Sins in Blue

by Brian Kaufman

  “And I had some help,” he continued. “I had a friend who put in a good word for me with juke owners. Pretty soon, I made a name for myself, and folks didn’t mind me hanging around and playing a little.”

  Willie finished the glass and poured a third. “My paps dug trenches for a living. Mean-ass man. Came home drunk, or angry, because he had a shitty life. My mother, God rest her soul, tried to keep clean clothes on us and food on the table. When Paps came home, he’d sit in his chair near the radio, planted like an apple tree, and we’d put dinner on the arm of that chair every night. Dinner at the left arm and whiskey on the right. And no one would say a God-damned word until he fell asleep, right there on his throne.”

  The bar was empty and quiet. Willie took another sip. “Am I boring you?”

  “No.” Kennedy put down his own beer long enough to shake his head.

  “Where are you staying?”

  Kennedy shrugged. “At a hotel in town.”

  “Can you afford that?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No bullshit, or we don’t go any further.”

  Kennedy closed his eyes. “Money is tight.”

  “Okay. You’ll stay at my place.”

  Kennedy stared. “Does that mean we’re going to do this?”

  “We’ll see,” Willie said. He was silent for a minute, searching for the thread of the conversation that he’d dropped. “Here’s the point. I had a taste for bad things, too. I liked hooch and I liked poon. I didn’t do drugs, but most of the time, I had no problem with them that did. But the vice I loved more than any other was the blues.”

  Kennedy considered this. “How did your dad react?”

  Willie narrowed his gaze until his eyes were slits. “Paps dug ditches. That’s low. But not as low as niggers. He held that comforting thought close to his chest, like a passage of scripture.” He sat back. “As for me, I was lower than the field niggers, because I was his son, and I liked their music. I was a traitor to my race.”

  Kennedy frowned. “Did he throw you out?”

  Willie leaned forward again with his eyes wide. “Oh, hell no. He liked to keep me around. Bullies need victims.”

  “They sure do,” Kennedy agreed, touching his tender eye. “So, you ran away?”

  “Of course not. With me gone, he’d only have Mom to punish. So, I took his worst until I was old enough to hold my own. Then I beat him up. Beat him like a snare.”

  “Bet he left you alone after that.”

  Willie sighed. “No. He behaved himself for a few days, acting all polite. Even drank less than his usual. Smiled at me once or twice. I remember thinking that he was a nice enough guy when he was sober and all—that I would have liked to get to know him. He was my paps, after all. Blood counts for something. Then, one night, he crept into my room with a baseball bat and broke my collarbone and three ribs.”

  CHAPTER FIVE: GIUSEPPE’S

  “As soon as my feets hit the ground/

  I’m getting out of this doggone town.”

  ~Willie Johnson, Church Up the Road

  1969

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  When the bartender at the college bar gave last call, Willie shook his head and said, “Night’s too young,” before heading from the door to the streets. The old man was fast, keeping a walking pace just the wrong side of comfortable, so Kennedy had to push to keep up with him.

  Ten minutes into the walk, Kennedy tired of the silence. “Where are we going?”

  Willie didn’t even glance back. “Can’t be too particular, you being a young pup and all. We have to go to a place where your I.D. will get you a beer.” He strode on, his hands jammed into his pockets. His limp put a hitch in his step, but his back remained rail-straight, shoes keeping a staccato beat on the sidewalk. They cut through campus, winding their way through old neighborhoods full of large, dark trees and broken sidewalks, emerging at the edge of the downtown district. From there, they made their way down Mountain Avenue, crossing the trolley tracks that ran down the center of the street, and arrived at Giuseppe’s, an Italian pizza house and bar.

  The interior looked like a warehouse, with long tables and gaudy overhead lighting. The music was cranked up over the student din. “You hungry?” Willie shouted. “They do a fine double-cheese pizza here.”

  Kennedy shook his head. He was hungry, but any pizza would be on him and his diminishing money roll.

  As if reading his mind, Willie said, “I’ll buy the next pitcher.” He returned with a pitcher of Coors. “This is all they have. It’s not good beer. More for kids trying to learn about real beer.” He finished pouring Kennedy a glass. “Here you go, kid.”

  Kennedy took a big swallow. His head swam a little, so he shook it and took another sip.

  “You all right?”

  “I could do this all night,” Kennedy answered.

  Willie snorted.

  The speakers blared out a new song. “That’s Tony Joe White,” Willie said. “Polk Salad Annie.” He took a long draw from his pilsner glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt, and nodded appreciatively. “Now, that’s a good song. That ol’ boy can sing.”

  Kennedy didn’t recognize the tune, and apparently, neither did half the crowd, because the buzz of laughter and conversation went on uninterrupted. But when the next song came on—Sugar, Sugar by the Archies—everyone stopped to sing along. The sight of a hundred drunken college students singing the silly lyrics made Willie laugh, and then wince. “Sweet Jesus, not a lick of good taste here.” He took another sip of beer, and his mouth turned down even more. “Nor in here,” he said, pointing to the glass.

  “I’d like to know what you think a good beer is,” Kennedy said, leaning slightly to the side. “To me, this tastes like gold. Liquid gold.”

  “Urine is golden, son,” Willie said.

  Kennedy laughed. “You’re a funny old guy.” A lopsided grin spread across his face. “So, let’s talk business. We’re going to be rich. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think we’re getting anything sensible done tonight,” Willie said. “Now, tomorrow, you need to call this Mr. Wein fella and see what’s what.” His gaze sharpened a little, and he added, “You have a lot of ideas and promises, but you need to know that I’m a man who judges others by what they do, not what they say.”

  “I will, I will,” Kennedy promised. He took another drink. “I’m kind of hungry.” He looked around. “What did you say about pizza?”

  Willie glanced at his watch. “Might be too late for that,” he said. “Almost last call here, too.”

  “Damn.”

  “Well, don’t fret. The girls will be around with bread soon.”

  “What?”

  “Bread. They cook it ahead, and if they don’t sell it, they hand it out. Can’t keep it overnight.”

  “Bread slices?”

  Willie laughed. “No, not slices. Garlic bread. Don’t they have pizza places in Pittsburgh?”

  Kennedy became animated, his hands whirring and jumping with his words. “Oh yeah, they have the best pizza in the whole world there. My dad used to bring home Mineo’s pizza with pepperoni and sausage, which was pretty funny, because Mineo’s was right in the middle of a Jewish neighborhood, and Jews don’t eat pork . . .” He started laughing and hiccupped. He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to squelch the next hiccup and failed, which made him laugh harder.

  “Settle down, little fella,” Willie advised.

  By the time he regained some control, a barmaid came by with an armful of bread baskets. “Would you boys like some bread?”

&n
bsp; “Sure would, darlin’,” Willie said.

  She set a basket of bread down on the bench and moved on. Kennedy pulled back the paper liner, grabbed a piece of garlic toast, and took a bite. “Hey, this tastes good,” he said. He chewed some more. “Great, actually. I mean it’s garlic bread, but it’s really good.”

  “Simple things can be good,” Willie said.

  “You’re right. I like a lot of plain things. Peanut butter. Stew. Ice cream.”

  Willie shook his head. “Have another beer, kid.”

  “No, I’m serious. Plain things are good. You can live on them.” He paused to drink again, as he’d been instructed. “When I came here from Pittsburgh, I lived on fruit pies—”

  “Not exactly staples. When I was young, there were times all I had was grits or oatmeal—”

  “I hate oatmeal,” Kennedy said, his voice too loud. “Cream of Wheat is okay, but oatmeal? The stuff is shit.”

  Willie’s face went blank. “Like you said, you can live on oatmeal.”

  Kennedy stopped short. He’d only known Willie Johnson for half a day, but he was pretty sure he’d just said something wrong. He kept his mouth shut for a few minutes, thinking things through. He recalled things that his father had said about the Great Depression and wondered if he had reminded Willie of his lean days. Old people were prickly about the Depression. They fed families of ten with a loaf of bread and other impossible shit like that. At last, Kennedy said, “Oatmeal is okay.”

  Willie ignored him, staring off into the distance.

  After the staff cleared the glasses and pitchers off the tables, Willie and Kennedy headed for the door. “We have a walk ahead of us,” he said. “Let’s not dawdle. I have to work in the morning.”

  “You have to work?” Kennedy repeated. His tongue felt thick and sticky in his mouth.

  “People work for a living, kid.”

  “What time?”

  Willie glanced at his watch again. “We’ll be home by two,” he said. “I’m up at five-thirty.”

  “You’re crazy!” Kennedy said.

  Willie smiled for the first time in a while, though it was a narrow-eyed, sly sort of smile. “You’ll be up, too. There’s work to be done. Come on now.” Kennedy followed him, shouting into a wind that had kicked up, asking him what he’d meant, but Willie’s mind was on walking, not talking, and he didn’t answer.

  • • • • •

  1928

  Cruger, Mississippi

  “Beefsteak,” Willie said, staring at the grate they’d thrown over the fire.

  “Nothin’ but the best,” Jackwash said.

  “Ain’t had beef in a long time,” Willie admitted. He glanced up. Luella hovered at Jackwash’s elbow, clinging to him like a fly on a plate of sticky buns. Jackwash beamed, a fork the size of his forearm in his hands.

  Willie shuffled over to the picnic table and poured himself a cup of fresh lemonade. His mouth watered like a faucet, and he needed something in his stomach right away. The lemonade was cool and sweet, and he closed his eyes with the pleasure of it. No beef in a while? No food at all. If things kept up a certain way, he’d have to take on a job shoveling hay or some such thing.

  Jackwash seemed to be doing better by a full measure. Always a sharp dressed man, he wore a fine, pin-striped shirt and pants with suspenders. Luella wore nice clothes, too. Jackwash had probably bought her the dress she wore, all ivory and lace. Willie wore bib overalls and a work shirt. He wished he’d given them a wash before coming over for supper.

  Luella set out a tub of poke sallet—cooked greens made from pokeweed—and a loaf of bread. Jackwash put a stack of plates on the table and turned back to the beef charring over the fire. Bending closer, he reached in and speared a potato, transferring it to the top plate. “This ‘un is done.”

  “They all ought to be done,” Luella said, a little salt in her voice.

  “You let me worry about it. Make sure Willie has some lemonade.”

  “He already helped himself.” She glared at Willie as if he’d done something wrong. Hell, I probably did.

  “Heard you got kicked out of that juke down by the river,” Jackwash said. “That true?”

  “Folks tell stories,” Willie said. He had been kicked out though, before he even put a finger to the strings. A big fat apple-knocker didn’t like seeing a white face in a black juke and proceeded to say so. Willie was lucky to escape with his guitar intact.

  “Seems like you been kicked out of every juke in the state,” Luella said. “White clubs don’t like you, neither.” Her dark eyes had a hint of the devil in them.

  Willie sat back. “I didn’t know you were following my music so close.”

  She snorted and turned away.

  Jackwash dropped two more potatoes on the top plate and set it aside. Then he dropped the beefsteak on the next plate down on the stack. He stopped, staring at the table, shook his head and said, “Damn, Luella, ain’t you brought out the corn liquor? This here’s Willie Johnson we entertainin’. We got to get him wet, or he gonna dry out. He just like a fish—”

  “A whale,” she said.

  Willie gave a good-natured laugh and reached for the steak. “This one’s for me, right?”

  “See what I mean?” Luella asked.

  Jackwash slid onto the bench and put his elbows up on the table. “You can have ’bout half of that steak, there. Luella and I will split the other half.” His smile turned sly. “You is getting bigger.”

  “Don’t know how,” Willie said. “Haven’t had a bite to eat since yesterday morning, and that was nothing. An old biscuit.” He sniffed. “I think my clothes hide my natural shape.”

  Luella had returned with the jug and three table napkins. “No,” Luella said. “You’re round, for sure.”

  “Well then, you best feed me, before I take a bite outta that skinny arm of yours.”

  Jackwash snatched the jug and took a swig, wincing. “Whoa! Now, that’s how you celebrate.”

  “What are we celebrating?” Willie asked, still eyeing the beefsteak.

  Jackwash turned to share a glance with Luella. Both of them smiled, like kids misbehaving in church. “Well, might as well tell you,” Jackwash said. But rather than do so, he took up a knife and fork and cut the steak in two. He put the larger half on Willie’s plate and then cut the other half again, giving the smallest piece to Luella.

  Meanwhile, she put a potato on each plate and shoved the greens to the middle of the table. Willie reached for the jug and took a swig. Liquid fire burned its way down his throat, leaving hot embers in his stomach.

  Luella finally sat down and took a small bite of greens. Willie waited until his patience had expired—a second or two—and said, “Come on now, spit it out.”

  Jackwash nodded, chewing his first bite of steak. “I could eat like this every day,” he said. “And sometime soon, I’m gonna do just that.”

  “You find a dead banker somewhere?”

  Jackwash snorted. “Sure did. You’re eating his hindquarter.”

  Willie chewed. “No banker was never so useful as this is right now.”

  “Y’all are gonna make me sick,” Luella said. She scrunched up her face as if she’d smelled something bad, which was impossible with the fire and the smell of beef and cooked greens floating through the air like a breath of heavenly perfume.

  Jackwash chewed a while longer and then sat back. “You know I been running shine around here.”

  “Only reason the jukes let me in,” Willie nodded.

  “Well, that’s fine for the short term. But I gotta think about the fut
ure.” Luella leaned into him a little, and he corrected himself. “We gotta think about the future.” He grabbed the jug and took a long draw. He patted his lips with a napkin and continued. “Did I ever tell you about my cousin Montgomery?”

  “Once or twice,” Willie said.

  “Well, Montgomery runs a numbers game in Skokie. That’s outside of Chicago. You run numbers up there, you come into some real money. Can’t do nothing like that here.” He paused, glancing at Luella again before continuing. “So, we gonna go up north. I got a place to stay till I get settled in. It’s a sweet deal. I’m family, and Montgomery needs people he can trust.”

  Luella clutched his arm, smiling.

  “Congratulations,” Willie said. He belched.

  “Now, don’t fall all over yourself bein’ happy for us.” Jackwash frowned as if disappointed that his announcement hadn’t yielded a bigger reaction.

  “I’m happy,” Willie said. He grabbed the jug.

  Luella tilted her head. Her gaze narrowed, like a cat spotting a bird on the ground.

  “Well, restrain yourself,” Jackwash said. “There’s more. You know, they got jukes up there. Fine ones—nothing like the ratty shacks down here. The best musicians in the world go to Chicago. And I . . .” He shot a glance at Luella. “We . . . was thinking you might come along.”

  Willie took a deep draw from the jug. His stomach roiled with the news, and he needed to shut that down—he couldn’t let Jackwash know what he was feeling. If he was going to play the fool here, he’d do it as a drunk. He set the jug down, careful not to tip it, and then met Jackson Washington’s gaze. “Bicycle only needs two wheels,” he said.

  “This ain’t no bicycle,” he scoffed. “This a damned wagon, and I’m the driver. I can pull all y’all to the promised land. You want to play your box where people can appreciate it? That’s Chicago, man. You ain’t going anywhere, playing for these broke down fools.” His voice had taken on an edge, and his eyes were hot and bright. “You always told me you were going to end up in the city, playing for real money. I’m offering you a chance to do just that.” He paused. “Unless our company’s no good for your big dreams.”