Out of the Blues (15 page)

The boys' feet were pounding up the stairs, Wonder's nails scurrying on the wood behind them. At the door of the dojo they flung their shoes off and bowed in. “Mom, Mom, Mom, that's the picture of our sensei. Dad says ‘sensei' means teacher.” They slid to their knees beside their mother.

Ann put her hands in prayer pose and nodded to the photo. “Come on, guys, show me a few of those aikido moves before we go back outside.”

After the boys showed off for their mom, they all went down and back out to join the guys on the fence. They worked and the boys played for a few more hours, but it was beginning to heat up. On another break Pepper brought Salt a glass of cold water. “Whatever it was you said to Ann must have been right. She seems to be relaxing, at least for now.” They watched Wills and Ann laughing as they carried another post. “By the way,” Pepper said, “yesterday I got a phone call from one of the guys I work with at Chastain.” One of Pepper's extra jobs was at the Chastain Park outdoor theater.

“You still working all your EJs?”

“Yeah, tryin' to. Anyway, he's on the SWAT team.”

“And?”

“He also works an EJ for Sandy Madison at Big Calling. He wanted to know why you were, his words, ‘poking around the preacher.'” Pepper kicked at a clump of newly turned red clay.

“‘Poking around,' that's good. Poking around. I'll have to use that at the office. Ask the guys what they're poking around on. What's this about, Pepper?”

“I wouldn't have thought anything about his call, wouldn't have even mentioned it to you, except that not thirty minutes after that call one of the narcotics guys, Sam Brocket, came up to me as we were going out and asked me about you, something about if you were ‘hard-core.' Then asked if you understood about EJs. He also works at Big Calling, at the shelter. Look, I know how you feel about the extra jobs.”

“So you've been given a message for me, haven't you? Interesting. I guess the preacher is used to folks bowing down to him and thinks I didn't show sufficient humility.”

“Well, it's hard to be humble when you're perfect.” Pepper gave her the grin.

“Here, let me baptize you.” She slung a handful of water in his direction, too tired to tackle him any harder.

By mid-afternoon they'd done enough. A third of the posts were in and Mr. Gooden had left with the tractor. The various other vehicles loaded, the boys and dogs worn to a frazzle, Salt waved to Wills' truck, the last out of the drive to the highway.

—

T
HERE
WAS
A
PATH
. It was pleasant and convenient since neither she nor Mr. Gooden tended to use the phone. Wonder had done his share of wearing down the narrow trail, over the side fence, through the field between Salt's pecan grove and Mr. Gooden's backyard garden, a hundred yards or so.

He came out his back door when he heard the chickens squawking at the dog's approach. “Have you had supper yet?” Salt asked. “I've got lots of leftovers.”

“I was just going to fix a sandwich. You talked me into it.” He tucked his shirt in. “Just let me grab my boots.” He reached back through the door and sat down on the top step, pulling plain Western brown boots over his white socks while Wonder sat waiting, tail swishing the dirt. “Those are good people, Pepper, Ann, and Wills,” he said. “Who says young folks don't work hard. Another five days like this and we'll have your fence done.”

“We did put in a day's work thanks to you and your fine tractor.” They walked beside a row of new lettuce, the delicate green shoots lacy against the dark earth. “Speaking of Ann, she was asking me today about the property, about my family,” Salt said.

“Anything in particular?” Mr. Gooden walked with his hands stuck in his jeans pockets.

“Just in general. How long we'd owned the land. That kind of thing.”

“Slavery. She ask about that? It'd be natural for her to wonder. But maybe not polite to bring it up.”

They got to the fence and she climbed over first. “I don't know why we don't put a gate here. We've been climbing over this fence forever. Maybe Ann feels like she and I are close enough to ask. Or maybe since she's not from the South she doesn't get how we're wary of that conversation—so many folks having weighed in, rightly and wrongly.”

In the kitchen they helped themselves to the platters and bowls of leftovers Salt had uncovered and set out on the table. “People my age are still too prickly, embarrassed, or ashamed to talk about it,” said Mr. Gooden.

“Anyway, at least for me, I'm glad to have that conversation going, to get it out.” Salt said.

Over their supper they planned out the rest of the fencing, what hardware and materials they'd need for the gate, how many more days of work it would take to get the fence completed. When they finished, the old man stood and picked up his plate.

“Leave that. I'll take care of the dishes. Come, come.” She motioned him to the hall. At the entrance to the library Salt pushed back the pocket doors while Mr. Gooden closed his eyes. “Hmm, I remember that smell. I can't remember the last time I was in this room, must have been twenty or more years, but I remember that smell.”

“Sorry there's no place to sit.” Salt saw the room for what it might look like to someone seeing it and its lack of furniture for the first time.

Mr. Gooden walked on in and looked around. “You know, I'm like a lot of old people. I've accumulated too much of just about everything. I'd be pleased if you'd take a chair or two or a settee off my hands. Help me get some room so I'm not stumbling into things.”

“Now I'm embarrassed. I didn't bring you in here to get furniture off you. I brought you in here because I wanted to ask you something about my father. See all these books on this shelf?” She showed him the row of ten or more books at eye level, the ones on mental illness.

He pulled out one or two and slid them back, then opened
Living with Depression
. He looked up and his eyes went to the shelf above, the one that held some Southern writers, Eudora Welty, Richard Wright, the organization of the books, again, her father's.

“How much were you around him right before he died?” she asked.

“You know, your mother.” He put his arm out to indicate the room and that he recognized her mother's hand in the dearth of furnishings. “I knew she took a lot of what was in the house, but did she have to take all the furniture in this room? Probably some of those were antiques, been in your family forever.” He twisted his lips tight, slowly shaking his head. “She had, probably still has, her own way of seeing things, and she kept him away from people or kept them away from him. But she'd need me or Peggy every so often. Maybe once a week or so I'd come over to help with repairs or heavy lifting, and your dad would be here.”

“These were mostly his books. Here's how he kept track of what was where.” She showed him the ledger and how the books were cataloged by location.

“He had his own way of doing things, too.”

“Mr. Gooden, was he seeing or hearing things, hallucinating at the end?”

“Sarah, if he was I wasn't aware of it. He mostly just sat and stared. I'd speak to him, of course, but he'd shut himself down, except for that very last week when he seemed better. I guess I talked to him a couple of days before. He was more engaging than I'd seen him in several years, peaceful, happy even.” They walked toward the hallway and stood looking back in at the room. “What I mostly
remember, though, was you, always sitting out there in the tree, skinny legs hanging down.” He waggled two fingers. “Talkin' about how you were gonna get a dog.” He smiled and shook his head.

“Ranger. I hadn't thought about him till just recently.”

“That's right. I remember. Ranger.”

Arrff!
Wonder stood in the hall looking in at them.

“Arrff yourself, Wonder Dog.” She went to the entrance and ruffled his fur.

“I need to get going, Sarah. An old man gets tired. But I'll think on your question. If something comes to me—well, I know where to find you.”

She and the dog followed him down the hall, through the kitchen, and out to the porch, where they watched him go back over the path by moonlight.

M
ustafa hopped off the bus on Dan's heels. “Dude, this one funk-lookin' juke joint.”

One bottom edge of the corrugated metal door to the Blue Room was rusting away, speckled with slowly enlarging holes. “Yeah, I can't for the life of me understand why Bailey lets Goldie get us into some of these off-gigs.” Dan began unloading their gear from underneath the bus.

“Roots,” Mustafa mumbled.

“What?”

“You know, back to where the blues come from. This here place is for folks who got the real blues, baby, can't buy no tickets to no uptown club. Goldie probly takin' a piece off the side, but Bailey, he do it 'cause of roots.” Mustafa was doing his best impression of Atlanta street slang. He stuck his head in the flaking door and popped back out. “There's not even a stage in there. This looks shaky.”

“Well, I've been told this place is all about ‘roots,'” Dan said setting gear on the rough-gravel lot.

Twenty or more weathered, gnarly-looking people were milling around under the overhang of the adjacent retail strip, and there was another group standing under two worn-out-looking trees at the far end of the broken pavement parking area. The Blue Room itself seemed like an afterthought, a cinder-block extension attached to the back of the Chicken Shack take-out joint.

Mustafa glanced toward the people. “Voodoo dudes—some of those folks look like zombies, like somebody put the hex on them.” In the growing dusk his skin had a copper glow, his dreads highlighted with glints of color from the orange-and-pink sunset.

Dan hitched up his jeans, tucked gear cases under each arm, and picked up two of the drum cases. Mustafa wheeled the keyboard and held the bent-back door.

Inside was one room with a bar; behind it was the kitchen that served both the Shack in front and the Blue Room in back. A large sign announced “Restroom Outside.” A big man wearing a stained apron over his stomach came from the kitchen. “Sam.” He put out his hand. “I run the Shack and the Room.”

“I'm Dan. This is Mustafa.” He put the gear on the floor and shook Sam's meaty hand. “We got the bus right outside.”

Mustafa offered Sam a fist bump, which the big man ignored, looking at the dreadlocked young guy sideways. “We got one of the old guys lookin' out for you,” Sam said. “He'll show you where to park it and look after it.”

“Where do we plug in?” Dan scanned the room.

“In the corner there.” Sam pointed to the left far end of the schoolroom-sized joint. White plastic chairs were stacked to the ceiling in the corners. Otherwise the room was empty, the only reference to “blue” being the scuffed paint on the walls.

The door opened and a light-skinned man, late twenties, wearing a plain white T-shirt, shorts, and new clean high-tops, came in. “My
man,” he said, handing Sam a small athletic bag and giving him the grip-and-hug handshake. He sat down on a stool beside the door and lit a cigar that smelled suspiciously un-cigar-like. A thin woman with lip-smacking, lip-puckering tics had followed him through the door, her hair clipped all over with children's plastic barrettes, her walk lopsided. Dan and Mustafa unpacked the instruments, set up the amps, and duct-taped extension cords to the floor as best they could in order to reach the remote wall sockets. The barretted woman, lips darting in and out, followed them around, fiddling with her hair and watching them work. Early arrivals began to filter in. The guy at the door had propped it open, and people handed him money as they entered. Some didn't, and the why and wherefore of who paid and who didn't was obscure. Young and old, men and women, sharp-dressed, shabby, good-looking, worn-out, they filled the room, and their voices began to blend to an excited din. Some scratchy blues was barely audible from speakers hung from the ceiling corners behind the bar.

Baby, and I'm leaving this town

Say you didn't want me

I'ma quit hanging around.

“What's that you're singing?” Mustafa asked.

Dan pointed up at the speakers.

“I don't know it. Sounds like it goes way back.”

Dan screwed on a cymbal. “Blind Willie McTell—played street corners here in Atlanta. Mike used to fool around, playing McTell's stuff. He had recordings, ‘Bell Street Blues,' ‘B and O Blues.' McTell was the guy that wrote ‘Statesboro Blues.'”

By the time Bailey, Goldie, Pops, and Blackbird's cab arrived, the place was packed. The chairs had been unstacked and lined the wall. People held boxes of chicken on their laps, or stood with sweating
drinks in plastic cups. Shaking hands, hugging every woman, Bailey, followed by the rest of the band, pushed his bulk through the packed room. “Whew, got a crowd tonight.” He mopped his brow, sat, and picked up the old guitar.

Dan had done his best with the setup. He retreated to the bar for water. From there it was possible to get only glimpses of Goldie and Pops over the crowd. Mustafa's drums began to rumble, then Bird and Pops and Goldie joined in. But the night really began with Bailey.

—

T
HE
BAND
BUS
stood out in the parking lot like a derailed boxcar, made even more noticeable by the emptiness of the surroundings, not that many cars. Most of the people would have walked or taken MARTA to the Blue Room. Someone was smart; they had hired one of the old men who hung around the Shack to watch over the bus. Before Salt was barely out of the car, he'd recognized her and limped over. “Officer Salt, where you been?” He looked down at her jeans, then stepped back and gave her the once-over. “You look good in clothes.”

“Be careful who hears you say that.” Salt took his offered hand between her own, careful of the swollen, arthritic fingers.

“Aw, you know what I mean. You here on bidness or you come to hear Bailey?”

“Actually I came because of a dog. Always good to see you.” Salt headed toward the music spilling from the door of the bootleg club.

—

S
ITTING
ON
A
STOOL
just inside the door of the Blue Room, Man, head of The Homes gang, apparently acting as doorman tonight, took the cigar from his mouth. Heads turned. Salt came over while Man just sat there giving her a sideways wary smile. Sam stepped
back, hands propped on his hips, grinning. A couple more people near the door moved closer, pointing her out to those nearby, grinning and nodding their way. Word passed and some of the folks stuck their heads up over the crowd, watching the meeting at the door.

Man and Salt stepped outside. “I know you're not trying for some undercover gig here in The Homes.” Man pointed toward the project buildings across the street catching the last light of the day. They'd long been friendly adversaries. She'd graduated the academy and been assigned The Homes about the time Man had gained control of the narcotics business in the area. From the beginning the two of them had talked, exchanging worldviews and opinions on some issue of the day. He was astute and could nail extraneous bullshit. His cash money, wide smile, and slightly bowed legs made him a target for girls wanting to give him babies.

“I actually came to hear the band,” Salt told him.

“So you got promoted to a detective and just left The Homes.” He examined the unlit stub between his fingers.

“You miss me, Man?”

“Some ways. This new cop don't get it. He frontin'. But then he don't know shit either.” Man's smile widened.

“So how is business? Was that Lil D I saw behind the bar in the kitchen with Sam?”

“Nothin' much changed. Yeah, Lil D learnin'. He already know a little somethin' 'bout cookin'.” Then he looked off as if distancing himself from her. “You look a little bit skinny in them jeans.”

She wasn't going there either. “I went to see Stone. You visit him?” she asked.

“Enough.” Man dropped his cigar and ground it on the curb.

A shiny black sedan caught their attention as it pulled into a far corner of the lot. The driver's-side window slid down and the face of a young dark-skinned boy appeared. Man nodded to the boy.

“He looks young to be driving a car like that, too young to even have a license,” Salt said.

“He's just a driver.”

Dan stepped out of the club as the back door of the sedan opened and a tall white man, light buzz-cut hair, wearing black over black, unfolded himself from the backseat.

“Who's the dude, Man?” Salt asked. The man, mid-forties, leaned back against the car, his hands clasped together as if waiting for something overdue—waiting, head bowed, making a show of patience but making clear it was for show only, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck.

Man pushed off the building wall. “He own Toy Dolls and the Shack and Blue Room,” he said over his shoulder as he headed toward the man from the sedan.

Dan came up to her. “You seem to have a lot of acquaintances around here.” They watched Man cross the lot. “I'd recognize him anywhere, no matter how time has or hasn't taken its toll.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean ‘Who'? Didn't you set this up? John, the white asshole next to the car over there—the guy who dealt to Mike back then.”

Salt turned to Dan, her back to the lot. “The guy leaning against the black sedan is the guy, John, who supplied Mike?”

“How many white dudes do you see in the parking lot? Like I said, I'd know him anywhere. Why is he here if you didn't set it up?”

“You and the band are working for him. Man said he owns the place.”

“Man?”

“The guy I was just talking to. You're sure? That's Tall John?”

“The last time I saw him was the last time I saw Mike alive. I had blocked a lot of the bad stuff, the drugs, the party. But when you
showed me the photos, Mike's car, I remembered seeing that guy sitting in a car outside Mike's that last night.”

Salt reached for Dan, put her arm through his, turning him away from the sedan as it drove past with Man and Tall John in the backseat.

As they came back inside, Bailey was digging down deep with his raspy voice.

Hellhound on my trail,

Hellhound on my trail.

—

T
HEY
DEFINITELY
didn't need another guitar in such a small space. Dan and Salt, sitting close together at the bar so they could hear one another over the music and the crowd noise, could hardly see any of the band; between them and the musicians, the audience jumped as one body. Mustafa's drums called down thunder, conjured a continent, cast a spell of galloping hooves, and slammed on the turnarounds. Streams of condensation from beers and water from melting ice ran together along the counter. People mostly went outside to smoke, but the odor of fried chicken and beer was thick.

Salt caught another quick glimpse of Lil D in the kitchen, with the usual white towel hanging around his neck, covering most of the dark birthmark.

“I'm still trying to piece this together,” said Salt, worrying a cup of beer on the bar. “The Tall John you knew to be supplying Mike back then is the same guy that's still running this joint and from what Man says at least one other club. Then he's probably the same John who pimped Stone. Damn,” she said.

Dan leaned closer. “Who is Stone?”

Goldie blew red and gold lava notes from the deep bell of his
horn. The lights on the band turned the audience into one dark, quaking shape.

“Stone was one of Man's gang. He's the one that gave the new information about Mike's death, but I've known him a long time. Man just now told me Tall John owns this place, too.”

“How is it so many folks here know you?”

“This area and its big projects were my beat for more than ten years until a couple of weeks ago when I made detective.”

“Your beat, like in a patrol car, blue lights, siren?”

“Yep, uniform, gun, the whole costume.”

“The projects?” Dan repeated it as a question. “Don't laugh. I only know about detectives from TV.”

“The Homes across the street.” Salt tilted her head east toward her old beat.

Pop's bass thump, poof, and bounce built the groove, tying the rhythm to the harmony. The crowd shouted encouragement, call and response.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what?” she asked back.

“You're very attractive, obviously smart. You don't seem like a cop.”

“You would prefer your cops ugly and dumb?”

“Come on. That's not what I mean and you know it. It's about you. Why?” Dan put his beer down and leaned closer.

“It just fits me—what I was born to, I guess.” Salt turned to the crowd and the band, her right leg keeping time, foot on a rung of the barstool, knee up and down with the beat.

Blackbird's hands danced, beating a honky-tonk pattern on the rhythm floor. Dan leaned back. “I'm not trying to pin you down or make you answer if you don't want.”

Salt took another long look over the people and nodded her head
toward the band. “I police for some of the same reasons Bailey plays the blues. It's what I do, what my father did.”

“Your father?”

“Yeah. And by the way, he loved the blues. I found some of Mike's recordings in his collection.”

“That's kinda strange, eerie almost.”

“It's Atlanta, a city that's really like a small Southern town in some ways. There's all kinds of connections that are hard to see sometimes.” Salt looked over the room at many of the people she'd come to know over the past ten years. She thought about her father's connections, about his blues. “There's also the dog I'd forgotten.”

“The dog?”

“The day my dad died—I was just a kid—I was playing, pretending, like kids do, with my imaginary friend, a dog.” She shrugged. “It's what a lot of kids do. But I'd forgotten until your dog came along.”