Willie shook his head. “You’re my best friend. When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” Jackwash said. “You coming with us?”
“I’ll let you know when the jug’s empty,” Willie said.
“You empty that jug, and you ain’t gonna be in any shape to travel,” Luella said.
Jackwash sighed, laughing. “That’s Willie Johnson, there. If he was a train, wouldn’t need no coal. Just hooch.” He stood up, stretched, and stepped away. “Well, if we gonna make a night of it, I best keep the snake drained.” He headed for the outhouse.
Silence. Luella frowned. “You going, ain’t you Oats?”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
She’d pulled her hair back and tied it off with a ribbon, leaving some free on either side to frame her face. She was thin, all angles, but when she smiled, the sharp edges softened. She hadn’t impressed him much at first glance, but then he’d watched her sing, which changed everything. Looking at her now, Willie thought she might be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, either in magazines or in person.
Jackwash, who never stuck with the same gal for more than a few weeks, had been at her side for months now. He was still Jackwash, of course—playing with fire every time a fine brown thing showed some interest in him. But he seemed to really like Luella. She was smart—too damned smart—and they shared the same dreams. When he boasted, “I’m gonna be somebody,” she nodded her head as if to make clear that she felt the same about herself. “We, Sugar. We gonna be somebody.”
“Oats,” she repeated. “Fits you, don’t it? All plain and white—”
Willie waved her off and grabbed the jug.
“Why you mad?” she asked.
Staring into her eyes, it occurred to him that she knew well and good why he was mad. “Does Jackwash know you have your own little name for me?” he asked. “He’s a jealous man, you know.”
“I know. That man has to know where I been every minute of every day.” She paused, honing her gaze like someone with a razor and a strop. “Now, you’d never treat me like that, would you Oats?”
“I’d take care of you,” Willie said. The words slipped out by accident, as much to do with corn liquor as with the truth.
Her mouth dropped open for just a beat. “I bet you would,” she said. She crossed her arms. “You ought to find you a good woman, Willie Johnson. I hate to see you alone. You need somebody who appreciates a steady man. Somebody who wants to be taken care of. Truth is, this butterfly needs somethin’ more than that.”
“You ain’t no butterfly,” he said. “A moth, maybe. A moth headed for the flame.”
She snorted. “Sounds like a song. If you write it, I’ll sing it.”
Jackwash returned from the outhouse, patting his stomach. Though there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on the man, he said, “This belly o’ mine is stuffed full, like a pig at a roast.” He glanced up and took in their solemn faces. “What you two talking about?”
“Music,” Willie said.
Jackwash smiled. “Figures. I guess I’m goin’ to have to take up the harp or somethin’, just to have somethin’ to say around you two.” He mimicked playing the harmonica, moaning through his fingers, and laughed. “So, you going with us, Willie?”
“He is,” Luella said.
Jackwash sat down, grabbed the jug, sloshed it around to see how much was left, and took another drink. He started to send it back to Willie, but Luella grabbed it out of his hands and took a long, slow swallow.
Jackwash rubbed his lips. “Damn! Gotta love a woman who drinks like that.”
Willie nodded. “Sure do.”
CHAPTER SIX: THE RAMADA INN PUB
“One flick of the wrist/ he’ll cut you a second smile.”
~Willie Johnson, Jackknife Blues
1969
Fort Collins, Colorado
When Willie shook him awake, Kennedy sat upright on the couch. His head continued to move, though his body had stopped—or so it seemed.
“Not feeling so good, eh, little guy?” Willie wore a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of jeans. His feet were bare. “You gonna be sick?”
“No.” Kennedy shook his head and then threw up in his lap.
“Ah, shit,” Willie said, scurrying into the kitchen. “I’m getting a towel. Don’t get anything on the couch.”
Kennedy sat swaying. The stink covered his pants and the bottom of his shirt. Willie returned with a dish towel. “Scoop that mess into this towel and then throw it away.” He bunched the towel up and tossed it across the room. The towel landed on the couch, next to Kennedy.
“I have to go to work,” Willie said, pulling on a pair of socks. “While I’m gone, try to get hold of the Folk Festival people. And I need you to clean up the kitchen. Set all of the trash out by the curb—the truck will be by in an hour or so. Clean the dishes. When the sink’s empty, wash your clothes off over the disposal. I don’t want you messing up the bathtub. Then—”
“What the hell, Willie?”
Willie paused, the hint of a smile on his face. “I’m saving you hotel money, right?”
Kennedy tried to fix his gaze on Willie, despite the spinning room.
“Nothing free, kiddo. You want to manage me? Make my life a little easier. I’m the only one in this partnership making any green right now. You need to help out around here.”
“But I’m sick!”
“Recreational flu. You’ll live.”
Kennedy looked down at the hot, tan mess in his lap. “Shit.”
“Yup.” Willie walked to the door and slipped his feet into his shoes. “When I come back, you’ll have some good news for me.” The words sounded like a threat.
When the door slammed, Kennedy sat back, staring at his pants. The acrid smell made him gag. He reached to his right and grabbed the dish towel. “How the hell am I supposed to do this?” He opened up the towel and tried to scoop the mess, but pushed it onto the couch instead. “Shit! I need a bigger towel! What am I supposed to do with this tiny thing? It’s more washcloth than towel.” He started to stand up, but that sent a river of vomit rolling down his pant leg.
When he’d done what he could with the dish towel, he put it in the kitchen trash on top the discarded pizza box. He stripped off his pants and shirt, leaving them in a pile on the kitchen floor. Then he turned to the sink—full of dirty dishes—and nearly cried. “Shitty old man! I’m not your damned maid!” He repeated the words several times as he filled a bucket from under the sink with soapy water, swabbed the couch cushions until they were clean, scrubbed the dishes, stacking them in the cupboards, and cleaned off the counters. He found a huge plastic lawn bag under the sink and filled it with the kitchen trash, careful not to touch the mess. Finally, he threw his discarded clothing into the sink, squirted green dish soap on them and turned on the hot water. By then, the sun was up, shooting its rays through the window like a spotlight.
“How am I supposed to haul the trash out in my underwear?” he asked. The refrigerator ticked. With no other answer at hand, Kennedy wandered down the hallway and into Willie’s bedroom. The bed was made, tucked tight like a bed in a military academy, or he might have climbed in to sleep off the previous night. He checked the closet for something dry to wear, finding two blue denim work shirts, a pair of skinny Levi’s and an ugly string tie draped around a coat hanger. Kennedy had two spare tee shirts in his duffel, but no pants. If Willie had been twenty pounds heavier, the pants would have fit. It was the old man’s fault that Kennedy wouldn’t get the trash to the curb in time.
Willie didn’t have a home phone. Kennedy would have to wait until his pants were dry
to go make his call to Wein. In the meantime, he was stuck doing Willie Johnson’s bidding. “This isn’t how Brian Epstein got started,” Kennedy muttered. “And Willie ain’t the Beatles.”
Later, wearing a fresh shirt and damp pants, Kennedy walked to the nearest supermarket. He bought himself a candy bar with a five-dollar bill, asking for his change in quarters. The old woman at the register complied with a frown, which set Kennedy off again. All old people suck, he decided. All of them. Wrinkly-ass, crabby bastards and bitches.
Outside, he fed quarters into the pay phone, fully expecting the dodge from Wein’s secretary like every call before, so he was shocked to find the call patched through.
“Mr. Wein?” he croaked. His voice was too high—he sounded like a kid. “Mr. Wein?” he repeated, dropping his pitch to sound like his father.
“You’re the kid with the tape?”
“Yessir, I am. The tape comes from the Rankin archives. The date on the recording is 1934. That’s two decades before Ike Turner’s Rocket 88. My client—”
“And your client is?”
“Willie Johnson.”
Silence. Kennedy shivered, though a warm sun was shining. “We’re here in Colorado now, but we’re ready to go east—”
“Willie Johnson is dead.”
Kennedy stopped. His brain was still foggy, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. “He drinks a lot for a dead man,” he mumbled.
“Blind Willie Johnson. Preacher Willie. Died in 1945. Of syphilis.”
Kennedy shook his head. “No, you don’t—”
“Unless you’ve figured out how to raise the dead, you’re wasting my time and my secretary’s time.”
Kennedy’s stomach turned for the tenth time that morning. “Only one, huh?”
“Pardon?”
“Only one Willie Johnson allowed, right? Like there’s only one Sonny Boy?”
More silence. Half the harmonica players in blues bands across America called themselves Sonny Boy.
“Listen here,” Kennedy said, voice trembling. He had to think fast. The phone call was about to end. Willie’s face came to mind, with his sharp gaze and sharper tongue, sweeping away Kennedy’s moment of panic. He took a deep breath, pushed his round glasses back up on his nose, and smiled, imitating the old man’s sarcastic drawl. “I’m not talking about some preacher who died twenty years ago. I’m talking about the great Willie Johnson, guitar master, who invented rock and roll in the middle of the Great Depression. And you have a chance to get credit for discovering him. Are you going to pass on that?” He bit his lip and pressed on. “You introduced Son House to the world. This is right up your alley. That’s why we came to you.”
“Let me put you on hold,” Wein said.
Kennedy let go a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and lay his head against the pay phone. “Hurry up,” he whispered, “or I’ll run out of quarters.”
• • • • •
Willie watched as Rodney leaned against the doorway arms folded in a studied version of casual. He chatted with Jessica while Willie loaded her cart with sheets and towels. Bending over, Willie caught a glimpse of the girl’s tan legs. Healthy girl. There was no disguising Jessica’s figure, despite the shapeless blue pastel uniform the motel required.
Rodney had certainly noticed.
“When I get my band going, you should come watch me play,” Rodney said. He held up his left hand, mimicking fingers on a fretboard. “I can tear it up. You’ll see. Someday I’ll have a record contract, and that will be it for places like this dump.”
“Is that so?”
“You betcha. Not going to waste my time.” He paused. “Not to say that I look down on folks working here. You? You’re a young gal, just starting out. You won’t be here for long. But this is no career. Gotta feel sorry for the folks who are stuck here for life.”
“Did you clean out the dirty linen?” Willie asked.
Rodney frowned and pointed at the linen bag at the end of Jessica’s cart. “It’s right there,” he said. “Help yourself.”
Willie began pulling sheets out of the bag and stuffing them into his cart.
“Well, I have to get back to work,” Jessica said. “These rooms aren’t going to clean themselves.”
Rodney shrugged. “Maybe I’ll come by later this afternoon and help you finish up. We’re real close to done at our end.”
“Mrs. Simpson doesn’t like us to work in teams,” Jessica said. “She thinks we’ll spend all our time talking.”
Rodney snorted and rubbed the back of his fist across his mouth. “It’s a sad day when people can’t help each other on the job.”
Willie started to push the cart ahead. Rodney’s gaze followed him. “My partner’s getting antsy,” he said with a drawl, spinning out the last word as if it had four syllables instead of two. He pushed away from the door and sauntered down the carpeted hallway, trailing Willie and the cart. “I’m coming, old man,” he called.
Willie stopped in front of the next maid’s cart. “I’m here, Lenore.”
“It’s about time. I’m out of bath towels.”
Willie reached into his rolling bin and pulled out a stack of towels. “You seem under the weather, Lenore. Is that back of yours bothering you?”
“My sciatica.” Lenore’s face puckered when she said the word.
Willie shook his head. “Growing old is a terrible thing.”
Lenore put her hands on her hips and pressed, groaning. “I’m just tired.” She looked up. “I’d be done that much sooner if you’d bring towels around on time.”
“I’m sorry, darlin’,” Willie said.
“We’re here early,” Rodney growled, arriving in time to chime in. “This is the two o’clock linen run, and it’s one-forty.”
“I wish I had more stock so you wouldn’t have to wait,” Willie told her. “I’m going to talk to the boss again today. It’s not right to make you girls wait for your linens.”
“Thank you, Willie,” Lenore said. She paused to give Rodney a frown and then turned back to her cleaning.
Willie pulled the dirty linen from Lenore’s cart and restocked the sheets and towels. Her trash bag was full, too, so he pulled the plastic bag, stacked it in his cart, and relined Lenore’s basket. Glancing up at Rodney, he said, “You could help, you know.”
“This here’s a one-man job,” Rodney said. “I don’t know why they got two of us on this.”
“You’re supposed to be training. That half-day didn’t do it, apparently.”
“Shit,” he said, drawing out the word again. “Training my ass. This place ain’t NASA.” Rodney shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I could do your job in half the time anyway.”
Willie shrugged. “Let’s get the dirty linen back to the chute and head down. There’s towels and sheets to fold.”
Rodney rolled his eyes and turned to go, his left hand playing the frets of his imaginary guitar again. Further down the hall, Willie paused at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, and Rodney sidled up beside him. Pointing down, he said, “Push me.”
Willie stared. “What?”
“Push me down the stairs,” Rodney repeated. “I’ll sue this place. I heard the owner has deep pockets. I’ll sue him, and sit on my ass for six months, writing songs.” He turned to face Willie. “I’m serious. Push me. I won’t say anything. Worst that can happen is a broken leg.”
Willie pushed the cart instead. “Come on, kid. We have work to do.”
Rodney followed, a scowl on his face. “All work and no play, Willie. You’re a sad old—”
&
nbsp; “And you’re a lazy little fuck.” Willie stopped and turned to face the boy. “You haven’t done anything today but flap your pie hole.”
Rodney’s face flushed red. “What crawled up your ass, old man?” He stepped closer. “I’ve been doing plenty of work. For that matter, I’ve been carrying you, you old bag of bones.”
Willie snorted. “You work like this when I’m not here, and the maids will run to Mrs. C. And you know what she’ll do? She’ll take a bite out my ass for not training you right.”
Rodney laughed and began talking in falsetto. “Oh, no! Mrs. Simpson is going to yell at me.”
“And when she does,” Willie said, “I’ll have you fired. You can go home and tell your momma why you can’t hold on to a job.”
Rodney’s back went stiff. “Are you threatening me?”
“Of course I am. Are you stupid?”
Rodney took a deep breath and stepped closer still. “You need to watch out.”
“Watch out for what, son?”
“Son?” The word seemed to infuriate him. “You’re not my dad.” Rodney reached up, his hand to Willie’s throat. He pushed Willie’s head back against the wall, using enough pressure to cut off his breath. “I don’t like you, Willie. You’re a crabby old fuck who thinks he’s something. Well, you’re not. One word to Mrs. Simpson, and you’ll lose your precious job. I’ll tell her what you call her, and you’ll be out of here.” He pushed on Willie’s windpipe and then let up enough to let him talk. “Do we understand each other, old man?”
Willie’s face was blank. “Watch your stomach.”
“What, too close for comfort Willie?” The boy grinned. He still had him by the throat, so it was hard for Willie to look down, but when he did, Rodney followed his gaze. That’s when he saw the knife.
Sins in Blue Page 7