by Renée Rosen
“When we goin’ back in the studio to record my new songs?”
“We’ll get to it, buddy. I promise. I haven’t forgotten about you.”
“You been sayin’ that for the past month now.”
“Hey, c’mon, Chuck’s tapped into something and it’s good for all of us. You. Me. Everybody. This is business. It ain’t personal.” And it wasn’t. Muddy’s sales were sliding. His audience was shrinking month by month, week by week. Same thing was happening to Wolf, to Walter, to Sunnyland Slim—all the blues guys.
“Yeah,” said Muddy, “well, just don’t be forgettin’ who brung you Chuck Berry in the first place.” Muddy flung his magazine down on the desk, turned and walked out of Leonard’s office.
THIRTY-EIGHT
• • •
“Evil Is Going On”
LEEBA
Leeba looked around the smoky lounge and counted up the people: three at the bar, a table of four in the back, five seated at a center table, another table for two off to the side. With her and Red there was a total of sixteen. Sixteen people there to see Aileen Booker, who just a few years before would have packed the house.
Aileen stood on the bandstand in a blue sequined dress. She’d had her hair done earlier and wore it swept up on one side, held in place with a rhinestone comb. A glass of whiskey on the rocks beading with condensation was parked on a stool next to her.
The band, some session players Leonard had put together for her, sounded good. They were tight, but it was wasted on this handful of people, there for the drinks more than the music. Leeba saw Aileen struggling up there. Not with her singing. No, Aileen’s voice was as strong as ever. It was the people who were talking, their backs toward the stage. It was the woman who got up and went to the washroom in the middle of “Jealous Kinda Love.” It was the fact that she was into her second set and Muddy still wasn’t there. Leeba noticed Aileen kept looking toward the door, no doubt hoping he’d appear. The hour grew late. Red was tired and had to get up at five to make it to the shoe factory by six.
“We can’t leave yet,” she whispered to him. “I can’t do that to her.”
Aileen was in the middle of a new song that Leeba had written, “The Heart Goes Thump,” when one of the drunks at the bar started getting loud, arguing over his tab.
“Hey—” Aileen stopped singing and called out to him. “Y’all wanna shut the fuck up?” She turned her gaze toward the others sitting there. “All y’all, just shut the fuck up—I’m singin’ here.”
The band stopped playing. Leeba looked at Red and grimaced. There was an instant of shock in the room, followed by a burst of laughter before everyone turned back to their conversations. The band started up again, but Aileen didn’t make it through the rest of the song before she ran off the stage in tears.
Leeba told Red to go on home and she went after Aileen.
“I can’t do this no more,” Aileen told her when Leeba caught up with her outside the side door. It was a warm autumn night and Aileen was sitting on the ground, leaning against the building, her shimmering sequined dress bunched up around her knees. She was holding a bottle of whiskey, sobbing.
“The other night the club owner turned up the houselights on me in the middle of my set. He told me they were closing early because the place was so dead.” She yanked the rhinestone comb out of her hair. “This is how I make my money. It’s how I survive. Now I’m gonna have to go back to cleaning hotel rooms and waiting tables.” She took a long pull from her bottle and started fidgeting, scratching at her legs and then her arms. “And where the hell’s Muddy? He said he’d be here. That man is killing me.”
“Something must have come up.” Leeba couldn’t meet her eye.
“Yeah, and I wonder if that ‘something’ has a name. I feel like I’m losing him. Like he’s slipping away. What am I gonna do if he quits me?”
Leeba wanted to say it would be the best thing that ever happened to her; she couldn’t stand how Muddy came and went from Aileen’s life. But she knew her friend didn’t want to hear that. Aileen wept and started fidgeting and scratching at her arms again. As one of her sleeves hiked up, Leeba’s mouth dropped open. She saw the marks on Aileen’s arm, a series of bruises and pinpricks. Aileen caught Leeba staring and quickly pulled down her sleeve.
“What is that?” asked Leeba, reaching for Aileen’s arm. “What are you doing to yourself?”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’.” She jerked her arm away. “I got a rash or somethin’.”
“That’s no rash. Did J.J. get you started on this?”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
“C’mon, I know J.J. does dope. I’m not stupid. Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me that’s not from a needle?”
Aileen looked up and fixed her gaze on Leeba. “It’s. Not. From. A. Needle.”
Leeba slapped her hands to her sides and shook her head. “I give up. I’m going home.”
“Oh, great. That’s just great. You go on and leave me, too.”
Leeba looked at Aileen. “There was a time when the only secrets we kept were each other’s.”
• • •
Two weeks later, on the last Friday in September, Chess was cutting royalty checks. Leeba walked into work that day and found a full house. Everybody was already there—Muddy, Aileen, Wolf, Walter, Bo, Sunnyland, Willie, the Moonglows and on and on. Everybody was there waiting for their money. The place was so crowded she had to sidestep her way around the artists to get to her desk. Chess was growing fast and they’d hired on so many new people—bookkeepers and an entire payroll and royalty department—that they were about to bust out of their Cottage Grove building.
Idell, the new receptionist, was taking coffee orders. Most of the performers had probably come straight from their gigs the night before. Leeba could smell the booze and cigarette smoke clinging to them. She gazed about the room. This was Chicago’s blues royalty.
Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry were laughing about something and she looked up. They were the next generation of artists. With their new sound they had become the favored sons of Chess. Their records were outselling Muddy’s, Wolf’s, Walter’s, and some of the others combined. They were still laughing and Leeba overheard them talking about Bo’s recent appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show.
“Sullivan had no idea who I was,” said Bo. “I showed up at the studio and his people started telling me to do ‘Sixteen Tons.’ And I’m thinking, That ain’t even my song. I ain’t going on television to perform someone else’s song. So when the curtain came up I started playing ‘Bo Diddley.’”
Chuck laughed.
“That ticked Sullivan off. Phil told me, ‘Fuck Sullivan. You don’t ever have to be on that motherfucker’s show again because your record’s gonna go through the roof now.’”
Both of them were still laughing and Leeba wanted them to keep quiet. Couldn’t they see what their success meant for the bluesmen who had come before them? Couldn’t they understand that the more records they sold, the fewer these men who inspired them would sell? But Chuck and Bo—despite having idolized Muddy and Wolf and the others—couldn’t contain their glee.
Leeba finally went over and said under her breath, “You might want to tone it down a bit.” They looked at her as if they had no idea what she was talking about.
Wolf was in the back wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, reading about the American Revolution. He had gone back to school and was studying for a quiz later that day. Walter was slumped down next to him, taking pulls from his flask and blowing cigarette smoke at the ceiling. Aileen stood off to the side with Muddy.
At last Leonard emerged from his office and gave Phil a stack of checks to hand out before he disappeared again down the hall. With his cigar propped in his mouth Phil shuffled through the envelopes, going up to each musician and handing them out. With each one, he offered either congratulati
ons or a commiserating nod that said, Tough pay period, buddy.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Phil said to Aileen. “Don’t worry. Next one’ll be better.”
Leeba watched the disappointment on her friend’s face, remembering the first royalty check Aileen got for “Jealous Kinda Love.” Leeba would never forget how Aileen’s mouth dropped down when she’d opened that envelope. “This is all I made?” she’d said to Leeba. “I had a hit record.”
Aileen showed Leeba the check and her jaw about hit the floor. Seventy-three dollars and eighteen cents. Leeba had made more than that when she wrote it. As a work for hire, they’d paid her a flat fee of a hundred and seventy-five dollars in lieu of future royalties. She sometimes wondered if she’d made a bad deal with Leonard and Phil, but compared to Aileen she was coming out ahead.
“Well,” said Leeba, “there’s obviously been some mistake.”
But when she’d gone to Leonard on Aileen’s behalf he’d just said, “Nope. No mistake. The performers only get paid on the number of records sold. That’s how the business works. Artists make their money off their club dates. And don’t look at me like that. I didn’t invent this system. It’s the same at every label. That’s even how the majors do it. She can go to RCA or Capitol and it’s the same thing.”
Leeba was remembering all this when she heard Aileen hollering at one of the secretaries. “You tell Leonard I wanna talk to him now.” Leeba looked over just as Aileen hurled a coffee cup across the room, smashing it against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” Leeba rushed over to her side. “What happened?”
“What’s that singer doing in there with him?” Aileen shrieked and pointed across the room.
Leeba turned just as Leonard stepped out of the audition room with a gorgeous woman with very fair skin. It took a moment before Leeba realized it was Mimi Cooke. She hadn’t seen her since the reception after her wedding.
“Did she audition for Leonard?” asked Aileen.
“You know he’s been looking for another female singer.” Leeba placed her hand on Aileen’s shoulder and felt her shaking she was so mad.
“So you knew about this?” Aileen shrugged her off.
“I knew he was auditioning someone, but I didn’t know it was her.”
“What’s y’all fussin’ ’bout?” asked Walter. He was sitting along the back wall, looking over his check. “I brung her down here. Ain’t no big deal.”
Aileen rushed over to Walter, screaming, her fists raised. “Why’d you do that?” She was swinging and punching now. “Why?”
Walter was on his feet, hands shielding his face. “You crazy, woman.”
Aileen pounded on him, beating up on Little Walter, until the Wolf stepped in and pulled her back. Aileen had tears streaming down her face as she sank to her knees, keening into her hands, mumbling, “What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?”
Everyone stood around, watching. Muddy grabbed a box of Kleenex and crouched down beside her, plucking a tissue and handing it to her. “C’mon now,” he said. “You can’t be doin’ this here. Have yourself some dignity, woman.”
That only made her cry harder. Leeba knew Aileen was ashamed of her behavior, but she couldn’t control herself and that made it worse. “You don’t understand, Muddy. Don’t nobody understand? I got nothing. I’m already a has-been. Leonard’s gonna replace me with that Mimi Cooke just like he replaced you and Wolf with Chuck and Bo.”
• • •
Aileen pulled herself together and fifteen minutes after her outburst at Chess she announced that she had to go meet someone. She was being cryptic and Leeba had a feeling she was on her way to see J.J. Leeba tried calling Aileen’s apartment several times throughout the day, but there was no answer.
When Leeba got home that day she found a note on the table from Red. Now instead of gigging every night he was attending meetings. That evening he was at one for the Urban League. Red still hadn’t asked her to join him, and she was still respecting that he needed to go to the meetings alone.
Sophie scratched at the door so Leeba took her out for a walk. It was a crisp fall night and Leeba heard the crunch of dried leaves beneath her footsteps. The streetlights generated a nice glow over the neighborhood as the murmur of traffic from Fifty-seventh Street filtered through the air. A squirrel caught Sophie’s eye and she took off after it around the side of the building.
While Sophie hunted down her squirrel Leeba thought about Aileen, wondering how she could do that to herself—stick a needle in her arm. Were the effects of dope so good that they justified the means? Or was it that her life was so miserable that only heroin could make it tolerable? She didn’t know what to think anymore and Leeba had to admit that aside from the music, she no longer had anything in common with Aileen. It was getting harder to hold on for the sake of the history they shared and she didn’t want to admit that if she’d met Aileen today she probably wouldn’t have liked her.
Leeba looked around for Sophie but didn’t see her anywhere. She called for her, picturing her sitting at the base of a tree, eyes trained on her squirrel. She’d eventually get bored and come back. She always did.
Leeba’s mind began to drift again, thinking about the royalty checks handed out that day and how difficult the music industry was. She thought she heard Sophie coming, but when she looked over, Leeba froze. A rush of adrenaline raced through her. Out of the darkness, with the streetlights illuminating them from behind, she saw that blond-haired boy who’d cut Red’s hand. He was walking with one of his accomplices. Her heart quickened. Where was Sophie?
The guys were laughing, oblivious to her presence, until one of them chucked an empty beer bottle into the street. It landed with a sharp crack that startled her. She let out a yelp and the boys turned her way.
“Well, well, well.” The blond headed over with his friend close behind. “Look who we have here. It’s that little nigger lover.”
As he came closer Leeba saw the marred skin on his lip from where she’d bitten him. She hadn’t realized she’d wounded him so badly. He must have sensed her staring at his scar because he said, “That’s right. Take a good look at what you did.” He reached in his pocket. “I’ve been waiting for this chance. So now it’s your turn.” Out came the switchblade.
Leeba screamed as he grabbed her and pressed the knife to her throat. “You shut your mouth or I swear I’ll do it, you little nigger-loving bitch.”
She glared at him and through clenched teeth she screamed again. As she did, she saw Sophie come tearing toward them from behind the back of the building. The friend saw the dog coming and took off as Sophie lunged for the blond guy, ripping into his leg.
He cried out and tried to free himself, but Sophie had him. Leeba could see the blood through the tear in his trousers. He yelled out again and started waving his knife around almost blindly. Sophie growled, her teeth sinking in deeper until, in horror, Leeba watched the guy drive his switchblade into Sophie’s neck, sending up a spurt of blood. The dog’s jaws went slack as the boy grasped his leg, wincing and cursing.
Leeba shrieked while Sophie let out a few helpless whimpers, her body going stiff with shock just before her legs buckled. The boy limped away as Leeba rushed to Sophie, reaching for her just as she collapsed. Leeba sobbed, cradling her dog in her arms, crying out for help. It all happened so fast. Within minutes the boy was gone. And so was Sophie.
THIRTY-NINE
• • •
“Shake Your Moneymaker”
LEONARD
Leonard skirted his way around his desk. It was a tight squeeze. His office was cluttered with demo tapes, piles of contracts, file cabinets. The whole place was like that: boxes everywhere, recording equipment stacked up in the hallways. Chess had outgrown the offices at Cottage Grove and Phil was looking into finding a bigger space for them.
One of the girls from accounting brought in a st
ack of royalty statements. He looked at Chuck Berry’s first. That guy was a cash cow. His new single, “Roll Over Beethoven,” was climbing the charts and “Maybellene” was still selling strong. Bo Diddley’s statement was next. “I’m a Man” and “Pretty Thing” were bringing in big money, too. Then he came to Howlin’ Wolf’s statement. Leonard looked at the total on the bottom and dragged a hand over his face.
“Hey, Phil,” he called out. “Get in here.”
Phil came in, the button at his collar undone, cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth.
“Take a look at this, will you?”
Phil went over and sat in the chair opposite Leonard’s desk. He glanced at the statement and looked up. “Crap. I was hoping things would turn around.”
“And Muddy’s ain’t no better. Sunnyland Slim’s is in the shitter, too. So’s Aileen’s.”
“Did you see Walter’s? What about Jimmy Rogers?”
Leonard frowned, leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. “What’s happening? Those guys used to sell twenty, thirty—fifty thousand records. Now this? Muddy’s new record sold less than ten thousand copies. He said he can’t fill a club anymore. Said he’s close to broke. You know how much bread I’ve given him lately just to float him?”
“We gotta face it,” said Phil. “The market’s drying up.”
“When are we cutting checks?”
“End of the week.”
Leonard rubbed his temples. “I say we move some money around. Give a little more to Mud, Wolf, Walter and some of the others. They gotta eat, right?”
“And where’s this money coming from?”
Leonard cocked his head and shrugged. “The new kids are doing great. Chuck and Bo got no worries and the way I see it, if it weren’t for guys like Mud and Wolf and the others, we wouldn’t even have a label. Hell, Muddy’s the one who brought Chuck Berry to us in the first place. I think Chuck can part with a few bucks.”