Oh, Play That Thing

by Roddy Doyle

  And now he saw me, or let me know that he’d seen me.

  —Mister Glaser, said Louis. —Like you to meet Mister Smart.

  He leaned out across the table and took my hand, and held it – and didn’t let go. He sat back, slightly, and made me follow him, slightly. And now it was me leaning over the marble table, into the smoke that rose from the cigar he’d parked on the ashtray at its centre.

  He spoke to Louis.

  —Why am I shaking this guy’s hand, Louis?

  —Because your mama taught you manners. Mister Glaser.

  —I don’t think so, said Glaser.

  He wouldn’t let go.

  I was in a room full of the hard men, my only friend a smiling black man. And what looked like the hardest man of the lot wouldn’t let go of my hand. He was talking to Louis and he was looking straight at me. Glaser held on, and I made no effort to take my hand back. I leaned out over the table. It was up to Louis.

  It was why I was there. I learnt as we went along.

  I looked straight back at the fucker.

  —My my, said Louis. —I never get used to the ways of white folks. That just about the longest shake of a hand I have ever seen.

  I could see, and feel it: Glaser felt like an eejit long before I did. It was his play, but it had gone on much too long. He wasn’t in command now; he never had been. Louis was in command, and always had been – because I was with him.

  Louis crossed his legs and took out his Camels.

  Joe Glaser wanted to manage Louis a long time before he became his manager, somewhere in 1935, years after I met him. He knew the music; he knew when it worked, and didn’t, when to sack and hire. When he’d heard Louis, he knew what he’d heard; and he knew that the lights hanging over the street weren’t messing – The World’s Greatest Trumpet Player. The trumpet was filling the joint but Glaser knew more: it could fill the whole world. The Sunset was a black and tan, and Glaser had seen what Louis’s music did to white shoulders, feet and faces. He’d seen what happened, and he saw what was going to happen. He was going to be there at the start. The white start. The only start that mattered. The last ten years didn’t matter or even happen. Glaser was the man who was going to discover Louis Armstrong. He was going to take Louis across the line.

  —He puts those peanut shells all around him, Louis had told me. —For protection, see.

  This was back in the taxi, before we’d hit the Lexington.

  —Puts them there on the floor to warn him, in case he take a little nap or look the other way when you hotfooting up to him.

  He tapped my knee.

  —Now, Pops, we go in, you stand on them shells good and hard.

  And I did it. I walked right in and did it. I undermined the fucker. I stood on his fuckin’ shells and shot the hard eyes back at him, the blue eyes that had killed and could again. And then he was ready for Louis, on a platter.

  Louis liked him; I didn’t – we were a perfect team.

  —Mister Glaser not one of those types look up at a blue note but down at a brown skin.

  This, again, was back in the taxi.

  —Might be good for me. We see. Stick to me, Smoked.

  Glaser thought I’d got there before him. So, at that point, did I. But I’d learn.

  He let go of my hand. I stood up straight without acknowledging effort. Then I sat beside Louis, like he’d told me to, beside him but not too close.

  —You sit there, bask in my glory. How that sound?

  —Grand.

  —Grand; ah yes. And keep those peepers in back of your head wide and very open.

  —Fine.

  —What colour those eyes back there?

  —Never seen them, I said.

  —Alpha like the two you got there up front, he said. —That colour called blue, right?

  —Right.

  —See? Who say I don’t understand white folks?

  There was a glass bookcase behind Glaser that let me see most of the bar. I could see pictures on the far wall, Washington, Lincoln, and Big Bill Thompson, friend of the gangsters and, often, Mayor of Chicago; I’d see the shadows moving across them. And the carpet was like summer grass; every step was a crackle. I could do my job, and concentrate on the conversation.

  —So, said Louis.

  —So, said Glaser.

  —So.

  —So, Louis, said Glaser. —Pops, I wanted to talk to you, away from the club.

  —And here we be.

  —Here we are – be. I’ll be frank.

  —Now you confusing me, Pops.

  They laughed.

  —Was doing allreet up to the name change, said Louis. —But, Pops. I think I know – I have me an inkling what you throwing my way. You want be my manager. I’m warm?

  —You’re hot.

  —You said it, Pops. Why?

  —Why?

  —Why?

  —Well, you’ve no one looking after you right now, said Glaser.

  He stared at me, quickly. I was ready, and stared back.

  —And, Pops, he said. —You should have.

  —You.

  —Me. I know the business, Louis. I have the ins. I know the outs.

  —Rehearsed that part, said Louis, an hour later, as we moved away from the hotel. —The ins and outs. No improvisation there; nay nay.

  —You’re the best, Louis, said Glaser. —But your approach is all wrong. You need ambition. Lil was good for you, Pops.

  He stopped for a reaction, but Louis said nothing.

  —But I know, said Glaser. —She’s history. And, don’t get me wrong, Pops, Alpha’s a doll.

  —She good for me too.

  —Right. You got there before me. But, Pops, look. Who the fuck is this guy here?

  —Mister Smart, said Louis. —A friend of mine.

  Louis patted my leg. I heard carpet crackle, and stop.

  —Asked him to slouch along, said Louis. —Second opinion. We go back.

  —New Orleans?

  —Further than that, Pops, said Louis. —Way back. Bible back. I’m here and listening, Mister Glaser.

  —Okay, said Glaser. —But I’m not comfortable with this. Can he – can you wait outside?

  —No, I said. —I’m with Mister Armstrong.

  He was sweating a bit, like there was more going on than a business proposal.

  —Oh, fuck it, said Glaser.

  He pushed his hair back further, over the top of his head.

  —Where was I?

  —Lil and history.

  —What? Yeah. Yeah. The clubs are too small. The South Side’s too small. You need to break out. I’m thinking big for you. Pops. Really big. The most famous Negro in the world.

  Glaser let that one hang.

  —My my.

  Then he impressed me.

  —You don’t know me, Louis, said Glaser. —But you know two things about me. I have a terrible temper and I always keep my word. Let’s give it a go. Pops.

  He put out his hand, but Louis didn’t take it. He was the bravest man I ever knew.

  —Let me think about this and that, Pops, said Louis.

  And then he took the hand and shook it. He let go of the hand and stood up.

  —I believe him, said Louis, as we walked away, past the hard men. —I like Mister Glaser. He Jewish. Jewish people been good to me.

  —So why don’t you go with him? I said.

  I waited for the answer I wanted to hear.

  —Why, Smoked, he said. —I’m already the most famous Negro in the world.

  I was learning.

  I was the smoked Irishman.

  —Where now? I said.

  —How now first, Pops, said Louis.

  He stopped walking, and looked lost for the first time since I’d met him.

  —We broke, he said.

  —How broke?

  —Pick me up, I won’t be jangling.

  —I’ll pay, I said.

  —Pay what?

  —The taxi.

 
—We black broke, Pops.

  It was the only time he ever did it: he looked at the ground in front of me, head drooped slightly, the black man in front of the white man. I knew the stance; I’d been getting to know it. It shocked me there, from him, the hatred and helplessness, the big please in the shoulders. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it.

  —So, why not go back to Glaser? I said.

  He felt the slap and stood up straight, out of the act.

  —Not ready for slavery, he said.

  —Good man.

  His life was chaotic. Lil had minded him well. She’d made sure he’d had just enough cash, never enough to lose, and a clean hanky, clubs to play, people to listen. (His life was chaos but he was never, ever late.) But there was no one now to do that. Alpha Smith was no man’s manager. I hadn’t shared the same room with her much, but she was – they knew no race – a wagon. He hopped as she whinged, and he threw money at the howl. But she wasn’t to blame. He could never stay still; even stoned, he rolled. He sat at his typewriter and pecked out his letters and stories, sang and recited, gagged, coughed and walloped the table; that was Louis’s silence. He knew exactly what he was, but not how to make the world see. His horn was the song of freedom but his life was a crazy jail. He needed control, but he hadn’t worked it out. I was the start but he wasn’t sure how.

  He turned out his pockets and flapped them.

  —Can’t fly, John Henry.

  —We’ll walk.

  —How’s that go?

  I showed him.

  —Seen that before, he said, and followed me till I was following him. It wasn’t side-by-side territory; he couldn’t be seen too close to a white man, away from the people who knew him. So we walked out of it, into other zones that Louis had never been to. I’d pass him by, and drop the words; he’d pass me, drop his. By the time we got to Prairie Avenue and the streetlamps were leaking their yellow smudges on the pavement right in front of us, Louis was ounces lighter and about to earn a steady income.

  —Be happier doing this in a coloured neighbourhood, he whispered as I shoved him through the window.

  —Nothing to rob in a coloured neighbourhood, I told him as I followed his arse indoors.

  —You wrong there, Pops, he said. —What’s here?

  I could smell them.

  —Books.

  —We stealing books?

  —No. Maybe a few.

  We were ankle-deep in a rug. Louis held his hand out, discovered an armchair, and sat down. The leather gave out as he sank into it. We held our breath till he stopped.

  —Ain’t been sat in in fifty years, he whispered. —What we going to take, Pops? Nothing in here small enough.

  He was right. The library was the size of a train station, but it had the closed, dead air of a room that was rarely entered. Packed with big, forgotten money that had been spent years before.

  —Listen, I said.

  I could see him now. We stayed still for minutes and got to know the house.

  It wasn’t a good idea. The place was too big, too important and famous, held together by a large staff that lived on the premises. Misery, creaking, insomnia – there was no time of the night when they’d all be asleep. But there wasn’t a sound that came at us, not a creak or bedspring or ice-box door, no sigh slipped in under the door.

  —Who live here?

  I knew the answer.

  —Missis Field.

  —Who?

  —The shop’s widow.

  He was quick.

  —Marshall Field. That shop?

  —Yeah.

  I heard him laughing.

  —Why didn’t we just break into the shop?

  The shop was Marshall Field’s, department store to the heartland. Field had built the house, in 1876, and Missis Field had been widowing there for more than twenty years. A maid called Lillie had told me that.

  —First house in the city with electric lights, she’d told me as I helped with her bags off the trolley car.

  I rode the trolleys, reading the city.

  —It must have lit up like a Christmas tree, I said.

  —I wasn’t alive back then, she said. —I sure wish I had’ve been.

  —Sure, I said. —Bye.

  I got back up on the trolley step. I didn’t mess; I didn’t string them along. I just let them do what they really wanted to do, talk. I never walked them home. I never swapped names or promises. They always spoke first. They always walked home happy, to a room that would never be theirs. (Ailing, fading women found long-forgotten spring in their steps. Unhappy women caught themselves smiling.)

  —They’d expect us to do that, I whispered now to Louis. — Rob the shop. But the shop is guarded. And there’s more money in this place. And look at us. We’re here.

  But it wasn’t a good idea. Smaller houses made more sense. The hired help, the Doras and Ethels, went home at night. The cash was badly hidden in the kitchen, in cups and under chopping boards, and the goods were always new, the latest thing, safe and easily shifted.

  But here we were, in one of the most famous homes in Chicago. I’d thought that the shock would do Louis good; I was bringing him over another line.

  And I was right. He was taking to it.

  He stood up.

  —We take us a picture or two?

  —No, I said. —They’d want them back.

  There was big art on the walls on this stretch of Prairie Avenue, between 16th and 22nd, names that I later heard and knew. Renoir, Monet, Pissarro, Degas. Nice stuff but too hot to carry on the trolley.

  —Cutlery, I said.

  —Knives, forks.

  —Yep.

  —Spoons.

  —You’re with me.

  —Nice silver.

  —At least.

  We listened some more, sorted the outside from the inside. Nothing. I could see books clearly now, fewer than I’d expected. Leather-bound, same-sized, untouched, in squat shelves that didn’t rise higher than my chest. I’d been in better libraries.

  I could see a different shelf, more promising, nearer one of the windows.

  —Let’s go where the spoons is, O’Pops.

  —Hang on, I said.

  I went to the shelf. Books of different sizes, standing, leaning rows. I didn’t know why; I needed to smell one. I felt the dust on the spines, a looseness in the leather – books that had been cracked open and read. I chose one, slid it out. I felt the paper – the pages had been cut with scissors. Lightweight – a novel or poetry. Good dust rose to me. I put the book to my nose.

  —Chicago, I said, very quietly. —Prairie Avenue.

  I took it to the window.

  —Now the time for reading, Pops?

  —Hang on.

  I took the heavy curtain away from the window, enough to let me read the title. It was the same window we’d come through.

  —Oh fuck.

  I dropped the book.

  He was right beside me.

  —We going?

  —Castle Rackrent, I said.

  —You said Marshall Field’s.

  —The fuckin’ book.

  I kicked it away. It hit a chair leg, and then the wall – two bullets, different guns. (I fell against more books, and my head hit the wall. For a while, the Auxies had lost me – I’d gone under the books. I could tell by the way they dragged me out – they were going to murder me. They pulled my feet, climbed in at me over the books. One slid past my eyes: Castle Rackrent.

  —Which one of them did you kill!

  —Which one?

  —In cold fa’king blood!

  —Get his shoes off.

  —Get his own fa’king shoes off.

  —Get your shoes off, c’nt.

  The boot went straight down. Pain so fast and pure and shocking, I didn’t know which foot. I roared. More books dropped to the floor.)

  —We going? said Louis.

  He was ready to jump; he was holding the curtain.

  —No, I said. —It’s gran
d.

  Go!

  —Book that bad?

  —I’ll tell you later. Come on.

  Now. Go.

  —Right behind you, Pops.

  Go.

  The door to the hall opened for me, no problem, no complaint. We waited. No pipes, no snores. The hall was vast, empty, with light enough to get us to our next door. Open for us – no sweat. The kitchen, warm; a cat crept past us. It didn’t rub against our legs; it didn’t sneak away to tell. It sat down there and watched.

  The knives and forks fell quiedy for us as we lowered them into the straw bags I’d last seen Lillie carry. It was the house’s second-best silver; the best stuff had a telltale M.F. on each handle – easily got rid of, but too much like a boast, a story well worth telling.

  Louis was with me.

  —See this one? he whispered.

  —Yeah.

  —Fish knife, said Louis. —See one before?

  —No.

  —Well now.

  He let it drop onto more silver.

  —Don’t get cocky yet, I said.

  —Cocky come natural.

  —Rein it in.

  —Trying.

  —Good man.

  We went out the way we came in.

  —Bringing the book, Pops?

  —I wouldn’t fuckin’ touch it.

  —Fair ee-nuff.

  We got him a new car with the cutlery money. I brought the spoons to Cicero; Louis didn’t come with me. The fence had a canary in a cage, nothing else, in the window of his store.

  —Goes cheap cheap, he said as he looked over the spoons. — All the advertising a good man needs when he does business with people that understand bird.

  He put notes on the counter, slowly, one by one.

  —Ain’t much demand for eating tools, he said as he counted out the cash for me. —Most folks have their own these days.

  He stopped counting and pushed the money at me. Just enough to get me back.

  —But when they come in silver and you happen to be passing, come in and hear the bird.

  Enough for an automobile – I liked the word; it did justice to the thing – and two good dinners. The car was a big black Rickenbacker, with eleven previous owners and several who’d never properly owned it.