Sins in Blue

by Brian Kaufman

  Willie pushed the tip of the blade forward, and Rodney yelped. He backed up, bumping into Willie’s cart, stumbling at the edge of the stairs. Willie caught him by the shirt and pulled him upright. “Watch yourself. You’ll fall and break a leg.”

  “What the fuck? Are you crazy?” Rodney’s eyes were wide with shock.

  Willie laid the flat side of the knife blade against Rodney’s chest, bending him back over the railing above the stairs. “This is my cut-and-run. Know why they call it that? You get in a pinch, you cut. Then you run.” He stepped back, folding the knife shut. “Some advice to take with you on your way out. You want to strong-arm someone? Make sure they’re not carrying a weapon.” He slipped the knife in his pocket. “Now, it’s time for the run part of cut-and-run.”

  “What?” Rodney stood wavering in place with his mouth open.

  “I said run, boy. I’ll tell Mrs. C you weren’t feeling well.”

  “But . . .” Rodney swallowed. “I’m not leaving.”

  Willie patted his pocket. “You are. Go on now. Come back to work when you got your head right.”

  • • • • •

  “Kids today,” Willie said.

  The motel bartender nodded. He notched a finger behind his bow tie and tugged at his shirt collar. “I know what you mean. Had a new barback start last weekend. Kid wanted a break thirty minutes after he started. I hauled half of his cases for him and changed both kegs because his back hurt.” He shook his head. “When I gave him his tips for the evening, he looked at the money like I dipped it in matt-shots.”

  “You give him his full share?” Willie asked.

  The bartender smiled. “Yeah. Go on, tell me I’m a sucker.”

  Willie chuckled. “Spoiled little bastards.”

  “It’s the education system,” the bartender said. He pulled at his mustache. “Got university professors telling students this and that. Makes ’em soft in the head.”

  “Feeling that way myself,” Willie said. “Give me a shot. I only have cash for one, so make it something good.”

  The bartender looked around. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You know I can’t. Against the rules.”

  Willie tapped the bar with his fingertip. “I know. But pour me one anyway. I’ll be quick.”

  “What about Mrs. Simpson? She’s already got a hard-on for you.”

  Willie nodded. “That she does. And her dick’s longer than mine.”

  “Thicker, too.”

  Willie tapped the bar again. The bartender pulled a bottle off the top shelf and poured a shot of bourbon into a rocks glass. “Ice?” he asked.

  Willie shook his head no and grabbed the glass, downing the shot in a single gulp. He winced and took a deep breath. “Damn!” The bartender searched his face and Willie smiled. “So that’s what the good stuff tastes like? Smooth.” He slapped a bill on the counter.

  “I got this round,” the bartender said.

  “I know,” Willie said. He tapped the bill. “That’s for you.” He stepped away from the barstool. ‘Don’t give it away to some kid.”

  They both laughed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: THE RIBEYE GRILL

  “Save your advice ‘cause it’s too late/ ain’t no mistakes I haven’t made.”

  ~Willie Johnson, My Hard Head

  1969

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Kennedy was at the door waiting when Willie came home. The house was clean, and Kennedy had to admit, he was proud of all the work he’d done. Willie came limping in like he didn’t notice, pushing past to flop down on the couch.

  “Well?” Kennedy asked.

  “Well, what?” Willie glanced around the room, but when he saw Kennedy watching him, he stopped, closing his eyes.

  He’s not going to say a damned thing about the house. Okay, fine. I have news. Kennedy put his hands on his hips. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

  For a moment, it seemed as if Willie had dozed off. “I guess you got some news for me, then?” he mumbled.

  “Damn right,” Kennedy said, his voice cracking. “I spoke to Mr. George Wein himself today, and we’re going to Newport.”

  Willie opened his eyes, startled. “Well, I’ll be go to hell!”

  “They’re going to come by to meet you first, but it’s pretty much set.”

  “George Wein is coming to Fort Collins?”

  “Not exactly. His associate.”

  Willie’s gaze narrowed and his lips pursed like he was going to say “bullshit,” so Kennedy rushed ahead. “Wein’s got men in the field all over the country, looking for talent. His best man is driving across Texas right now, and he’s going to be here the day after tomorrow.”

  Willie seemed to consider this, his eyes a little wild like he’d seen the ghost of Robert Johnson crossing through his backyard.

  “It’s just a formality, Willie. He just needs to see . . .” Kennedy’s voice trailed off.

  “See what?”

  “He needs to make sure . . .” Again, Kennedy’s voice faltered. This was a thing he should have already cleared up. He’d asked if Willie still played the guitar, and Willie said he did, and there was a guitar sitting in the corner of the room, but Kennedy hadn’t actually seen the man play. And Willie was old as bedrock. Could he still move those fingers? “He’ll just want to hear you play a song or two.”

  Willie’s face was blank.

  “You know, to make sure you can play. You can play, can’t you?”

  Willie smiled.

  “Okay, I was sure you could, and I told him so. But I haven’t actually heard anything yet . . .”

  “Fair is fair,” Willie said. “We’ve had us a nice time, you and I, drinking a few beers. I got to tell a few stories, and that’s a treat for an old fella living alone. But I didn’t put much stock in our chances. Newport is a big deal, and you’re just a kid.” He stood and crossed the room to his guitar. “So, if you have doubts about me and this ol’ box, I guess that’s fair. Like I said before, action is more important than words.” He returned to the couch, sat down, and began to tune up. The guitar sounded in tune to Kennedy, but Willie fiddled with the machine heads anyway. When he was finished, he looked up and said, “This song’s called Safe Haven.” He began to play, opening with a simple riff that sounded both familiar and fresh. The first two lines came at the end of the repeated riff, like a response to the guitar’s call. The remaining lines followed the chords, like any 12-bar blues.

  You really hurt me, baby.

  You cut me to the bone.

  Now I see you comin’ round, wonderin’ if the coast is clear.

  You lookin’ for safe haven? Won’t find no safe haven here.

  Willie’s voice was stiff and pitted like lava rock. Kennedy liked the sound. A man with a voice like that had been places and seen things. A voice like that could be believed.

  You say you sorry baby.

  Mistakes was made.

  Now you hopin’ for some open arms? Well, let me make this very clear.

  You lookin’ for forgiveness? Won’t find no forgiveness here.

  Willie slid into a lead, playing bits of chords and two-string licks. When he made his second pass through the progression, he let loose with a burst of staccato notes. His old fingers galloped across the frets like a horse running in a familiar field. Kennedy shivered. When Willie returned to the top of the guitar neck, he repeated the riff that opened the song.

  The past is the past.

  You’ll clean the mess you made.

  With your eyes on tomorrow, you’l
l make a better world appear.

  You’re lookin’ for redemption? Won’t find no redemption here.

  Then he stopped singing and looked up. “I’ll play you more later on. But right now, we’re going out to celebrate.” He pulled himself from the couch with some difficulty and looked down at his clothing. “I’m going next door for a minute. Miss Jones has a phone. You wash up. You need to be ready to go when the taxi gets here.”

  “Taxi?” Kennedy’s voice was stricken.

  “I’m paying,” Willie said. “Don’t panic.” He started for the door. “This is good news, and we’re going to celebrate.” At the door, he paused to look around. “Place looks good, too. Thanks.”

  • • • • •

  The Ribeye Grill was dark—so much so that Kennedy had to stop, hand to the wall, two steps inside. Willie moved ahead with some kind of old man magic, leaving him behind. The walls were covered in textured foam that came off in his fingers. He could hear the clink of glassware and the low murmur of voices. Cigarette smoke drifted out of the darkness like a fog.

  “Are you coming or not?” Willie’s voice seemed far away. Kennedy closed his eyes, hoping to acclimate himself. “It’s fucking dark in here. I don’t have bat sonar, you know.”

  A hand grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and pulled him ahead. A bar came into view, bathed in amber light from overhead lamps. An older woman wearing black-and-whites stood polishing glasses. She seemed attractive, particularly for a woman in her thirties. Kennedy sat on a stool, and Willie sat next to him, saying, “Hello, Tammy.”

  “Willie Johnson, you old reprobate. How are you?”

  “Another day closer to riches beyond spending, darlin’. I want you to meet my nephew Kennedy, here from Pittsburgh.”

  “I didn’t know you had people in Pittsburgh,” Tammy smiled. Something about her reminded Kennedy of a tee shirt, fresh out of the dryer. Clear skin and a nice smile.

  “He’s the only one I claim,” Willie said. “We’re here for dinner, so bring us two ribeye steaks, mid-rare, with fries. Eye-talian dressing on the salads. A whiskey sour for me, and a beer for him. Might as well make it a Heineken. We’re celebrating.”

  She nodded and turned to the back bar, grabbing a bottle of Black Velvet. Kennedy glanced at Willie, questioning, but Willie frowned, so he kept his mouth shut. A minute later, he had a beer and a glass, both chilled.

  “She’s pretty.”

  “Too old for you,” Willie said, sipping his drink.

  “I meant for you.”

  “Too young for me.”

  Kennedy leaned in closer, whispering. “Speaking of age, how come they didn’t check my I.D.?” he asked.

  “We’re north of town. They ain’t so particular.”

  Tammy came by and dropped off two salads. Kennedy looked at his in dismay. When she was gone, he asked, “Is that cereal on my salad?”

  “Chex. Try it. Tastes good with greens.”

  “I don’t like greens,” Kennedy said. “Makes you shit pellets, like a rabbit.”

  Willie snorted into his drink and then burst into laughter. He shook his head and slapped the bar top. “You’re a funny kid, you know that?”

  Kennedy smiled into his beer.

  The steaks arrived, fat and juicy, served sizzling on hot plates. The outsides were charred and beautiful. “Holy crap! That thing’s huge.”

  Willie put a knife to his plate without comment.

  “Good, too. Really good,” Kennedy continued, his mouth full.

  Willie gave him a sideways glance. “You act like you’ve never had a steak before.”

  “I haven’t. Not like this.”

  “Is this where I get to hear what a poor kid you were growing up?”

  “No, we had steaks. But Dad always grilled them to death. He could turn any meal into a puck. Like a pancake made out of meat.”

  “Cooking a steak more than mid-rare is a sin,” Willie said.

  “Tell my dad that.” Kennedy chewed for a moment, and then added, “He said he worked in a slaughterhouse before he got on at the mill. Changed his feelings about beef.”

  “That’ll do it,” Willie said. “That’s why I stay away from hospitals.” Before Kennedy could ask what that meant, Willie waved at Tammy to get another round.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  “Great,” Kennedy said. “The steak is incredible.” He turned to Willie. “This place is terrific. Did you ever think of playing here? You know, a solo gig?”

  Willie shook his head and spoke to Tammy. “Another round?”

  “Sure,” she said. “You play an instrument, Willie?”

  “Play an instrument? Willie is one of the greatest guitar players in history. He invented . . .” Kennedy paused. Willie glowered at him.

  “Invented guitars?” she guessed.

  “I’m not that old,” Willie snorted.

  She patted his hand. “I’ll get those drinks for you boys.”

  When she was gone, Kennedy swiveled on his barstool to face him. “You don’t like to talk about yourself much, do you?”

  “Easier to just listen and let others flap their jaws.”

  “But you were . . . are . . . a great musician—”

  Willie’s frown deepened. “I played the blues for a while. But I’ve done other things, too. I fought in the war, but I don’t think of myself as a soldier. I work in a motel laundry, but I sure as hell don’t think of myself as a laundryman.” He took a sip of his drink. “What’s your daddy do for a living?”

  “He works in the mills.”

  “Pipefitter? Conductor?”

  “Boilermaker.” Kennedy stared at Willie with surprise. The old man apparently got around. How else would he know something about making steel?

  “Boilermaker,” Willie repeated. “Now, what about him? Do you think that’s all he is? Not a husband? Not a father?”

  “Not much of a father,” Kennedy said, scowling.

  “Let me tell you something. Your daddy was a boy once. Now he’s shucking steel in the ugliest town in America. In between, he probably did a lot of things. Met a lot of people. He’s not just a job, you know. Did he fight in the war?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  Willie sighed and drained his glass, just as Tammy returned with round two.

  “So, you play guitar, Willie?”

  He waved his hand, but Kennedy interrupted. “Willie’s going to play at the Newport Folk Festival this fall. We expect to get a record contract out of that.” Her eyes widened. “I’m his manager,” Kennedy added.

  “His manager! Well, well!”

  Kennedy rushed on, fueled by the beer. “You may not know this, but Willie was a famous bluesman during the Depression. They called him Willie Johnson, the Man with Two Dick Names.”

  Tammy let out a stifled laugh, almost a bark, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “You’ll have to forgive my nephew,” Willie said. “Folks from Pittsburgh don’t have regular manners.”

  “Well, you two are somethin’.” She laughed again and moved over to a new customer at the far end of the bar.

  “Why’d you tell her that?” Willie asked, a disgusted look on his face.

  “It’s a cool nickname, Willie. I wish I had a name as cool as yours.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your name.”

  “You’re wrong there.” Now, it was Kennedy’s turn to frown. “You know what Kennedy means?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It means misshapen head. I’m serious, that
’s what it means. It’s Gaelic.”

  “I don’t get it. Your head’s mostly round.”

  Kennedy set his fork down. His head was starting to swim a little from the beer. “And worse, my last name is Barnes. That means, people who live in a barn. I’m the misshapen-headed boy who lives in a barn.” He stared down at the last of his steak. “You have two dicks. You win.”

  “Gaelic, huh? That’s kind of cool, isn’t it?”

  Kennedy exhaled loudly and returned to his steak. “Who did you fight in the war? The Germans or the Japs?”

  “I fought the Germans,” he said. His voice had gone soft, and he spoke to his drink, rather than directly to Kennedy. The bar was draped in shadows, and Willie seemed to sink into them, as if he were hiding.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.” Willie reached into his pocket, pulled out his knife, and began tapping it on the bar top. The sound was a steady tap, tap until he began throwing in a few extra taps, like a drum fill.

  “Are you mad at me for asking?”

  Willie stopped tapping. “No, of course not.”

  “You kill anybody in the war?”

  “I don’t know,” Willie said. “My eyes were closed most every time I fired my rifle.” He turned. “No more questions about the war, son.”

  Kennedy nodded, staring at the knife.

  Willie looked down as if surprised at what he had in his hand.

  “You ever stab anyone?” Kennedy asked.

  “Can’t let it go, can you?” Willie shook his head. “Yes, I stabbed some folks. But not in the war. In Chicago.”

  “Chicago? When you followed your friend? Jackwash?”

  “Yeah, Jackwash. He went up there to run numbers, and I figured I’d give them black-and-tan clubs a try.” He stopped, scowling at Kennedy. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”