoring what Phil had just said.
“What shit?”
“That leak from the kitchen.”
Phil shrugged. “It ain’t bothering me.”
It figured. Knowing Phil, he was probably too busy to have noticed. Leonard could always hear Phil through the wall that separated their offices. He was nonstop on the phone, one call after the other, talking with distributors, record pressers, radio stations. Now, that kind of noise didn’t bother Leonard. That was the sound of business. The sound of money.
Besides, Phil was good with people, better than Leonard was. Leonard turned on the charm when he had to, but only when he had to. He was great when it came to dealing with the disc jockeys and distributors—with the people who mattered—but he was too busy for small talk and pleasantries. He didn’t have time to worry about coddling people.
Phil went back to his office as Leeba came and stood in the doorway. “Hey, Len—”
“Don’t start in on me about Red.”
“I’m not,” she said. “Although I think you made a big mistake. Anyway, I was just coming to tell you that Sam Phillips is on hold for you.”
&nb
sp; Leonard told Leeba to close his door behind her as he grabbed the phone and swept his legs up onto his desk in one fluid motion. “How the hell are ya, motherfucker?”
“Doing A-OK,” said Sam, “but I got a question for you.”
Sam spoke with a hint of a Southern accent. He was down in Memphis and had recently started doing some recording work. Leonard had been introduced to Sam through a mutual friend during one of his early trips down South. It wasn’t often that Leonard met another white man interested in producing race records. He spent a lot of time with Sam whenever he was down in Memphis. The two were convinced that white folks—even in the Deep South—would buy race records if they could find a way to market the music to them.
“I swear they like this kind of music,” Sam had said one night. “The problem is, they think Negroes only make music for other Negroes, not for whites. So the question is, how do you get them past that?”
“You find yourself a white boy who can play a guitar as good as Muddy and can sing like a motherfucker.”
“Lots of luck there,” Sam had said.
Leonard leaned back in his desk chair, crisscrossed his ankles and lit a cigarette. “So what’s on your mind, Sammy?”
“What’s this bill you sent me for ‘Rocket “88”’?”
“Rocket ‘88’” was a romping, hard-driving song that a couple young go-getters, Ike Turner and Jackie Brenston, had recorded with Sam. When Sam had played the song for Leonard during a trip to Memphis, Leonard flipped. “Rocket ‘88’” wasn’t like anything he’d heard before. Heavy on piano, a sax solo, fun, upbeat lyrics, snappy as hell. Leonard knew he could turn it into a hit. He had to have that song and convinced Sam to sell him the rights. So while Leonard went about getting the record airplay, Sam sent Ike, Brenston and their band on the road for a promotional tour. It was the right combo at the right time.