by Renée Rosen
When they got back to the hotel that night a strobe of flashbulbs went off as soon as they came through the front door. The lobby was packed with reporters, photographers and people standing shoulder to shoulder, cheering. It took a moment for Leonard to realize that they were all there for Muddy. Leonard stepped in and took the guitar case from his hand and watched that crowd circle around Muddy like they couldn’t get close enough.
Almost an hour into it and those reporters were still asking questions. Nobody paid any attention to Leonard and that was fine by him. He was just another white man and this crowd was clearly fascinated with Muddy. Negroes were ultrahip and cool over here and those Brits thought Muddy was one exotic motherfucker.
The girls were posing with their arms around him, their fingers touching his pompadour, their white cheeks pressed to his, all of them wanting to kiss him. That was the one thing Leonard did appreciate about Europe. Chicago may have been light-years ahead of the Deep South in terms of segregation, but Europe was even more progressive than Chicago. Leonard thought about Leeba and Red. They would have been better off in England. It would have been easier for them in a place like London, where skin color didn’t determine a person’s worth.
Leonard went up to his room and left Muddy in the lobby. He was beat and plopped down on the side of the bed, unlaced his shoes, loosened his tie and almost fell asleep sitting up.
The next morning as Leonard was locking his door, he saw the service tray on the floor outside Muddy’s room, along with a Do Not Disturb sign hanging off the door. Just then, he saw a pretty blonde slip out of Muddy’s room, still buttoning her blouse. Leonard didn’t judge, even though he knew Muddy had a wife and a mistress and another girl in Chicago, a new one named Lucille. Aileen didn’t know about Lucille, and Leonard wasn’t about to tell her Muddy was serious about her. Crazy about her was more like it, but still, for a dog like Muddy, knowing that his skin color was an asset here and that he could have his pick of women was too much to resist. It must have put him in a state of ecstasy.
Leonard knew this was what Muddy needed. Fuck Elvis and Chuck Berry. Muddy Waters was back. At least in England he was.
FORTY-SIX
• • •
“Ramblin’ on My Mind”
RED
“This is your Inside Man coming to you live from Chicago and before I sign off we’re going to ‘Kansas City’ with Wilbert Harrison. Yes, sir, hang on because I’m taking you straight to Kansas City.” Red dropped the tonearm on the turntable and slid the headphones off, setting them on the console for the next deejay coming on.
About six months back, one of the deejays quit and John Dyer, the general manager, gave Red his time slot. Every day he was on the air from one till four. Since then listeners had started calling Red “the Inside Man” because he shared so many inside stories about the musicians and what went into their recording sessions.
Red loved hosting the show. It gave him back that part of himself he’d lost along with his music. Despite the decision about not letting them be James’s foster parents, Red and Leah were still looking for a way—any kind of way—to fight the court’s decision. And in the meantime, knowing the odds were against them, they focused on their careers. Leah was doing more songwriting for Mimi and Aileen.
Red finished his show for the day and when he stepped out of the studio Jerry Wexler, the head of Atlantic Records, was there waiting for him. The guy had a white beard and was wearing baggy trousers and a cardigan along with a chauffeur’s cap. He didn’t look like a record executive.
“I like what I’m hearing, Red,” he said with a handshake.
“Just doing my job,” said Red.
Wexler smiled and handed him an envelope. “And there’s plenty more where that came from,” he said. “You keep playing ‘What’d I Say’ and keep Ray Charles on top of the charts and I’ll make you a rich man, Red Dupree.”
After Red left the station he peeked inside the envelope: two crisp twenties and a ten. That was the third envelope he’d been handed by a record man that week. As a deejay with an afternoon show on WGES, Red had the power to help make or break a record. Promoters and record men from Atlantic and Mercury, Capitol, Vee-Jay and RCA Victor were all knocking on his door with envelopes and gifts and invitations to fancy restaurants. Even Phil Chess came to see him with cash and a handshake.
As a disc jockey Red was coming alive again, finding a purpose for himself and finding his voice. And he was determined to use that voice. So even though the radio station wasn’t crazy about it, he’d come across something—another church bombing in Alabama, a Klan rally in Kentucky, Reverend King planning a trip to India—and he’d speak his mind about it. On the air.
One afternoon about a week after his visit from Wexler, it was a quarter to four and the Inside Man was finishing up his show. Red had a stack of newspapers on the console next to the turntables with a bunch of clippings from articles he’d made some noise about. He’d spoken out earlier in the show that day about housing violations in Chicago’s Negro neighborhoods and more trouble in the schools down in Arkansas. After Ray Charles’s “What’d I Say” finished playing, Red came back on the air to talk about something that had happened to his buddy, another disc jockey down in Birmingham who went by the name Shelley “the Playboy” Stewart.
“Now, before your Inside Man signs off today I want to tell y’all about an incident that took place last week down in Birmingham, Alabama. You see, my fellow deejay, Shelley the Playboy on WEDR, ran into some trouble on the radio. Seems that he had a thing or two to say about those Jim Crow laws and while he was still on the air, guess who showed up? Yes, sir, the Ku Klux Klan in their white robes and hoods. They blocked the doors, broke the windows and messed with the broadcast signal until the station went dead. The Ku Klux Klan shut down WEDR.”
Red paused for ten seconds to let his words sink in. He knew how powerful that kind of silence was on the radio. “But they don’t know my man Shelley the Playboy. Here we are, just five days later, and he’s back on the air and back to speaking his mind. So I want to say a big welcome back to Shelley. And I wanna send a message loud and clear to Bull Connor, the commissioner of public safety down there in Birmingham. Bull, it’s gonna take a whole lot more than that to silence us. This is just the beginning and you can’t keep us down. And now, my friends, I’ll leave y’all with this one by James Brown and the Famous Flames.” “Try Me” was cued up on the turntable. He lowered the needle and set his headset on the console for the next deejay.
Red didn’t even make it to the lobby before Dyer came over to him. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. You got the switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree. This isn’t talk radio. You’re here to play records, not spout off about your political views. I’ve warned you about this too many times before. I’m sorry, Red.” He planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I’m letting you go.”
“Because of what I just said? Listen, I got a Negro audience and they’re entitled to hear the truth—”
“They’re not going to hear it from you. Not on this station.”
And just like that, Red was off the air and out of a job. The Inside Man was back on the outside, looking in.
FORTY-SEVEN
• • •
“Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do”
LEONARD
Leonard was in his office, finishing up year-end crap. There was a mound of paperwork to get through, and cases of booze and a couple Rolex watches going to deejays and distributors, not to mention checks going to the NAACP and the United Jewish Appeal.
Revetta wanted to take the kids down to Miami for the holidays along with Phil’s family. He told Revetta it all depended on him getting his work done. But his work was never done and they both knew that. Bo and Chuck were putting out LPs in the beginn
ing of January and he was putting out a new record for Muddy. Besides, the thought of sitting around the Thunderbird Hotel for two weeks made his skin crawl. Phil was content resting under an umbrella reading a book, finding sand between his toes and in his swimming trunks at the end of the day. Not Leonard. He didn’t know how to do nothing. There was something inside him that wouldn’t let him stop. Not even for sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he got a solid eight hours in. Four was more like it. If it wasn’t his mind keeping him awake, it was heartburn. Sometimes he feared he was having another heart attack. He was eating Rolaids like candy.
Carri, his secretary, stopped into his office. “Alan Freed’s on the line,” she said, handing him a half dozen pink message slips. “He says it’s urgent.”
What now? Leonard felt a burning in his gut. He got up, closed the door and picked up the phone. As soon as he heard Freed’s voice he knew something was wrong. Freed was talking so fast Leonard couldn’t grasp what he was saying. But then he got it. Did he ever.
He sat up straight. “What do you mean you’ve been fired?”
“The station fired me. Canceled my show. And The Big Beat is gonna be next. The IRS, the FTC and the FCC are breathing down my neck. They’re looking through my books. Saying I’ve been taking bribes in exchange for airplay.”
Leonard thought about all the money they’d paid Freed, not to mention giving him the writing credit on “Maybellene.” “Well,” said Leonard, “that is what you’ve been doing.”
“Of course that’s what I’ve been doing. They wanted me to sign a statement saying that I never accepted any gifts or money. I couldn’t do that. Shit, I’m gonna end up in jail.”
“Slow down.”
But Freed was panicked. Leonard chewed on a Rolaid and listened to the recap of all the gifts and the money Freed had taken from Chess alone. Leonard wasn’t concerned. He and Phil reported those payments and perks as legitimate business expenses.
“My career’s finished,” said Freed. “I’m gonna go to jail over this. I’m not kidding. And they’re going after other deejays, too. They’ve been talking to Joe Finan in Cleveland and Dick Clark, too. God knows what the hell Dick’s telling them.”
Leonard reached for a coffee cup. Cold and probably sitting there from the day before. He pushed it aside and grabbed another Rolaid. As soon as he hung up with Freed, Leeba stepped into his office.
“I need you to stay calm,” she said.
“I know. I just spoke to Freed.”
“It’s not about Alan Freed.”
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Just promise me you’re not going to react.”
“For Christ’s sake, what is it?”
“I’ve got Chuck on the phone. He needs to talk to you. He’s in jail.”
“Motherfucker—” Leonard punched the flashing light and yanked the receiver off the hook. “Jesus, Chuck—” He motioned for Leeba to leave and close his door behind her. “What the hell is going on?”
“You gotta get me out of here.” Chuck sounded more annoyed than scared.
“What the hell did you do?”
“I didn’t do a thing. I got pulled over in Topeka and I had a girl in the car with me. And you know it’s all because she’s white.”
“A white girl. How young, Chuck?”
“I don’t know.”
“Chuck.”
He heard Chuck sigh. “Fourteen.”
“Aw, shit.” Leonard thumped his fist against his desk.
“She doesn’t look fourteen, I can tell you that much. They got me locked up. And they’re saying I violated some Mann Act by ‘transporting a minor across state lines.’ You have to get me out of here.”
“Don’t worry. Just sit tight. I’ll get you out.”
“They’re telling me to get a lawyer.”
“I’ll get you a lawyer, too.” Leonard hung up and squeezed the bridge of his nose; the stomach acids were churning.
“Did you see this?” Phil came into Leonard’s office holding a newspaper. “The FTC is getting in on the act now, too.”
“I know. I just spoke to Freed.”
Phil chomped on his cigar and handed the paper to Leonard. “Now they’re pointing the finger at RCA.” He began counting off his fingers. “London, Cameo Records and a bunch of distributors, too.”
Leonard scanned through the article. “Motherfuckers.”
“They’re calling it payola, saying they ‘intentionally misled the listening public.’” Phil pulled his cigar from his mouth. “That’s bullshit.”
“Christ. This thing’s turning into a goddamn witch hunt.”
“We need to cancel the trip to Miami. We gotta be here in case this blows up.”
“No, no.” Leonard shooed Phil away with his hand. “You go. Take the girls, take the kids. Go down, relax. I’ll stay up here and handle it.”
Phil probably knew Leonard didn’t want to go to Florida anyway, because he just nodded and walked out. Leonard let him go without saying anything about the whole Chuck’s-in-jail fiasco. After Phil closed the door behind him, Leonard planted his elbows on his desk and rubbed his eyes. He was off the hook with the family but now he had to deal with Chuck and the FTC. What kind of a motherfucker would rather do that than go on vacation with his family?
FORTY-EIGHT
• • •
“Messing with the Kid”
RED
Red left an interview for a job at a rinky-dink 750-watt radio station on the west side of town. It was snowing and cold, the wind whipping through him as wet flakes landed on his face, in his eyes.
He didn’t know how the interview had gone. They said they’d think about it. Told him to check back after the New Year. It was the third week of December and he’d already spent months knocking on the door of every radio station in town, offering to write sponsor copy and news stories. He’d been doing small jobs—carpentry and maintenance—here and there just to make ends meet. He couldn’t believe he was back in this position again. Two steps forward, three steps back. The story of his life. He’d almost made it as a musician, then he’d almost made it as a deejay.
And yet as 1959 was coming to a close Red saw his radio friends fall, one by one. Either they were canned or they resigned. Even Leah said the atmosphere around Chess was tense because of the payola scandal. She said Leonard was snapping at everyone more than usual. So in a way Dyer had done Red a favor by firing him. At least he wasn’t being served with papers and didn’t have the FTC, the FCC or the IRS coming after him.
Red hopped on the El and took the train down to Maxwell Street. He jogged down the platform stairs, trudging over the frozen ground, heading deeper into Jewtown. Even after years of living in Hyde Park he still gravitated to his old neighborhood. With all its poverty and dilapidation, he still fit in better down in Jewtown than he did anywhere else. He could walk down the sidewalk and see familiar faces. It was comforting to be back there, predictable and dependable. The weather didn’t change the atmosphere in Jewtown. Those folks they called schleppers were still in the doorways, pulling people into their stores. The hustle was still going on, deals, deals and more deals, and the music still poured out of every pocket and from every street corner. Steam was rising off the food stands, the vendors grilling sausages and red hots.
Red passed by a few folks who knew him from his performing days or else from his short time on the radio. It felt good to be recognized, and it made him wonder if he’d ever get another shot at being on the air.
As he was turning the corner he spotted James sitting on a crate next to a fire going in an old garbage can, playing Red’s old Stella. He had cut off the fingertips on his gloves so he could feel the strings. They were pale from the cold. It was a weekday and bitter cold, but James had drawn a crowd. People were gathered around listening to him play, tossing some coins in
his bucket. James looked up from his crate, a glow from the flames in the garbage can surrounding him as he played “I’m a Steady Rollin’ Man.”
Red and Leah had been worried about him lately. He’d been acting moody. He was thirteen now and Leah hoped that it was just typical adolescence. All Red knew was that James had skipped his last two guitar lessons and he hadn’t stopped by the apartment in almost a week. Normally he was there for dinner almost every night.
Red stayed and listened, waiting until James took a break. James was blowing into his hands to warm them as the crowd began to break up. He still hadn’t seen Red standing there and when James took a Lucky Strike from his coat pocket, Red darted over and yanked the cigarette from his mouth.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?” said Red.
“Hey.” James tried to push his hand away. “You smoke. Why can’t I?”
“Because I’m an adult. And I shouldn’t be smoking, either.” Red saw James shivering. “It’s freezing out here. C’mon, let’s go to Lyon’s and get something to eat. Get out of this cold.”
James went with him, but Red watched the way he dragged his feet, keeping his head low, acting as if Stella weighed a hundred pounds.
Lyon’s Deli was crowded and while James grabbed a table for them Red ordered a couple corned beef sandwiches from Nate, a tall brown Negro standing behind the counter. Red had been coming into Lyon’s for years and he’d known Nate since he was just a kid busing tables. Since Lyon’s Deli served as many Jewish customers as it did Negroes, over the years Nate had picked up enough Yiddish so that he was able to talk with the merchants. Leah once told Red that Nate was practically fluent.
Red made his way over to James with a tray of sandwiches piled high with corned beef and two bottles of cream soda. Red was starving and dug in, but James only picked at his food.