Honky-Tonk Girl

by Charles Beckman, Jr.

  Harrison was right. She was something, right out of calendar art work. She had the long, curving lines and cameo skin that haunted the sex dreams of every bachelor who’d ever lived.

  “Jean?”

  Slowly she took the cigarette out of her mouth and pushed it into the sand where it died with a soft hiss. A pulse in her throat quickened. She stretched one long leg out lazily and lifted the other knee a fraction, swinging it in an idle arc. “Yeah, honey. Want something?”

  Johnny walked around the dune and sat down beside her. He laid his trumpet case in the sand under his left elbow and lit a cigarette. The glow of his match played over the woman’s face.

  “You know me?” he asked.

  She moved closer. Her heavy perfume mingled with the salty odor of sea air. She smelled of perspiration and cigarette smoke and beer and cheap perfume. Her face was a pale oval framed by the shadows of her black hair that tumbled loosely to her shoulders.

  “Sure,” she nodded. “You’re Johnny Nickles. You run the band in the Sho-Tune Bar. Miff plays—” She caught herself “—played with you.” She shivered. “Give me a cigarette?”

  He shook one out of a crumpled package. “Why weren’t you in the funeral? Everybody from the Street was there.”

  Her fingers trembled, lighting the cigarette. The wind blew out her first match. She turned her back to the surf, huddled over the cigarette and struck another match. Her hair blew around her face. Then she sat back, curling her legs under her. “I don’t like funerals.”

  She smoked silently for a moment.

  Johnny gazed out across the dark surf, thinking about Ruth Jordon, lying on the hospital bed with the knowledge of murder locked in the dark unconsciousness of her mind.

  “How long you known Miff?” Johnny asked the girl.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

  “He used to pick you up regularly. Especially on his nights off. He used to come down here on the beach and meet you.”

  “Miff was okay,” she said in a muffled voice. “He was a good guy. I liked him.”

  “How often did he pick you up?”

  “Listen,” she said, suddenly turning on him furiously, “what damn business is it of yours?”

  He caught her wrist and twisted it. “You know the cops are looking for you?”

  Her face paled. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I tell you I don’t know!”

  “Is it because you know something about who killed Miff?”

  “Leave me alone, damn it—” She gave a little cry of pain. ”He was a guy in my band,” Johnny said through his teeth. “He played fine drums and I liked him. Somebody came along and killed him for no damned reason that anybody can figure out. I’d like to know who it was.”

  “Cripe,” she sobbed. “I didn’t kill the guy. He was okay to me. What’s the matter—you think I did it?” She wrenched her arm away and rubbed her wrist tenderly. Her eyes measured him, smoldering. After a moment, she regained her composure and her voice was low and even when she spoke. “You’re a hell of a violent guy, Johnny Nickles. You want to watch that temper—it’ll get you in trouble.”

  He lit another cigarette from the stub of the one he’d been smoking. He inhaled until the tip was a long, glowing coal. “You might say,” he told her, exhaling, “that I’m a little scared.” His fingers shook.

  She looked at him with frank curiosity. “I don’t get it.”

  He stood up, wedging the trumpet case under his left arm. She rose to her feet too, and brushed the sand off her hips with a graceful feminine gesture. She stood near him, looking up. In the moonlight her eyes were speculative, interested.

  “Come along with me,” he said. “I need somebody around to talk to. Somebody who knew Miff, too. That is, unless you got a business appointment.”

  She looked away from him. Her lips were stiff. “You don’t have to be that way,” she whispered.

  They walked across the white sand to the paved sidewalk, then turned back toward town. Johnny strode with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his trumpet case tucked under one arm. It was his habitual manner of walking, shambling, careless, shoulders held loosely, eyes down. He was usually preoccupied when he walked, thinking about music or something he’d read or a woman he wanted to hold in his arms.

  Jean walked quickly, with rapid tapping steps in her high heels and tight skirt, to keep up with his pace.

  Johnny found a small, dark saloon and they went in and sat down facing each other in a dark booth in the rear.

  He ordered a beer for himself, a whisky sour for the girl. For a while they drank silently. Jean occupied herself with a book of paper matches, absently tearing them out one by one and laying them down, one on top of the other.

  “Where are you from?” he asked her at length.

  “Sacramento—once. Long time ago.”

  “More recently?”

  She shrugged. “Not important, Johnny. Don’t be like all the other men who want a blow-by-blow story of how I got into this business. Don’t ask me about anything that happened from the time I left college and we’ll get along fine.”

  “College?”

  Her mouth twisted, one eyebrow arching. “You’re surprised? I have a degree. Psychology, UC Berkeley. Isn’t that a laugh?”

  He shook his head. “After all the years I’ve been in the music business, nothing surprises me.”

  Her eyes were frank and candid. She was about twenty-five, Johnny guessed. Thus far, she had managed to escape the tawdriness and strident, brassy voice and manner of most girls in her profession. The perfume was the cheapest thing about her—that and the satin dress and patent leather pumps. She carried her chin with an air of poise. Her hair was well cared for. Her breasts were saucy and proud under the clinging dress.

  She noted Johnny’s appraisal with a crooked smile and a quickening of her breathing. “Like what you see, Johnny?” she asked huskily.

  “I’ve seen worse,” he admitted. “You don’t look like a Honky-Tonk Street tart.”

  She laughed a little. “Maybe it’s like the heiress with all the money, education and family who still insisted on walking the streets. Her friends couldn’t understand it. The girl had everything—and walked the streets, too. Yep, the bitch explained...some people have all the luck!”

  “You have all the luck?”

  She picked up the drink and swallowed it. “That’s another story,” she said quickly, looking down at the empty glass. Then she smiled at him brightly and held out the glass. “Do something about this, honey?”

  He called the waiter.

  When her drink had been refilled, they were silent for a while. Then she asked, “What are you scared of, Johnny?”

  He stared at her. “Who said I’m scared?”

  “You told me. Remember?” She studied his face. There are lines in your face and your eyes are red—like you haven’t been sleeping so good. Your playing is off, too.”

  Johnny bristled.

  But she continued. “I used to come around. Every evening I’d stop at the Sho-Tune for a drink, early. You never did notice me. Four, five months ago, you played nice. But lately, it’s been ragged around the edges. The whole band. I don’t know—it’s kinda as if all the guys were looking over their shoulders instead of concentrating on their music—”

  Johnny leaned across the table, his face livid. “Listen, you damned bitch. I had a little run of hard luck in the last six months. But Johnny Nickles is still the greatest horn in the country. Remember that!”

  She didn’t blink an eye. “You telling me or yourself, Johnny?”

  She sat there expecting to be slapped. “Don’t be sore, Johnny. Sure you play good clean horn, and when you’re right it’s darned beautiful. I don’t know much about things like that, but I’ve heard them say how great you can be and I like to hear you play. I guess you’re just kinda down on your luck. I heard your girl left you when you were back in Chicago. I guess th
at took a lot out of you.”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “You want to talk to me about it, Johnny? Whores and bartenders got one thing in common—everybody tells them their troubles. Sometimes I think guys pay for a date with me just so they can be around afterwards in the dark, and talk about how rotten business is or how their wives give them hell. What is it you’re afraid of? What happened to Miff?”

  He glanced down at his beer. His hand was suddenly shaking and he had to put the glass down on the table. With his handkerchief, he rubbed foam from the back of his hand where a few drops had spilled. “Miff...yeah, and Zack. You didn’t know about Zack, our arranger, did you?”

  She shook her head.

  “That was before we came out to the Coast. He died one night while we were making a recording of an arrangement he’d written. Heart attack. Six months ago.”

  Her mouth formed a silent “Oh.” Aloud, she said, “I heard about that record album you made. What do they call it...the Ghost Album?”

  He nodded.

  That’s why you really want to find out who killed Miff, isn’t it, Johnny? he asked himself. Somebody is stalking your band ever since you made the Ghost Album. You want to stop them before you all die...one by one.... No wonder you’re scared!

  Everything, it seemed, had gone wrong from the time they had recorded that damned bad luck album. Before then, Johnny had been riding the crest. He’d finished a good paying six months’ run in a big hotel in the East. Then the band had headed West, planning to stop in Chicago for a recording date, after which they’d go on to the Coast where a good job awaited them.

  But then things had happened. Zack had fallen over dead in the recording studio while the band was playing. Johnny had gone out and gotten himself plastered. And when he’d sobered up enough to find his way back to the hotel, there was a note waiting for him there from Christine, the beautiful, hot-tempered little brunette who had been his singer and mistress for three wonderful years. She’d decided she was tired of his company and had pulled out with all his money and his brand new Cadillac.

  He’d gotten drunk for a week straight then. And when he came off that one, a telegram was waiting from the Coast. They’d lost that good job out there because they had not showed up on time.

  He thought he’d lost his band too—but the guys stuck to him. They’d decided to go on to the West Coast anyway and they’d picked up the job in the Honky-Tonk Street saloon. Johnny had hocked most of his good clothes. He was down to a battered secondhand Ford, his horn, his diamond ring and a couple of three-hundred-dollar suits. He couldn’t seem to stop drinking. He couldn’t forget how Zack had looked the night he keeled over, and he couldn’t get over Christine. Then this thing about Miff—

  He suddenly took the glittering flamingo pin out of his pocket and tossed it on the table between them. He watched her eyes carefully. Nothing showed there.

  “You were with Miff whenever he had a night off. Did you see him Monday night?”

  She stared at the pin. “For a little while,” she admitted. “Early in the evening. He sent me away.” Her mouth twisted. “Guess he had a late date. Miff was good for two or three a night.” She touched the pin. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was on the floor near him. Ever see it before?”

  “Of course not. Why haven’t you given it to the police?”

  He laughed shortly. Then he pocketed the pin. “I think you know who this belongs to. Furthermore, I think you know more about this whole mess than you’re telling. Maybe you didn’t kill Miff—but I think you know who did.”

  She looked scared for a fleeting second. But then her self-assurance returned. “You’re nuts, Johnny Nickles,” she told him flatly.

  He finished the beer in one long gulp and put the empty glass down. “Let’s go to my room.”

  She lowered her eyes. Her fingers around the whiskey glass whitened for a moment and a tiny muscle in her cheek twitched. “Ask me different, Johnny,” she begged softly. “Ask me like a fella asking his best girl for a date.... Maybe it won’t cost you anything—”

  Johnny looked at her with fleeting amusement. “Okay, honey. How’s this—want to come up and see my record collection, dear?”

  She swore at him and threw the empty book of paper matches at his face.

  Johnny laughed. He bought a fifth of bourbon and they walked to his apartment, a few blocks away.

  He went off to the kitchen to hunt glasses and Jean stood in the center of his living room and looked around with interest.

  It was a small, cheap three-room flat, typically a bachelor musician’s living quarters. The wallpaper was a faded horticultural nightmare of vines and grotesque yellow flowers. A battered studio piano, a tilted horsehair sofa and an overstuffed chair dressed in a frazzled chintz slipcover comprised the furnishings. Loose records and albums were piled around the floor and on straight backed kitchen chairs. Ink-smeared manuscript paper was scattered across a rickety card table. A late copy of DownBeat was stuffed under one corner of a portable record player to make it sit level on a chair.

  Absently, she dumped a heaping ashtray into a wastepaper basket and straightened some magazines.

  When Johnny returned with the drinks, she was perusing the titles of books and record albums stacked on the floor. Most of the books were about music and musicians—Jelly Roll Morton and Louis Armstrong—and there was a book by Eddie Condon. The records covered the entire saga of jazz from early King Oliver platters to Satchmo’s present combo.

  “You weren’t kidding, were you, Johnny?”

  She took the drink from him and sat on the couch, sipping it and examining an album.

  “Johnny Nickles and his Dixieland Band,” she murmured aloud, reading the line across the bottom of the album’s cover. She turned the cover and glanced at the printed matter inside. Then she slowly flipped the four inside pockets and read the labels on each record.

  When she had finished, she closed the album, laid it flat across her knees and looked at the cover design. It was done in surrealistic art. The scene was a small dingy room furnished only with a battered piano and some rickety chairs. On the floor was a litter of bottles and cigarette stubs. A saxophone strap hung over the back of a chair and a trumpet lay forgotten on the piano. All this faded up into a desolate eerie desert scene, reminiscent of Death Valley, and here rested a grinning skull on a scrap of torn manuscript paper. The penciled music notes on the manuscript were blowing off the paper, whirling away into the dark empty sky.

  The Ghost Album.

  The girl shuddered.

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” Johnny said through his teeth. “The bastard who dreamed that up must have been on a diet of bennies and tea for a solid week.”

  “It’s ghastly, Johnny. It looks so—futile.”

  He slumped back in the chintz-covered easy chair. A lock of his unkempt wavy black hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating. He took a long drink from the glass. It trembled a bit in his grasp. “It’s supposed to look futile. That’s what the sonuvabitch who painted it was aiming for. The futile, unhappy existence of some of the jazz musicians we portray in the album. Jam sessions in a back room till dawn, gin, goof balls, bennies, one night stands...all of it leading to nothing....”

  Biederbecke, Oliver, Berrigan, Jelly Roll Morton, Pine Top Smith—all the immortal jazz musicians who were dead now—were depicted in the album, their individual styles faithfully imitated by Johnny and the fellows in his band.

  It was the story of jazz from the days of Buddy Bolden and the New Orleans street bands to the Original Dixieland Band that migrated to Riesenweber’s Restaurant in New York, carrying the exciting new music to the outside world, to the days of flaming Storyville and the riverboats, then the great migration to Chicago—the music that had been followed right up to the present. And half the album was in the present style of Johnny’s own band, with Miff Smith’s fine drums as good as any that had ever come out of New Orleans, the birthpl
ace of Dixieland jazz.

  It was the story of an American era, almost a legend, the birth of an original music form which is the only really pure American music. And when the records played, ghosts came out of the past to listen—fancy ladies from the old bordellos like Mahogany Hall, jazzmen of all ages, creeds and colors, boys from Rampart Street, pretty octoroons and figures bedecked in gaudy Mardi Gras costumes, bartenders, pimps and gangsters, bootleggers and symphony hall conductors. They were all there because they had all played roles in the great legend, though they had long been still and forgotten, some for a decade, some for more than a quarter of a century.

  She turned on the record player and put on the disk that had given the set its name of Ghost Album. It was Teegerstrom Struts His Stuff, the band’s tribute to the great Chicago clarinetist, Charlie Teegerstrom, who had met a flaming end in an automobile wreck in the early Thirties, while fleeing the scene of a shooting fracas over another man’s wife.

  Link Rayl had done a terrific job of copying the great man’s style. Jazz critics said it wasn’t Link playing that night, it was the ghost of the greatest jazz clarinetist of all times, come back to earth for one night to sit in with the finest guys in the business for a last jam session. And so they’d decided to call the album the Ghost Album.

  The driving, tortured notes of the clarinet solo hammered at Johnny’s ears. He suddenly took the album off the girl’s lap and flung it across the room. It tumbled end over end in a fluttering melee like a wounded bird and scattered bits of smashed records when it hit the far wall. Then he ripped the platter off the turntable and threw it after the wreckage.

  He stood looking at the shambles and a sob wrenched from his throat. “Hell,” he choked, “I’m going as far off my rocker as the spook who painted the damned thing!

  Jean touched his hand and pulled him down beside her. She began to stroke his hand gently. “You gotta let off steam, Johnny,” she said softly. “I guess it hit you pretty hard, losing two guys like Miff and Zack.”