Doesn’t mean he didn’t love you.
The thought made him wince. He hadn’t even called home to say he was okay. That was wrong. He needed to call.
Kennedy shook his head as if to jostle the thought out of his mind. First, I need to straighten this place up. Our future starts tomorrow.
The living room was a mess, even though Kennedy had cleaned up the day before. Sometime after coming home from the pizza place, they’d managed to trash everything again. Kennedy wanted to lay back down on the couch.
Instead, he kept working. He imagined where the Newport agent and Willie would sit. Then he began moving furniture. He’d promised Willie he would be his manager. Said he’d look after his interests. Talk was cheap. Get to work, he thought.
• • • • •
When Willie came home, a bag in hand, Kennedy was at the door. “I cleaned up again. All ready to meet the Newport guy. Where are we going tonight?”
“Nowhere. I want to run through some songs and then get to bed early.” Willie looked tired. The lines on his face were deeper, and the skin under his eyes was an unhealthy combination of gray and yellow.
“You could use a good night’s sleep.”
“For the last three decades,” Willie agreed.
“What’s for dinner, then?”
Willie pointed at the bag. “I grabbed some to-go from the Pancho Café. You like Mexican food?”
“I don’t know,” Kennedy said. His face was probably saying no. He didn’t like trying new things.
“Time to expand your horizons,” Willie said.
For the first time since Kennedy had come to Fort Collins, they sat down for a meal at home, settling down at a small Formica table with legs painted the same off-yellow as the kitchen walls. Willie groaned as he sat, the pain evident in his face.
“Your hip?”
Willie nodded, keeping his lips pressed tight.
“So, it never healed after you got cut?”
Willie seemed perplexed for a moment. “Oh. No, that eventually healed. The war did my hip in.”
Kennedy leaned forward. “You were wounded in the war?”
Willie closed his eyes. “No.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Willie took a Styrofoam container out of the bag and shoved it across the table. Kennedy popped the lid and stared.
“It’s a burrito.”
“How can you tell?” The thing was smothered in red sauce and cheese and topped with shredded lettuce that slid to the side, collecting in one corner.
“Because I ordered burritos. Now, eat. I paid for that.”
Willie fished a pair of plastic forks out of the bag and passed one over. Then he opened his dinner and began to shovel food into his mouth.
“When you have time to take a breath,” Kennedy said, “tell me how you injured your hip. I’m curious.”
Willie stared at him while he chewed.
“I don’t get it,” Kennedy said. “You’re all full of stories, but you don’t want to talk about things that interest me.”
“War?”
“Well, yeah.”
Willie swallowed his food. “Hate to disappoint you. I was on my way to pick up supplies, and the dumb-ass driver rolled the jeep.”
“What happened to him?”
“He injured his hip,” Willie said.
Kennedy considered this for a moment.
Willie shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. “I was the dumb-ass driver, Kennedy.”
“Oh.”
“You can see why I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sure, sure.” Kennedy tried to cut through the burrito with the plastic fork, but the utensil bent and snapped. “So, what was—” He stopped. He wanted to ask about killing Jackwash, but Willie wouldn’t talk about that unless he was plenty drunk. “What was the Great Depression like?” he asked instead. “I mean, what was it like, uh, day-to-day?”
“Depressing.” Willie finished the last of his burrito and pushed the container away. “I was on the move most of the time. Slept nights in jungles. No rent. Most often, I ate and slept with the coloreds. That’s where I was comfortable. But I wasn’t always welcome there, and once I made my preference known, I wasn’t much welcome with the whites either.”
“That’s bullshit,” Kennedy said, drawing out the curse word. He walked to the kitchen drawers and pulled out a metal fork. “So, nobody liked you?”
“Wasn’t like that,” Willie said. “Nobody chased anybody out of a jungle. Folks on the road have a code. Besides, I could always pull out my guitar and play a few tunes, so folks tolerated me. Earned myself many a dinner that way. A cup of stew, hoecakes—”
“Hoecakes?”
“Cornmeal, water, and a pinch of salt, stirred and fried in fat.”
“What kind of name is hoecakes?”
“Story goes that slaves used to cook them on a greased garden hoe over a fire. Fried the cakes on the blade. Seen it done that way once or twice. But the story’s mostly wrong. Hoe is an old name for griddle.”
“Doesn’t sound all that tasty.”
“It wasn’t. A hobo friend used to call the mixture the batter of hopelessness.” He laughed. “But the real hopelessness is an empty stomach.”
Kennedy considered this while revisiting his burrito. Wasn’t bad, really. Lots of cheese, which was good. As he chewed, he wondered how to ask Willie about Jackwash. Then he thought of an easier question.
“After you left Chicago, did you ever see Jackwash and Luella again?”
Willie looked away. “Yes.”
“Did they come south, or something?”
“No. After a few years, I got it in my mind to go see how they were doing. I’d gone home by then, staying with an aunt. Aunt Beatrice. Stern old biddy. Wouldn’t let me play music inside the house. Thought I’d be inviting the devil in. Anyway, I wrote Jackwash a letter and said I’d be passing through Chicago. He wrote back—or Luella wrote the letter for him—sayin’ come on up. I hit the rails that very night. I wondered if maybe the bloom had gone off their rose, and maybe I’d have a chance to step in.”
“You still loved her?”
The only hint that Kennedy had of the emotion behind the answer was a slight trembling of the shoulders.
• • • • •
1931
Chicago, Illinois
The Sugar Cane Twelve was a private membership club. A dozen men of means in the community, including a few black doctors, lawyers, and businessmen, had pooled their resources and formed a social club that held parties and charged admission. Patrons could dance, drink, and listen to music in an upscale setting that spoke of money, from the bruiser in the tux at the front door to the cigarette girls, dressed in red velvet. Willie had shown up in his road overalls, but Jackwash told him not to worry. “Nobody care ’bout your clothes, Willie.”
Luella, who’d been cool to him since his arrival, said, “You dressed like the ragman.” Willie knew she wasn’t joking, and her observation shriveled him.
Inside the club, Willie saw mostly black faces. He’d been used to mixed company on the road, but this crowd was a different sort. “Lot of money in this room,” he whispered to Jackwash.
“Sure you’re right,” Jackwash said. “And every upper shady in this town knows my name, I can tell you that. They know I’m an up-and-comer.”
“I’m not dressed right.”
“They’d have stopped you at the door twice—once for lookin’ like a sharecropper and once for t
hat face of yours.”
Willie frowned. “Why am I here, then?”
Jackwash leaned in close. “You’re here with me,” he said. “You got no worries.”
Willie began to worry.
Luella, who had slipped away the moment they’d entered the club, returned with two drinks. She handed one to Jackwash. “I was gonna buy three, but I only got two hands. Besides, I don’t know what Willie’s drinking these days. You been hobo’n so long, you might prefer Sterno.” She laughed then, her eyes glistening, and Willie felt his heart sink. She was more beautiful than ever, but her personality had taken on a sharp edge. Her humor always carried a bite, but Willie imagined that was a cover her vulnerability. Now, she seemed carefree and a little bit cruel. That’s when he noticed the marks on her arm.
Two men jostled Willie from behind as they passed, and Willie stepped closer to Jackwash. “This place is crowded. I thought it was private membership only.”
“It is,” Jackwash said. His face had filled out a bit, and his belt was a little tight. The Chicago highlife had apparently been good to him. “Everybody here pays ten dollars to be a member. Money ain’t picky, and these people like to be a part of what’s goin’ on.” He nodded in the direction of a nearby table. “See that fella? He’s a ward boss. The man with him—the one with the fat, checkered tie? He’s carrying a roll of bills in his pocket thick as a slab of bacon.” He tightened his grip on Willie’s arm. “None of these peoples been eatin’ Hoover stew, that’s for sure.”
Willie winced. Many a night, he’d been grateful for a ladle of thin broth, hot dog slices and whatever vegetables had been scrounged up to finish the recipe. He shrank in place, feeling ashamed for some reason. No reason to feel this way. I’m with friends. He stuck his chin out as if nothing could bother him. “You’re a member?”
“Hell, I’m practically the thirteenth sugar cane. Ain’t a single person here that don’t know Jackson Washington.”
“Still running numbers?”
“Nah, the new game is policy, and that’s left to the neighborhoods. They hold drawings a couple times a day. Policy collectors use the money to keep their families floating, and that’s good for them, you know?”
“How you getting your money, then?” Willie asked. He thought of the marks on Luella’s arm.
“Little of this, an’ a little of that. Why you so curious? Gonna hit me for a loan?”
Willie shrugged. A patron passing by stopped to glare at Willie, nod at Jackwash, and then move on. At the front of the room, the band had assembled. They had a saxophone and a trombone player, along with the usual piano, bass, guitarist and drummer. “Who are these guys?” Willie asked.
“Some territory band,” Jackwash said. “Must be hard up. They takin’ one night here instead of a week at an Elks club.” He glared at the singer—a slender girl with buck teeth and high yellow skin. “Bet she can’t sing none. Bet Luella could blow her off the stage.”
“What about Luella? Is she singing anywhere?”
Jackwash shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?” Willie insisted.
“She goin’ through something. She’ll get over it.” He glared at Willie. “Don’t worry about her. I’m takin’ care of her jus’ fine.”
Willie tried to focus on the band. They were dressed in fine evening clothes, smiling at each other, and laughing. What would it be like to be a part of a band like that? He stared at the guitarist, dressed in a jacket, and then looked down at his overalls. He had no business being here in this nice club. What was he thinking?
When he glanced right, Jackwash was gone. A surly man in a black Fedora had taken his place. The man was tall—if Willie took him in at eye-level, he’d be staring at the man’s chest. Stubborn, Willie refused to look up.
“What you lookin’ at? You lookin’ at my buttons?”
“I’m not looking. I’m thinking.”
“What you thinkin ’bout?”
“I’m thinking there aren’t a lot of white boys in this room,” Willie said.
“There’s you.”
There were other white men in the club, but not many. Willie took a deep breath. Where was Jackwash?
The tall man moved closer, and Willie readied himself. He could smell whiskey on the man’s breath. Luckily, Jackwash chose that moment to return, a drink in his hand. “Moe Brown!” he said as if he’d come upon a beloved cousin. “I see you met my friend, Willie Johnson. Willie here’s a musician.”
The man scowled. “Why you hanging with this piece of trash?” Willie took the drink from Jackwash and downed half of it in a single gulp.
The band started, giving Willie something to focus on besides being singled out. They covered an array of radio hits, sticking to standard arrangements, but they weren’t afraid to throw in a touch of their own to add to the musical gumbo. He liked the way the members of the band played off each other. A bass line led to a countermelody, and he mentally tucked the phrase away for future use. Later, he’d pick the notes out on his guitar, and think about how to put them to use.
The sax player was particularly good. Willie tapped Jackwash on the shoulder and said, “That fella knows his way around a gobble-pipe.”
Jackwash nodded. “Brother can blow.”
Territory bands were falling on hard times because of the Depression. He hoped these fellows were able to keep going. Them and their one little skinny gal.
Like Luella. The thought of her sent a shiver down his backbone. He looked around the room, unable to spot her in the crush of patrons. He hadn’t seen her in two years. He wanted to talk to her, to connect like they had when she’d nursed him back to health.
She flitted past while the band played their version of Love Letters in the Sand, waving on her way to the other side of the room. The girl onstage couldn’t handle the song’s lower, sultrier notes. Jackwash was right. Luella should have been singing instead.
Meanwhile, she was out of sight again.
“Where is Luella?” he shouted at Jackwash.
“The butterfly?” he snorted. “You want to catch her, you gonna need a net.”
“You got that right.” Willie finished his drink but held on to the glass. They were nowhere near a table, and he couldn’t figure out where to put the empty. A man dressed in a gray suit and white Fedora glad-handed Jackwash, slurring something about the mud in Mexico. The way he said it made Willie think that he wasn’t talking about dirt and water.
Jackwash pushed him away, laughing. “Go on, you old fool. I ain’t here to do business,” he said. The man stopped, swaying in place, then began to back away, apologizing. He stepped back into a couple trying to dance, and the dancing man slapped the Fedora off his head. The woman burst out laughing.
Luella skated by again, and Jackwash grabbed her by the arm. She frowned and tried to pull free, but he would have none of it. “Our old friend Willie Johnson is here to visit,” he said. “Why don’t you spend a minute saying hello.”
“Hello,” she said. She might as well have been talking to the police.
Willie kept his mouth shut.
“Well, that was nice.” She pulled her arm free. “Now, I’m going to dance. You want to come with me?” She fluttered her eyelashes at Jackwash as she spoke.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Don’t you have anything to say to your old friend?”
She turned to face Willie, fire in her eyes. “Well, now that you mention it, I sure do. Who do you think you are, running away without a word for two damn years? You don’t think people wonder about you? Hope you’re okay? Hope you’re still alive? Or don’t people’s feelings mean anything to you, Willie Johnson?”
With her hands on her hips and her chin out like a boxer, he couldn’t help but smile.
“What is so funny?” she demanded. Was it his imagination, or had her eyes gone darker still?
“I’m smiling because you’re so damn cute,” he said.
Jackwash frowned and started to say something but the sound of the warning buzzer interrupted him. The band stopped playing. Club employees moved through the crowd, collecting glasses. Luella wandered off again, so Jackwash grabbed Willie’s empty glass and handed it to a passing busboy.
“What’s going on?” Willie asked.
“Police. They raid every few months so’s they look clean. Club manager is stalling them up front. All part of the show.” He gave Willie a knowing glance. “Only time they ever find anything is when somebody forgets to pay for protection.”
Once the room was clear, the band started up again. A half dozen uniformed officers began weaving their way through the room, sniffing glasses and stopping to chat with people they clearly knew.
“Like part of the floor show,” Willie said. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “So, tell me. What’s with the marks on Luella’s arm?”
Jackwash stared straight ahead for a moment and then turned. His face was stone. “Mind your business.”
“Is heroin your business now?”
Jackwash looked away.
“You told me you’d stay clear of the tar.”
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