West Seattle Blues

by Chris Nickson

  “So this is what people do on a Tuesday evening in Seattle.” He smiled then and the ice was broken. Without another word he began to pick out chords and his rusty, ragged voice started on ‘Idaho Sweetheart.’

  I could see a few people begin to smile as they recognized the song, dredging it up from long-ago memories. Stripped back, unsweetened by strings and backing singers, it had real depth. In fact, it ached. He didn’t try anything fancy, just let it speak for itself and that worked. Carson might look like a hick, but he was a professional musician. It was easy to forget that he’d been doing this for more years than most of the audience here had been alive.

  He followed it up with something newer and unfamiliar, daring the crowd to follow him. And they did. Then he started on “As The Heart Falls.” He’d originally written the song, but the hit had been someone else’s. This eclipsed the recorded version, coming from some well deep inside him that held his private world of pain.

  For the first half of the set, he alternated new and old, throwing in covers of Hank Williams’s “Mansion On The Hill” and Michael Nesmith’s “Propinquity.” After that he turned to one side and tilted his head, smiling as his grandson shuffled onto the stage. The poor guy looked petrified, clutching the Gibson with its beautiful blue inlay close to his chest, eyes darting around the room.

  “This is Jim Clark,” Carson announced, letting that country twang flow like warm honey. “He’s my kin, and he’s kind of bashful. I know he’s my grandson and all, but I reckon he’s got something. Want to show ‘em, Jim?”

  The kid sang his heart out. He was better now than when I’d heard him down by the water, but he was nowhere near Carson’s league. He knew it, everyone in the room knew it, but he tried anyway, and we all applauded him for the effort. The silence built again.

  Carson licked his lips. “I never knew Jim’s daddy. Hell, I’ve only known my grandson for a few weeks. But my son died four years ago, right downtown. Someone shot him and they never found out who did it.” He paused. Everyone was focused on him in rapt silence. “I don’t have much I can give him, ‘cept some justice if I ever find out who did it. But this is about my boy. I guess you could call it ‘West Seattle Blues’.”

  He started the song he’d played me at his house. Jim added a little guitar, but this was all Carson. His voice was quiet, almost meditative, sounding raw and torn over the fingerpicked lines. It was a memorial, a lament. So beautiful, it hurt with its honesty. When he finished and the final note died to silence, there was a pause before the place erupted, the sound of clapping so loud it was painful. Carson looked over at Jim in surprise, then sighed and embraced his grandson.

  There was nothing he could do to top that, but the rest of the set was no letdown. He tore through “Call You Sunshine” and “Maybe Darlin’,” turning them into upbeat pleasures. A couple more songs tugged at the fabric of broken hearts, ripping them wider. Toward the end he was simply having fun, running through some Buck Owens, Jimmie Rodgers and Ernest Tubb, telling little tales of Nashville and about life on the road way back when.

  Then, with a goodnight and thank you, it was over. He bowed and vanished backstage. But no one was going to let him leave that easily. We were all standing, demanding more. Finally he came back, seeming almost speechless.

  “I…I don’t know what to say. You’re very kind.” He sat for a moment, hands poised over the guitar. We all knew there was only one thing that would satisfy, and once more he began to play that song he’d written for his son.

  It seemed as if everyone held their breath for three minutes. It was like time stood still, suspended on his words. When he finished there were no more farewells, just a quick shake of his head and he was gone. The house lights came up and people looked around as if they were surprised to find themselves here.

  Leaning against the edge of the stage, finishing my beer and smoking a cigarette, I knew exactly what I’d witnessed. It had been one of those perfect evenings. Something to remain in the memory and light it up for years to come. Something every artist wants but rarely achieves.

  I was still there fifteen minutes later. Jim had come through, we’d exchanged a few words and smiles, then he headed home. The mics had been put away, the stands folded and the cords all wound. The chairs had been taken away, and Dan the owner was sweeping the butts and debris off the floor. I could hear voices backstage.

  It was ten-thirty, past my bedtime but I was still flying on that performance. I’d wanted him to do well but I’d never imagined anything as wonderful as this. Finally he came out, leaning on his cane, bought a bottle of Pabst at the bar, then stood beside me. He looked stunned and drained.

  “You did it,” I told him. “That was pretty amazing, Carson.”

  He fished in his shirt pocket, took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one.

  “Yeah,” he said after a long pause. But the way he spoke the one word held it all. “You know, I waited all my life for a night like this. I just had some guy come up to me and says he wants to write about me for a magazine called No Depression. You figure that?”

  “That’s great.”

  “And there’s someone else back there talking about getting me into a recording studio.” He shook his head, then added, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Taking a chance and doing that piece on me. For being there through all the shit that’s happened.”

  Without thinking, I shivered. For two hours I’d felt protected by all the music around me. There’d been nothing else in the world then. Now all that just fell away.

  “It’s not over yet,” I said.

  “I know it.” He glanced at the cigarette then dropped the butt and crushed it under his sole. “We’ll think about that tomorrow. Come on. We’d better get our asses out of here before they throw us out.”

  He closed the hard-shell case on the Martin, making sure its locks were secure, and then we went out the back door. The El Camino was parked in a loading area that was barely large enough for a van.

  “You see the bullet holes?” He pointed. “They look worse than they really are, I guess.” Then he said, “Shit.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I got a flat.”

  The chill I’d had a minute ago came back hard.

  “I had one at home. It meant I ended up taking my husband’s car.”

  We looked at each other and we didn’t even need to mention the name. He was around here somewhere. I felt as if I could smell him.

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” I offered. “You can come back and handle this tomorrow.”

  Carson nodded his agreement. I didn’t want to walk back to the car alone, anyway. He hefted the guitar case, and we set off down the alley that led out to Ballard Avenue.

  Seventeen

  He suddenly stepped out of the shadows. The streetlights were faint here, just reflections and shards, but enough to make out the shape of a gun in his hand.

  “Not a bad show,” he said with approval. His voice made my skin crawl.

  “What do you want?” Carson asked. He sounded calm and even, with no sign of fear. Nick was no more than six feet away. If he decided to shoot, there was no way he could miss.

  “We had a deal.”

  “I decided it was a bad one.”

  “Don’t you want to know who killed that son of yours, old man?” He nodded his head toward the club. “The one you sang about in there.”

  “Already figured it out.”

  “You reckon?” Nick sounded amused.

  “Yeah.”

  I began to back away, hoping against hope not to be noticed, to push myself up against the wall, making it harder for a bullet to hit me.

  Nick flicked his wrist and I froze. “Just stay right there.” His gaze turned back to Carson. “So who do you think pulled the trigger on your boy?”

  “You.”

  “Oh?”

  “Then you had the balls to sting me for a grand just to lie to me.”

  “
Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah.” That was all Carson said. He was absolutely certain, not a shred of doubt.

  “If you’re so sure, how come the cops let me go, then?”

  “They need evidence. But I just need to know.”

  “If you reckon you know-” he drew out the word mockingly “-then explain why I did it?”

  Carson shrugged. He wasn’t afraid, holding his ground, and staring at Nick while I tried to make myself look small. I felt like I was watching a movie, standing here but also looking down on the whole scene, somehow apart from it. My mouth was dry and I wanted to scream.

  “You tell me,” Carson said.

  “A guy owes you money, he’s got to pay. If he doesn’t, he’s disrespecting you. If one guy disrespects you, others start to think they can, too.”

  “What did Jimmy owe you?”

  Nick’s laugh came out like a short bark. “I’m not saying he owed me anything. This is just assuming, of course.”

  Carson nodded as if he understood. “A grand,” he said quietly.

  “Why’d you think that, old man?”

  “It’s the amount you wanted from me. Poetic justice. Get the father to pay for his dead son. That makes you look like a big man.”

  “You can think what you want. Doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Why? You going to kill us?” Carson asked bluntly and I began to shake. No, I thought. I wasn’t going to die here. I had a son to bring up, a husband to spend my life with.

  Nick smiled. “You think I’m stupid? Kill you and I’d have the cops right on my ass. I’m just going to take your money, old man, then I’m gone from this town.” He glanced at me. “You pay up, too. I’m going to miss scaring the shit out of you.”

  Carson reached around to his back pocket, took out a beat-up leather wallet and tossed it at Nick’s feet. The man stooped and picked it up.

  “Take it. If it gets your ass out of here, it’s worth the money.”

  I reached in my purse, opened my wallet and took out all the bills. Forty bucks. My chest was so tight I could hardly breathe, and I could taste bile in my throat. Nick stepped forward and snatched the money from my hand. He looked hard into my eyes.

  “You never know when I’ll be back. Just keep thinking of that every time you’re out with that little boy of yours. Bad things happen.”

  Nick turned and began to run. I couldn’t move, frozen to the spot. My mind was racing but my body had stopped.

  He’d almost made it to the street when someone appeared out of nowhere, in front of him. The figure was just a blurred outline, darker than the darkness all around. Nick halted, arms down. There wasn’t even time for him to speak. The sound of the shot seemed to fill the sky. It rang in my ears and echoed down into my heart.

  Nick fell to the ground, hurled backward. The gun, everything, fell from his hands.

  The figure moved forward two paces. The light caught his face and the smoke rising from his pistol. It was Carson’s grandson, Jim Clark. He stared at us as if he was astonished at what he’d done.

  “I…” he began, then looked down at Nick. “I…”

  Carson dropped the guitar case. With quick decision he walked up to Jim and eased the weapon from his hand, taking out a handkerchief to wipe it clean. The young man didn’t put up any resistance. His gaze didn’t even leave the body.

  “I forgot something.” It was the voice of someone who wasn’t really here, someone who couldn’t believe what he’d just done. “I heard what he said, how he killed my daddy.” He looked up, at me, and through me, his eyes seeing nothing at all.

  Carson was breathing hard, rubbing the gun clean again, then clasping it firmly in his own hand. His face was set as he concentrated. Then he turned to Jim, speaking fast.

  “You left right after the show. You don’t know anything about this, you understand?” He waited until the young man nodded, then continued. “And you let me have this gun a few weeks ago, for my protection after I was shot in Everett. You got that?”

  “Yes,” Jim answered finally.

  “Sure?”

  He nodded again.

  “Right, as soon as you get home, shower everything off yourself,” Carson ordered. Jim seemed groggy, as if he might pass out, still not moving. “Then get those clothes in the trash. Not your own. Use a business dumpster. Go. Now.”

  A second later we were alone.

  I couldn’t stop shivering. I hugged myself but it didn’t help. The sound of the bullet filled my head. My teeth were chattering like I’d never be warm enough again.

  I’d seen someone die before, and I thought I’d locked those memories away, out of sight. But I hadn’t. They danced tauntingly within my mind.

  A rivulet of blood rolled out and away from Nick’s corpse, slowly finding a path over the asphalt. I watched it, hypnotized, scarcely aware of Carson’s voice as he talked to me, until he grabbed me and held my shaking body close.

  “I need you to help me,” he said in my ear. His arms were strong and comforting, as if it was my father who was holding me. “I need you to lie for me.” I moved my head to stare at him. “It was me who shot Nick,” Carson said firmly. “We were leaving the club and he came out of the shadows behind us. He was going to kill us both, so I shot him.” He’d never been able to do anything for his son, but at least he could keep his grandson out of jail. “Please,” he begged.

  I tried to speak but my mouth didn’t want to work.

  “Okay,” I managed finally.

  “Remember, we were coming out of the club.” He looked down at the corpse. “He came out of there, after we’d passed him.” He pointed to a patch of pure darkness. I could see him thinking quickly. “He said he’d killed my son and he was going to kill us, too. I pulled my gun and that was it.”

  “Yes.” My tongue was thick.

  “Just remember that,” he told me. I could hear sirens somewhere, growing closer.

  The medics wrapped me in a space blanket. I sat on the back step of the ambulance and watched the light glittering off its silvery surface. A pair of uniformed cops trained their weapons on Carson as he lay the pistol on the ground, then they snapped the cuffs on his wrist. A moment later, he stared at me, expression stoic, giving nothing away, from the back of a cruiser.

  A detective talked to me and I told him the lie. Someone put a cup of coffee in my hands and I drank automatically, slowly warming up inside. The coroner’s van arrived and took Nick’s body away.

  I took the cell phone from my purse and called home.

  “Are you okay?” It was Dustin’s first question.

  “Nick’s dead,” I said.

  “Christ! What about you?” I could hear his panic. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” I answered bleakly, explaining I wasn’t hurt, but I wasn’t okay, either. I told him Carson’s version of the story in three short sentences. Sometime, maybe, I’d give him the truth.

  “Shit.” The word hissed down the line. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  “He never touched me.” An officer was watching, gesturing to me with his hand. “I guess they’re going to want to ask me some questions. I don’t know when I’ll be home, okay?”

  There was a pause. “I’m glad that bastard’s dead,” Dustin said at last.

  So was I. There was only a chalk outline left where his body had been. They’d set up some lights to take pictures and video, before they hauled him away. He was out of my life forever. He couldn’t threaten me or my family anymore. He could never hurt Ian.

  A cop drove me to the precinct in Dustin’s car. He tried to make small talk but I stayed quiet. I was hunching into myself, thankful but scared. I thought about Carson. He was going to jail for this. But I knew I’d have done just the same for my son.

  The questions came and kept coming. The same ones over and over. I repeated my answers until the words seemed as solid as granite in my brain. Detective Andersen was there, listening, adding something at times.

&n
bsp; They had their killer; Carson had admitted everything immediately. The police weren’t going to look further. This was another case closed quickly, a murder solved. Fast. Easy. Done.

  I was numb inside, still responding by rote. Finally, about five a.m., they told me I could go home. There’d be more questions, and I’d have to testify, but it was over. As I was escorted out along a corridor, I saw Carson sitting in an interview room. He glanced up at me, his face blank.

  Eighteen

  I drove home on roads that were still quiet, taking it slow. It was still dark, and the first lights began winking on in houses. Dustin was still up, gazing fretfully out the kitchen window as I pulled up behind the Tempo with its flat tire.

  Inside, he put his arms tight around me. I felt secure, loved. All I wanted was to go to bed and try to forget. It was over, but in some ways it would never be done. I was exhausted but I was scared to close my eyes, scared of where sleep might take me.

  “How’s Ian?” I asked after a long time.

  “Sleeping happily. How are you?”

  I didn’t know. Happy Nick was dead. Sad. Guilty at lying. Empty.

  “I’ll get there,” I replied finally.

  Dustin didn’t press me to talk about it. Instead, he poured me a cup of coffee, before taking the cigarettes and lighter from the drawer and handing them to me. I stood out on the deck, drinking coffee and drawing the smoke deep into my lungs, holding it there until it hurt.

  If I looked down into the yard I imagined I could see Nick’s body, just the way I’d seen someone else’s six years before. It had taken a long time for those nightmares to end. Now I had a whole new set to keep me awake.

  “I’m calling in today and giving my notice,” Dustin told me as we ate breakfast later. Ian had woken a little after seven. At least the routine of changing, dressing and feeding him distracted me for a few minutes. Deep in my bones I was tired, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Not yet, anyway. I didn’t want to, because I wasn’t ready yet to face whatever would emerge when I closed my eyes.