Sins in Blue

by Brian Kaufman

  The room had a sink and toilet—both looking like something out of a museum. The porcelain was cracked and stained brown. Dripping, he stripped down to his boxers and used the one washcloth and towel to give himself a quick wash. Then he turned to the bed.

  The corduroy bedspread had brown stains. He hadn’t noticed them when first entering the room. He rubbed his eyes, leaning closer to be sure. Bloodstains. There are bloodstains on the bedspread! He grabbed the bedspread at the top and pulled the ugly thing off, leaving it in a pile at the foot of the bed. Too hot for that in here anyway.

  He flopped onto the bed, lying on his back with his arms and legs outstretched. Within minutes, he’d soaked the top sheet with his sweat.

  He tried the window again, to no avail.

  I can’t do this. They have to do something. No air conditioning? Is this the Middle Ages? Kennedy dressed himself in fresh clothes and headed downstairs. The front desk man was helping ruin someone else’s night, so Kennedy had to wait in line.

  When his turn came, he said, “The windows don’t work.”

  The desk attendant sighed, his thin, sallow face taking on a pained expression. “The room was only partially renovated,” he explained.

  Kennedy frowned. “Interesting, because I didn’t pay a partial room fee.”

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Kennedy waited a moment, hoping for more. When the desk attendant gave him nothing beyond a weak smile, Kennedy pressed on. “It’s hot up there.”

  “You’re on the third floor. Hot air rises.”

  He thinks I’m some kid he can push around. “No way. Get me another room.”

  “Unfortunately, the other rooms are either booked or under renovation.”

  Kennedy leaned forward. “Then I think you need to give me a discount.”

  “I don’t believe I can sell management on a price reduction over a window.”

  “How about blood on the bedspread? Does that rate a discount?”

  The desk attendant shrank a little, glancing around to see if anyone overheard. “Please lower your voice. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Two minutes later, Kennedy headed back upstairs, a ten-dollar bill in his fist.

  • • • • •

  In the morning, he walked to Willie Johnson’s house. He’d have taken a cab, if only for appearance’s sake, but what if Willie was working? What if he was out? He couldn’t squander his money like that. Besides, the map said he’d be crossing through Colorado State University, and he wanted to see what the campus looked like. Not to mention the college girls.

  His legs were sore halfway across campus. The place was pretty, with huge flower beds and the mountains for a backdrop, but it was hard to enjoy the view. He couldn’t remember when he’d done so much walking. His mom and dad used to drive him everywhere. Clearly, they’d done him a disservice. Well, that’ll change now.

  There were plenty of girls to look at along the way. Some of them dressed nice, with crisp blouses and skirts. A few wore sloppy clothes—hippies, he supposed. Two girls wore miniskirts, which was what the girls in Pittsburgh wore. Of course, Pittsburgh was a major city, so he couldn’t expect that level of sophistication here.

  He worried he wouldn’t find his way, right up until the moment he reached Willie Johnson’s house. The yard was a scorched mess, and the house looked like it hadn’t had a paint job in two decades. Kennedy’s dad painted his house back home every five years, and the yard was immaculate. Trimmed shrubs, flagstones, bird feeders—all that crap.

  Please be home. Kennedy brushed his hair from his eyes, flattened his shirt, and tried hard to look older. Fortified, he knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  He tried again. From inside, he thought he heard a muffled groan. He waited for as long as he could bear, and then knocked a third time.

  The door swung open. “What?”

  Kennedy cleared his throat. “My name is Kennedy Barnes. I’m a talent manager, here to see Mr. Willie Johnson.”

  “Okay.” The man seemed half asleep or sick. His thin frame looked too fragile to hold him upright.

  “Is Mr. Johnson here?”

  “He sure as hell is.”

  Kennedy waited. The man at the door waited, too. Kennedy tried again. “Can I speak to him?”

  “You are speaking to him.”

  Kennedy frowned. “You can’t be Willie Johnson.”

  The man swallowed a laugh. “Why not?”

  Kennedy stared. “Because,” he said. “You’re white.”

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE RAMSKELLER

  “You got your hands in your pockets/ or maybe your hand’s all up in mine.”

  ~Willie Johnson, Church Up the Road

  1969

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Willie Johnson stared at the boy in his doorway. Wonder Bread boy, with round glasses and a tremolo voice. “I’m Willie Johnson,” Willie said. “Least, I was this morning. What can I do for you?”

  The boy stood, mouth open.

  Willie cleared his throat. “Are you going to say something?”

  The boy stuck out his hand. “Kennedy Barnes,” he said. “Are you the Willie Johnson that recorded Bitch Train?”

  Willie blinked. “Ah. You’re from the Library of Congress?”

  “Not exactly,” Kennedy said, lowering his hand. “I’m a talent manager.”

  Willie tried not to laugh, and the swallowed impulse sounded like a cough. He went with that for a moment, rather than be rude. “Talent manager?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m here with a proposition for you.”

  Willie shrugged. “Might as well come in, then.” He stepped back, opening the door wide. Kennedy took a few steps inside and looked around. “You aren’t particular about the surroundings, are you?” Willie asked.

  The boy looked around the room and then turned to Willie. “Maid’s day off?”

  Willie chuckled. The boy had some sass to him.

  Kennedy walked to the couch and sat, gingerly, as if the battered piece of furniture might be ready to collapse. Apparently satisfied the couch wouldn’t buckle, he stretched his feet out and leaned back. “Let’s talk.”

  Willie chuckled again. He fetched a chair from the kitchen and planted himself near the couch. “I’m listening.”

  Kennedy cleared his throat. “You invented rock and roll twenty years before Chuck Berry.”

  Willie rolled his eyes.

  “Do you still play guitar?” He glanced to the side, staring at Willie’s Kalamazoo propped on the far wall.

  “I play,” Willie said. “What’s your proposition?”

  Kennedy bit his lip, and then, as if coming to a decision, he plowed ahead. “I’ll buy us bus tickets to the Newport Folk Festival. You’ll be discovered, and we’ll sign a record contract.”

  Willie squinted. “What makes you think they’ll let me play at your festival?”

  Kennedy sat forward. “I’ve been calling George Wein. He runs the show in Newport. I’ll set things up. Don’t worry about that.”

  Willie rubbed his chin. The boy in front of him didn’t seem old enough to shave, let alone handle musicians. But Willie had heard of the folk festival in Newport. Son House had been “discovered” there. Could the same thing happen for him? Truth be told, Willie had never even considered the idea. Play a festival? Why not? He didn’t know anything about George Wein, but the boy seemed to know. “How did you get my address?” he asked. “And how do you know about Bitch Train?”

  “You’ve been correspond
ing with the Library of Congress,” Kennedy said.

  “I sent them a letter. Is that it?”

  Kennedy waved his hand as if the answer were self-evident. “I have contacts all over the United States. I’m always on the lookout for talent.”

  Willie stood and walked to the kitchen. “You want something to drink?” he called.

  “What do you have?”

  “Water.”

  Kennedy waited, expecting a second choice.

  Willie returned with a jelly jar filled with tap water. “Here you go.”

  Kennedy took the glass, staring at it. “Flintstones.” His voice was monotone.

  “The glass is mostly clean,” Willie joked. “Now tell me about the money. What kind of split are we talking?”

  Kennedy looked up, glass in hand. “The usual split is—”

  “Bullshit,” Willie said.

  “I didn’t even say a number! How do you know what I’m going to say?” Kennedy’s mouth hung open. “I’m only asking for twenty-five percent.”

  “Fifteen to twenty is the industry standard.”

  “Twenty percent then.”

  “And what are you offering in return? Are you paying our expenses?”

  Kennedy swallowed. “I thought we’d each buy our own food on the bus ride.”

  Willie started to laugh again, but the boy was watching his every move, so he struggled for a straight face. “You think it’s that easy? We play a gig, and get a contract, just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “What happens if we don’t get signed?”

  Kennedy shook his head. “You’re a piece of living history. You invented the music that changed the world. You’ll be rich.” The words rolled out of him. He’d clearly practiced this part of his pitch. As he spoke, he seemed to relax, sprawling out on the couch like a cat. “And I’ll be rich right along with you.”

  Willie walked back to the kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The trash can by the refrigerator overflowed. He bent and pushed the garbage down to compact it, but the pizza box wouldn’t bend, and the beer can on top tumbled out and hit the floor. He kicked the can aside and turned around.

  By the sink, the cat’s dish sat half-full. The cat had died a month earlier. He’d wrapped it up in a plastic bag and sent it out with the trash, but he couldn’t bear to get rid of the dish. Nikita. He’d named the cat after a Russian girl he met on one of his trips to Denver. A working girl, with thick lips and thighs like a weight lifter.

  He missed that cat.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Kennedy called from the other room.

  Willie closed his eyes. He had to work at the motel in the morning. And the morning after that, and the morning after that. And when he could no longer work—

  “You still there?”

  Willie returned to the living room, patting his back pocket for his wallet. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going into town. You have a car?”

  “No,” Kennedy said. “I walked here.”

  “Really? You’re kidding, right?”

  “I needed the exercise.” Kennedy stood up and stretched.

  “All right then,” Willie said. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “If we’re going to talk business, we’ll do it in a bar. Since you don’t have a car, we’ll go on campus. The Ramskeller is okay.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  They walked at a brisk pace, Willie leading the way. Kennedy seemed to have a difficult time keeping up, so Willie pushed ahead. He’d walked this route nearly every day for five years—ever since being hired by the motel. And the boy was out of shape.

  “You’re a spry old bastard,” Kennedy said, breaking into a trot to keep up.

  Willie walked faster still. His thighs burned, but the look on Kennedy’s face was worth the effort. Within fifteen minutes, they were at the Lory Student Center. The bar was in the basement.

  The Ramskeller was a small, overpriced campus bar and cafeteria. Willie liked to order pitchers of Coors and watch the local musicians—mostly folk singers filled with angst and outrage over the Nixon administration. Their sincerity touched him. Once, he’d seen a young girl with straight blond hair singing Dylan songs, and thought she’d been special. When he returned a week later, she played again, clumsy chords and flat vocals, and he decided that the beer had been to blame for his bad judgment.

  His favorite artist had been a man who sang and told jokes. His humor kept the audience engaged, but his music had bite. Protest songs weren’t Willie’s favorite, but this man’s anger ran down his arms, into his fingers and onto the guitar strings. When he sang Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye, the line about being “put with a bowl to beg” gave him chills.

  Inside, Willie steered Kennedy to the bar and ordered a pitcher. “He’s paying,” he told the bartender. Kennedy gawked for a moment, and then fished some bills out of his pocket. The bartender asked for identification.

  Kennedy shook his head, but Willie tapped his shoulder. “You’re over eighteen, right?”

  Kennedy fished his driver’s license out of his wallet. The bartender gave it a cursory glance and turned to fill the pitcher. Kennedy paid and added a tip.

  Willie smiled. A man who didn’t tip was not to be trusted.

  They took a two-seat booth and Kennedy poured beers. No music in the afternoon, so they could talk without shouting.

  The bar’s décor was institutional. Chairs with plastic seats and tables that wobbled. Old band posters decorated the pastel walls, along with various metal traffic signs, as if someone in a suit had decided that “the kids will like this.” The overall effect was like a cafeteria. A cafeteria with beer.

  Willie took a sip, swished it around in his mouth, and then swallowed. Satisfied, he took a deep drink, finishing half a pilsner glass in a single swallow. “You know, this town was dry forever. They just started serving hard liquor.”

  “Dry?”

  “Nothing but three-two beer.”

  Kennedy frowned. “What’s that?”

  “This,” Willie said, pointing at the pitcher. “Three-point-two percent alcohol. Beer for kids. You need to go to a liquor store to get regular beer.”

  Kennedy nodded. “I thought it tasted weak.”

  “You’re a big beer drinker, are you?” Willie grinned and looked around the bar. “This is the first place to even have three-two on campus. Last year, a bunch of students held a protest, and the university knuckled under.”

  “Dry town,” Kennedy said. “No whiskey?”

  “Nope. If I wanted a taste, I had to get a friend to drive me elsewhere.”

  “Damn. That’s no good.”

  Willie shrugged. “Depends. Some things are better off out of reach. Like a woman with a ring on her finger. Distance keeps you out of trouble.” He paused, his face taking on a serious expression. “Okay, here’s the deal. If we’re going to do business, we’re going to have to set some guidelines.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “First. No bullshit.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I said, no bullshit.” Willie set his glass down and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “How old are you, son?”

  “I’m twenty—”

  “Bullshit.”

  Kennedy sat back, expressionless. Long seconds ticked off. On the other side of the room, a student played pinball, thrusting against the machine with his thighs to pump up the action on the bumpers. The bartender coughed.

  “Okay,” Kennedy said. “I’m eighte
en.”

  “How many clients do you have?”

  “One.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Willie Johnson.”

  Willie snorted. “We’ll see.” He finished his beer and poured himself another. “Where are you from?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “You like the blues?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Who was Sleepy John?”

  “John Estes. He recorded Floating Bridge. He was narcoleptic.”

  Willie frowned. “What’s narcoleptic?”

  “They called him Sleepy John because he had a condition. Made him sleep in the middle of the day. He could play, though.”

  Willie sat back, deep in thought. He kept staring at the boy, and to his credit, the boy kept staring back. “What does a white boy from Pittsburgh know about the blues?”

  Kennedy smirked. “What does an old white guy living in Colorado know about it?”

  Willie might have taken offense. Instead, he smiled and took another long sip of beer. He liked this boy. Young Kennedy had moxie. “Well,” Willie said, “there’s a story in that. I was a pup, no more than your age. Loved blues music. Loved gospel. Loved chants, shouts, and field songs. Loved it all.” He slipped a folding knife from his pocket and began tapping the table with it as he spoke.

  Kennedy cleared his throat. “You carry a knife?”

  “You don’t?” Willie asked, surprised.

  Kennedy looked away.

  Willie took another swallow of beer and continued. “I used to sneak off to the jukes just to listen. You could stand out back and hear the music through the walls. They wouldn’t let me in, of course. White boy like me, and all. But you hang around long enough and pester the same folks long enough, and soon, you’re running errands and helping to clean up. Sooner or later, you’re a fixture. Like a chair. And if you sit in the corner with your mouth shut, they’ll let you watch.