Cutting Time, a Novel of the Blues

Advance praise for Cutting Time: A heady mix of blues myth and blues nitty-gritty by a writer who knows the passions and pleasures of music from the inside. —Michael Lydon, author of Ray Charles: Man and Music

About Pink Cadillac, also by Robert Dunn: Real rock ’n’ roll literature—a book with all the wily literacy of a Chuck Berry song. —David Hajdu, author of Positively Fourth Street Ten pages into Pink Cadillac I was convinced that Robert Dunn knew where rock ’n’ roll began—and that I was there with him. This is a great book. —Sean Wilsey, McSweeney’s The characters are larger than life and yet believable in the way that it takes giants sometimes to effect cultural change. The author knows blues and early rock in the intimate way of a guitarist caressing people’s lives out of his guitar strings. This is one super book. —Book Sense 76 citation Pink Cadillac brings both of its milieus, the present world of record collecting and its 1950s Memphis setting, to brilliantly vivid life. Dunn has a remarkable ear for the nuances of dialogue, and he never misses a note. His astonishing portrayal of Thomas “Bearcat” Jackson as a brilliant, flawed, larger-thanlife tragic hero is achingly real. —Karen McCullough, Scribes World The pervasive passion for music provides the novel with a steady heat. —Kirkus Reviews This book went down like a box of candy, and I was sorry when I’d finished it because it was fun to read. —Marc Bristol, Blue Suede News

Cutting Time A novel of the blues by Robert Dunn

A Coral Press original Copyright © Robert Dunn 2003 All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions. Published in the United States by Coral Press. All characters are fictional and bear no relation to anyone living.

ISBN: 0-9708293-2-9 Library of Congress Control Number: 2003092964 Manufactured in Canada 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 First Edition

Cover Design: Monica Fedrick Author Photograph: Nancy Ramsey www.coralpress.com Coral Press 252 W. 81st Street New York, New York 10024

For Pat Woodbridge

J Prologue

In His Fingers

I

N THE BOY ’ S

fingers was his own God. His hands began to spurt away from the rest of his spindly body when he was nine. It was 1953, and he was in the orphanage in Detroit then, unwanted, and over the month of April his hands shot out from his hand-me-down cotton patchwork coat, and his fingers took off from there. He’d measure them against the biggest kid in the orphanage, a boy-mountain named Scoot, and though Scoot had half a head on him, Willie Lee Reed’s fingers flapped past Scoot’s grimy nails. Carmela, the one nun who seemed friendly, took Willie Lee aside and said with wide eyes, “Son, look at those fingers on your hand, I’ve not seen nothing like that.” She held the boy’s hands up to the light. “They’re like octopus tentacles, I saw one in a zoo once, the way they’re just out there waving around.” Willie Lee felt his rough black hands in Carmela’s small, soft white hands. He never forgot the moment. “Those hands are God’s work, I ever saw anything. Willie Lee, your hands are a gift.” Carmela was softly stroking his long fingers, up and back. “I don’t know what they’re a gift for, but I want you to know this, there ain’t no question: Your hands are from God. I want you to respect them and what they mean. I want you to follow them. . . .” He carefully washed his hands at night, scooping out the

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green-black grime that caked beneath his nails, soaking the faint yellow calluses that stiffened the pads above his lifelines. He carefully trimmed his nails, then buffed them to a spit-shine with a holey towel. He felt things in his hands, tingles, fiery spurts, but he was only nine, and he didn’t know what the feelings meant. He used his hands at baseball in the sandlot behind the orphanage. He could grip the ball better than anyone and became the No. 1 pitcher, with a wicked curve. But baseball didn’t feel like his calling. He used his hands to create paper flowers from colored crepe paper, with long green stems; it was work for which a tall white man came and paid the nuns. But that was nowhere near the true purpose of his hands. When Willie Lee was ten he left the orphanage and went with a man of God. He was the Reverend Byron Stockton, and he had a storefront church on Michigan Avenue that on Sunday morning and even on Saturday night throbbed with praise and glory. He was a large Negro man with a high black pompadour, a heavy brow as stolid as a ship’s prow, and a vivid limp. Willie Lee could pick his foster father out from two blocks away; he bobbed when everyone else walked smooth. Seeing the reverend coming toward him made him flinch. Made him go tight and still inside himself. His troubles started with the reverend’s hands. They came at Willie Lee when he was bad. In the reverend’s home he was bad most of the time. He was ten years old and couldn’t do anything right. He spilled his milk. You don’t know how lucky you are to have cow’s milk to drink, none of that powdered stuff. He wet his bed. You’re too old for that. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know we have enough trouble without more from you! The reverend flew at him, his large mouth open, his heavy brow knotting, his breathing loud, throwing his hands at him, slapping and beating and poking and jabbing. The hands didn’t leave anything his own. Not that he

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had anything, and not that he wasn’t told that nearly every day by the reverend: “Will Boy, you ain’t even got the clothes on your nigger back it wasn’t for us. Now you gonna understand who butters your bread? You gonna understand what is your good?” The reverend always called him Will Boy, though his name was Willie Lee. His wife called him Will, too. She was a small, frightened woman who spent all day in grueling housework. She once asked Willie Lee to call her “Mother,” and the boy said, “I have a momma.” “Your mother’s dead, son.” This woman wasn’t mean, she was just ignorant and confused. “She died when you were five.” Willie Lee dug his finely trimmed fingernails into his long, beautiful hands and cried, “I have a momma!” Willie Lee did know his momma was dead. She died when a man she was seeing beat her after coming home drunk one night. He worked cleaning furnaces and wore a blue uniform with his name, SAM, printed on his breast in white. He was a big man with oil-slicked hair. He hit her with a belt. Then a cane, passed down from her grandfather. Then a chair leg he actually ripped off a kitchen chair. What Willie Lee remembered: Sam was a very big man. His face was black but red. With heat. With eyes bulging. His mother was screaming. There were stripes of red turning black on the linoleum floor—blood. There were more big men in uniforms, yanking at him, jerking him up. At night when he fought to find safety and escape in sleep, he dreamed that the reverend was the big, red-faced man with the belt. The reverend and his wife called him “Will Boy . . . Will Boy . . . Will Boy,” and the boy cried to himself till he was hoarse, My name is Willie Lee Reed. Wil-lie Lee!

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WILLIE LEE WAS ELEVEN when he learned what his hands were for: music. He began by playing a Jew’s harp. He got the jaw’s harp by playing marbles; after a final snowmelt he found a red iridescent Aggie in a gutter, and from that he was able to win enough marbles to fill a large red cotton sack. He traded thirty-two of them for the half-rusted jaw’s harp and spent a Saturday morning polishing it up. He took to it immediately, flicking the thin iron tong with his pointer finger, cupping his mouth while he built elaborate melodies in the spring air. The reverend noticed the boy playing the harp. “You play that thing good, boy. You sound like that Mozart doin’ that,” he said. Moooo-zarrrrrr? Willie Lee never knew what that meant. “You’re gonna come down to the church and sing with us. Get you in the choir.” The choir was three fat ladies and one skinny piano player, in his non-Christian life a mailman. “I don’t wanna do that.” His first week with the reverend, Willie Lee’s first visit to the church, the reverend had beaten the boy behind his makeshift altar for being “sinful.” Willie Lee had spilled grape juice. “You don’t got no say. I want you to sing.” The skinny mailman played a half-cracked piano, chords teasing a metallic dissonance in the small storefront room. The three fat ladies grabbed what harmonies they could, but from the first day Willie Lee’s youthful tenor soared clear and bell-bright over them. The small church always grew richly silent when he sang. Willie Lee found he loved everything about singing. He loved the swell of his chest, then the rush of air out of his lungs and through his mouth; he loved the intuitive mathematical construction, one note building atop another; and most of all he loved the way he could shape his voice and use it to draw glorious imaginary pictures in the dry church air.

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One night the reverend surprised him. He brought home a cardboard box bound up in twine and said it was a gift for their son. Willie Lee told himself, I’m not your son, but he was trembling with excitement over the long, rectangular box. Later he was certain he’d known what was in it even before he opened it—knew that it would change his life. He tore open the box and pulled out his first guitar. It was from Sears & Roebuck, a student model, plywood top and cheap mahogany sides, with metal tuning pegs that screaked like mice as he turned them. Willie Lee had never held a guitar before, but he tuned it up correctly in forty-five seconds. His long fingers were almost too big for the frets on the student model, but it didn’t matter; he was playing chords after half an hour and learned his first song by dinner. The reverend was pleased. That night when his wife was asleep he came to Willie Lee’s wooden bed and kneeled beside it. He began to pray. Then he brought his hands to the thin blanket that in winter never kept the boy warm enough. Willie Lee went tight. “Son, you have a gift,” Reverend Stockton told his foster son. “I hear it in your singing in church, and I hear it even more now.” That night his life could have gone any way. The reverend spoke to him and Willie Lee trembled and shook. “Son,” the reverend said, his hands fumbling over the blanket, “the beauty I see in you puts me in awe.” After that night Willie Lee refused to go to the church. Instead, he went to the secret places inside him. Had they always been there? He just knew that he could go there now and hide—hide from the reverend, from his hands . . . from his leather belt. Every time he played the guitar he found the secret place inside him. He got good at going there—at hiding, at feeling safe. He practiced the guitar every free moment, his long fingers as familiar with the fretboard as the blind with Braille.

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On the bus to school he saw notes stream from his fingers like rays of colored light. In class during rest period his fingers played the air below his desk, a flurry of ever more precise notes shattering the silence everyone else was enveloped in. At home at night he took the guitar to bed with him, a shield, a lance against the reverend and his burning hands and furious belt. As Willie Lee grew older, his guitar became for him the whole world, all that more normal people aspire to: family, love, money, friends, amusement, companionship, a confessor. No matter what stormed around him or inside him, with his guitar in his hands he could always find himself and his own still center. In his fingers he found God.

Part One J Chapter 1

From the Sky

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HE FIRST TIME Josh Green saw Willie Lee Reed, Josh was drinking a poured beer out of a Dixie cup at a knife-scarred table in the late-afternoon dusk of the 6-Eye Inn. This was 1963, and it was unusual for a white boy to be drinking in a black bar on the South Side, though Josh had his reasons. It was snowing outside, not surprising for Chicago even in late March, but the 6-Eye was warm and cozy, long as you ignored the faint chalk marks and residue of blood from a stabbing a week back. Josh and a few customers—some off from early shifts at the stockyards, others simply ne’er-do-wells—were the only ones there besides the bartender-owner, a burly gentleman everyone called Quick. Josh was desultorily thumbing through a fat burgundy-covered textbook called Primer of Business when this true sight pushed in through the bar’s door. The kid was tall and striking, with a high ebony forehead and large, vivid eyes that looked both sleepy and fully aware—the eyes of a desert snake snoozing on a rock. He had a wide, flat nose and thick lips that might have seen a flash of lipstick, the color was such an unworldly reddish-purple. He was the kind of pretty, he walked into a room, you’d have to take a look.

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What caught Josh’s eye was the kid’s hands: the way they stuck out from his coat, out of proportion to his body. His fingers especially: They looked to have an extra knuckle, they were so long; they had a spidery thinness that seemed to stroke the air before him. Josh also saw how wrongly dressed the kid was for Chicago in March. Although he had on a cap, it was thin summer-weight, flecked now with white flakes. But what was most curious was what he wore for a coat. It was a show jacket, a once shiny gold lamé, worn thin here and there, mottled like a mangy leopard’s coat. This topped a pair of cranberry-red pants, the sheen worn down but the color still bright as could be. He looked like he could have stepped off some bandstand that Josh’s parents would’ve danced before in the ’40s when his father first started making money in his car business; but then the illusion fell apart at his shoes: those of a day worker, thick black leather caps and heavy heels, clunky on the 6-Eye’s tilting wood floor. In his right hand the kid dangled a three-pickuped noname electric guitar, without a case, the snow melting all over its fingerboard and burgundy body. Josh winced at the possible damage. Yet the kid had such a happy-go-lucky, eager, I’m-here kind of air about him. “Hey, this fine establishment the 6-Eye?” the young man called out. “You can read?” came a voice from behind the rudimentary bar. It was asked as a legitimate question. “Damn right I can read,” the kid said. He gave his guitar a shake, flakes waltzing slow to the floor. “I been in the army, and I even read books. I read me The Odyssey once.” The bartender-owner, Quick, gave the boy a cock-eyed look, eyeing the naked guitar, and said, “What you want with us?” “This the place Heddy Days be playing?” “You can read, Mr. Bright Boy.” Quick gave his counter

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a quick swipe with a white rag. “Didn’t you see that sign outside?” “I saw the sign outside.” “Then, you tell me what it says.” “Says Mr. Heddy Days will be playing here.” The kid did a quick shimmy then, sending the rest of the snowflakes off him. “But I learned me one thing, it’s signs can lie. Everything can lie.” “Not me,” the bartender said. His real name was Rudolph Smith, the Rudolph a name he hated, so he had everyone call him Quick. He had a big chest, with wide shoulders and beefy biceps. Used to play football, was a seaman during the war. Picked up the 6-Eye and was proud he could book the best blues talent like Heddy Days, Elmore James, and the Sly Fox into it. Had one weak spot: He loved the First Lady, Jacqueline Kennedy, to distraction; had built a shrine to her behind the bar, a row of photos clipped from Life magazine with her lacquered hair perfectly in place, Chanel suits cut just so, smile warm but undisclosing—all surrounded by flashing multicolored Christmas bulbs. “So where is he?” “You have any idea what time it is?” “It’s Chicago time,” the kid said smartly. “Yeah, Mr. Peacock,” Quick said. “And what time you be on?” The boy shook his head, like the question hardly mattered. “So, I’m looking for him. Where is he?” “For Heddy Days?” A rise in the bartender’s voice. “That is the man’s name, right?” The kid smiled his bright grin. Heddy Days was widely known as the King of the Blues. He recorded for Poker Records, the largest blues label in Chicago and thus the world, and sold more discs than anyone else except maybe B.B. King. Heddy had come out of

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sharecropping Mississippi, where he’d known Robert Johnson, and he’d pretty much invented the electric blues. Quick turned away, looking like he wouldn’t dignify this at all. He swabbed down the bar again, but the kid just kept standing there, and Quick couldn’t ignore him. Finally he said, “You just got to town here, didn’t you?” “Yeah, yeah, just off the bus. From Dee-troit.” The kid lifted his cap and shook the snow off it. His hair was cut in a kind of ball over his head and puffed up a couple inches; nappy, not conked down at all. “This place like Florida compared to that.” Quick laughed in spite of himself. “I’ll say.” “So—he gonna be here soon?” The kid was about ten feet into the bar, and he just stood there. “You still talking about Mr. Heddy Days?” “Mr. Days, yeah.” An amused eyebrow. “And if he was here, who’d I say be askin’ for him?” “Willie Lee.” “You got a last name, Willie Lee?” “Willie Lee Reed.” Said as if Quick—the world—should already know all about him. Oh, Quick mouthed, then just turned his back on Willie Lee and started straightening a double-deep row of murky bottles that already looked pretty straight. Willie Lee stood there, the snow still dripping off him and his guitar, a wide, beaming, eager grin on his face. That’s how things stood. Quick seemed to have finally lost interest, but it was clear Willie Lee wasn’t going anywhere. If he was from Detroit, and even if he’d been in the army, Josh was thinking, there was still something gee-whiz country about him—a touch of that Gomer Pyle on the popular Andy Griffith Show. A wonderful innocence, or so Josh thought. The kid also had beautiful cheekbones, flared high and tight. Josh couldn’t take his eyes off them.

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Josh had closed his textbook, and now he beckoned to Willie Lee. The black boy did a double-take at the white boy with the short, curly hair, then said, “Who’re you?” “Josh Green.” The student stood up, held out a hand. “Come on over, I’ll buy you a beer.” “You’ll buy me a beer?” Uncertainty in Willie Lee’s voice. “Quick, I’m buying Mr. Reed here a beer.” “Mr. Reed?” The same note of cautious disbelief. Then: “I don’t drink much beer, can I have me a Coke?” “You play?” Josh said after Quick had deposited a brown beer bottle and a green one of Coke on Josh’s table and made an ostentatious gesture of writing them down on Josh’s tab. Willie Lee hadn’t really moved over any closer. “I sure do, yeah.” “Well?” “This O.K., talking to you like this?” Willie Lee looked as if the last person he’d expected to find in a blues dive like the 6-Eye was a white man. “Of course,” Josh said. “I bought you the Coke, didn’t I?” A squint from Willie Lee. “And you’re on the level?” Josh gave a quick laugh. “I hope so.” Willie Lee burst into a big grin. “Then you’re talking to one thirsty boy.” He took the seat across from the white boy, set his guitar carefully on a banquette against the wall, thought better of that and set it against his own chair’s leg, then thought better of that and held it right up in front of him. “You can put it over there,” Josh said, pointing back at the banquette. “I don’t like to let it get too far from me.” “It’ll be safe,” Josh said, casting a glance around. “Nobody much here.” There were just the three guys from the yards, cleaned up well as they could but with blood still under their fingernails, and two all-day drinkers sitting separately, both with their chins on their fists.

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Willie Lee nodded, set his instrument back down flat on the banquette. “How long you been playing?” Josh said. “All my life, brother.” Willie Lee took a long, thirsty pull of the Coke, emptying more than half the bottle. “Damn bus ride,” he added half under his breath. “And you’re here for Heddy Days?” Josh beckoned to Quick for another Coke for Willie Lee. “He’s the best, ain’t he?” Simple question. “Yeah.” “Well, that’s why I’m here.” Josh smiled patiently. “My friend, Heddy Days, he’s been cutting people since before you were born.” Josh was twenty; he put Willie Lee at a year or so younger. “That’s why I’m here to cut him.” Up went the kid’s chin. “Man is old.” Josh winced. Heddy Days was a true master, a figure of genuine esteem; the kid’s disrespect rubbed him wrong. There was such a blustery innocence about it, though, that he found he wasn’t getting mad at all. “You’re one pretty confident guy, eh?” “You ain’t heard me play yet, right?” Willie Lee gave a longing glance over at his guitar, still slick with the melted snow. It was a battered piece, finish worn down along the body, pickups screwed in at unusual angles, a host of chipped plastic knobs along the bout. Josh lifted his eyebrows. “Not that I can remember.” “Oh, you heard me, you’d remember—yes, you would.” Willie Lee focused his hot gaze on Josh. “Question is, what’re you doing here?” Whatever aw-shucks, carefulround-the-white-guy hesitation he’d shown had melted away. There was a punchy arrogance to the kid that Josh found himself both drawn to and wary of. “I’m just here.” “This looks to me like a Negro joint.”

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Josh gave Quick a glance, and the bartender winked back. After a minute Josh said, “I like the place.” Quick came over and set Willie Lee’s second Coke on the table. The young guitar player looked at it, then across at Josh. He smiled. Whatever challenge he’d thrown at the white boy was gone. “Man, I’m gonna love this town.” He was speaking around now, to the mostly empty room. “Cokes just keep flying down from heaven.” He held out a hand, and Josh was surprised at how long his fingers were—like a spider’s legs, angled and dexterous. “Thank you, brother.” “Never been in Chicago before?” Willie Lee took a pull at his Coke, then said, “Nope. Been all around the world in the army, though, like I said.” Another taste of Coke. “I’m one well-traveled Negro.” That big smile. He had pretty good-looking teeth; nothing snaggled, no gold. Josh looked closely at the kid. He had those beautiful cheekbones, and his bright eyes shot out sparks as he spoke. “Played once in Paris, France.” Josh nodded. He’d spent time in Paris, too. Supposedly his junior year of college abroad, but he’d spent most all his time in out-of-the-way jazz boites and murky dives on the Left Bank that when he thought of them always brought a sly smile to his face. “Damn, I wish that Heddy Days was here right now.” Willie Lee slapped his bottle down on the table. “I got my fire up. Got my fire up!” Quick heard this and tipped his head toward the photos of Jackie Kennedy, as he often did, with a What you think about this nonsense, dear? look. Willie Lee shifted jumpily on his chair. “You know, I got me some hungries. They got food in this place here— for-ti-fi-ca-tion?” Josh looked over at Quick then said sotto voce, “Not anything I think you’d want.”

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“But I’m hun-gry!” A cry like a child’s. Louder, he went on, “Maybe we go get us some food. Must be something around here. Some fish?” “Fish fry down the street,” Quick said. He said it like he couldn’t wait to get the kid out of his place. “Stick your arm in some hot grease down at the fish fry, then maybe you play fast ’nuf to even mention Heddy Days in the same breath.” Willie Lee threw back his head, cocked an eyebrow at the older bartender, then threw a glance at Josh that said, We gotta stand up ’gainst these cranky old men, right? Josh smiled. “Come on,” he said, on a quick impulse. “I got a better idea.” “Diggety!” Willie Lee leapt up, buttoned back his lamé show coat, and grabbed his guitar. It had been snowing lightly when Josh took the El down here to 48th Street, but it was snowing worse now. The two men hunched over and pushed into the white blowing flakes. Josh had a wool cap on, used it to butt ahead through the messy night. Willie Lee, he saw, kept his face upturned, the snow whipping against his skin. He kept his guitar blithely over his shoulders, like Paul Bunyan heading off with his ax. This was near the heart of the Negro business district, and Josh and Willie Lee walked past stores such as De Grassi’s funeral parlor, with its somber black gothic lettering and coffins upended in the window; Paradise Furniture, pine cabinets out on the street mantled in snow beneath bright LAY-AWAY NOW signs; a host of storefront churches, Christ this, Jesus that, all sporting flaming white crosses; Eisenberg’s Pawn Shop, windows laden with shiny watches, sparkling brass horns, and dangling guitars; Madame Rosa’s Beauty Parlor, with model pictures of highconked men and sleek-haired women; Mr. Scotti’s Photography, with photos of huge-smiling black girls with ribbons in their hair; and liquor stores, more bars, and blues joints. Finally there was Josh’s destination: a red-and-

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gold sign festooned with Chinese characters and dragons that read CHO LEE’S CHOP SUEY. “You like Chinese?” Josh shouted into the wind. “Chinese? Ain’t never had it.” “Really,” Josh said, “worldly boy like you.” Willie Lee looked slightly abashed, and Josh added, “Then it’ll be a special treat. Come on.” The window of the chop suey joint was lit up a warm yellow from the neon, and both men pushed through the door with a sigh of relief. There was a statue of a golden lion right inside the door, and when Willie Lee saw it, he impulsively let out a loud roar, then beat his fists against his chest. Josh pulled back, half alarmed, half amused. Up bustled the maitre’d, a man with slicked-back hair, who said, “Welcome, my friend. You want seat together?” Josh nodded, and they followed him back to a bright-red Naugahyde banquette curved around a circular table. The air in the place smelled a little greasy with frying oil, but it was warm and teased with fresh-cut scallions and spicy pepper. Banquettes stretched away from them, half filled with nicely dressed black couples. The Chinese man handed over green cloth-covered menus so big you could fan a fire with them. Willie Lee cracked his open and peered into it. “Hey, look at all this,” he cried after a minute. “What is this stuff? Moo goo goo-goo-goo?” He laughed. “It’s all good,” Josh said. He closed his menu, set it down. “I’ll order us a good meal. Think you can trust me?” Willie Lee nodded, letting it out that he didn’t see how he had any other choice, and Josh ordered a Poo-Poo platter for appetizer, pork chop suey, and that dish Willie Lee had nearly cracked his teeth on, Moo Goo Gai Pan. “That sounds like a lot of food,” the kid said with a faint note of anxiety. “You said you were hungry.” Then Josh read his worry. “Besides, it’s all on me.”

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“Now, you don’t need to do that,” Willie Lee said. Even though he was sitting, he was still moving his feet side-toside, like they belonged to someone else: a Bojangly ghost. There was something in just the natural exuberance of the kid that lifted Josh’s spirits. “No, no, I like to help people out,” Josh said. “You’re new to our town. I’m sure you could use a little hospitality.” “Oooh, weeee!” Willie Lee pointed heavenward. “I do think I’m gonna like this place. Now food come flying down from heaven, too. Moo goo goo-goo-goo!” When the plates of steaming food came, Josh began to eat his with wooden chopsticks. “What’s that?” Willie Lee said, eyebrows up. “What?” “Them sticks. You eatin’ this food with sticks?” “They’re called chopsticks.” The kid shook his head. “I been to Europe, and I ain’t never saw nothin’ like that!” Josh was thinking: Your fingers are so long, they could almost be chopsticks. After Willie Lee had dug into the food, with his fork, and nodded his approval at it, he said to Josh, “Hey, you’re being awful nice to me.” “Yeah.” “So?” “So what?” “So what’s up? What are you doing hangin’ with us Negroes?” Josh took a deep breath, gave some thought to how to answer Willie Lee’s question. Finally he lifted his black case and set it half teetering on the side of the table. It was big enough that he had to support it with his knee. Josh was tall, just over six feet, and his legs long, so it wasn’t a strain. “You see this?” “Some kind of . . . contraption.” They were looking at

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the small Studer tape recorder Josh carried with him from club to club. It had miniature reels and a plastic cover. “It’s my . . . well, it’s what I’m doing these days.” “Doing what?” Wide lifted eyebrows over Willie Lee’s pristine forehead. “Well, I was—I mean, I still am officially—a business student at Northwestern University. You know it?” Willie Lee shook his head. “But that’s—that’s not what I’m into these days. It’s the music. So now I’m sort of chronicling the scene down here, keeping a record of it.” “Oh, it’s one of those tape recorder things!” Willie Lee lit up. “Don’t know if I ever saw one so small.” “They’re pretty new. They say that soon they’re going to have the tape in little cartridges, but this is the next best thing.” “So why you doing that?” “It’s my . . . project.” “Yeah,” Willie Lee said, taking another heaping forkful of chicken and vegetables, “but why you doing that? And why you helping me?” Josh swallowed again. “It’s—it’s a long story.” Willie Lee gestured toward a clock behind the cash register in the belly of a golden Buddha. “We got time.” Josh heard himself take a deep breath, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.” “It’s the blues, right?” Willie Lee leaned forward. “Something in the music. Something even you white boys can’t find nowhere else, right?” Josh tried not to move but felt himself give a tiny nod. “Yeah, it be the True Soul.” Willie Lee used the two words with a touch of awe. Josh had the sense he was supposed to know exactly what Willie Lee meant, though he didn’t. “You’ve heard that, right? In the music, that’s where it speaks—speaks to ev-e-ry-body, you know, even you whites.”

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The guitar player leaned back, then smiled. “I heard some ’bout that even in Dee-troit. ’Bout how down here in Chitown they had white boys playin’ the blues.” Willie Lee’s eyes widened. “White boys! And what they say is, some of them boys are pretty hot.” “Bloomfield.” “Wha’s that?” Willie Lee leaned in closer. “Michael Bloomfield. He’s a friend of mine,” Josh said. “He’s the best. A few others are pretty good, too.” “And you’re making recordings?” “Yeah.” “Because?” Willie Lee wouldn’t leave it alone, would he? “Seems like a smart thing to do.” “Hoo-hee!” Willie Lee burst out with irrepressible energy. “You can say that again. I love the blues. The True Soul and the blues, that’s all I know, my friend.” Willie Lee had a big piece of sauce-drenched chicken on his fork and was waving it about. “They be my life.” He had his crazy-boy smile on again, and Josh felt his feet start off another wild clatter against the floor. “You wanna record me?” Josh smiled, then said deadpan, “Why not? Tonight, huh, you going up against Heddy Days—” “I’m gonna make him cry!” Willie Lee’s feet were jumping a furious tattoo. He mimed guitar fingerings in the air. “I’m gonna take that ol’ man, gonna put him down in pieces. Gonna make him lick his fingers like he wished he could grease ’em right up. Gonna make him look at his gee-tar like it suddenly turned into a snake!” Josh rolled his eyes. “Some day you’ll have to tell me where you get your confidence from, my friend.” Purposeful drawl on those last words. “I know me the True Soul,” Willie Lee said softly, as he had before, using those last two words with obvious respect.

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He hooked a fierce glare at Josh, full of fervor and near religious force. But then he burst out again: “And ’cuz I’m good!” Willie Lee had his wild air-fingerings going again. “That’s all you gotta know, brother.” Slick slide up the imaginary guitar neck. “Because . . . I . . . am . . . the best!”

✴✴✴✴✴ WHEN JOSH AND WILLIE LEE got back to the 6-Eye, snowflakes were still tumbling down, catching the red flare from Quick’s new pride and joy, his neon sign, the figure 6 around an eye-shaped silhouette. This was a Friday night, and late enough that everybody’d had time to get home from the packing plants or beauty parlors or machine shops, wipe off the week’s toil, hit their cramped closets and steamer trunks, and pull out the brightest, flashiest clothes they had. Outside on that snowbound walk there were red blouses foaming up like bright robins’ breasts, frills dancing down the collars, skirts sewed tight to curvaceous rumps; there were guys in purple shirts so wicked you heard Satan whispering out of them, with pants pegged tight and shiny suit coats in shimmery sharkskin fabric. And hats! Hats were leaping off heads. Smooth-as-sunshine fedoras on the men, feathered and sequined numbers on the women. It was Friday night, and everyone was ready to murder. Out of the 6-Eye floated some easeful blues noodling. This was Jake and the Flames, a local opening band, more serviceable choogle than inspired, but they kept the place filled with music before the headliner appeared and the cutting session began. Bright saxophones, crisp guitars, shimmering ride cymbals. Jake hoarsely slinging words. Josh and Willie Lee pushed inside, the white boy leading the way, Willie Lee holding his guitar over his head as if fording a river. The crowd tonight was distinctly upscale. In the last few years the cool black sounds had been jazz, Miles

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and Ornette, and the blues was thought of as distinctly old hat—the old busted-down crumpler grandpa wore back in Arkansas or Mississippi before the great move north after the war. Ten years back there’d been enough heavy nostalgia for the old sound—as well as pure, new city energy—to put singers such as Heddy Days, the Sly Fox, John Lee Hooker, and Robert Nighthawk high on the R&B charts, but with the coming of rock ’n’ roll and now soul, and the acceptance of cool jazz, the blues fell from the forefront of style. Still, the blistering city energy remained, as well as the down-home truth, and when anyone as great as Heddy Days played a hot club like the 6-Eye on a Friday night, false cool was thrown out the window. People showed up. This was a cutting session, where the new slingers went up against the fastest and the best. The rules were simple: Warm-up band, then the headliner stepped out, played his usual forty-five-minute set, then took on all comers. You signed up on a sheet passed out by Quick, but then because the crowd liked to see the guitarslingers getting anxious, you were supposed to line up by the side of the tiny stage, waiting your turn to squeeze on and go fret-to-fret with the champ. How could anyone stay home on a night like this? You got the best there was, and then you got better: a battle royale, arrogance and hunger slamming up against icy authority. It wasn’t long into the evening that the rafter-pressed crowd was slicked up and smoothed down on the array of bottles behind Quick’s bar. This was the first night of the weekend, and if you couldn’t spend it with a bottle and the blues, you might as well head back down south. The highstockinged waitresses were slinking through the crowd, their cork-lined trays held high; tabletops were chock-a-block with full quart bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, half-full liquor glasses, and peanut dishes; wives were looking fine, and girlfriends across the room were looking better; that wicked grudge held against that goddamn so-and-so you had to

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work next to on the slaughter line was put aside for the moment because, goddamn, the music was just too goddamn alive! Off the foot-high stage, sheets of brass-bright guitar chords went splintering above everyone’s heads; and when you finally held your eyes shut and lowered your head, just a little like you were in church, the music bringing up suspiciously similar feelings of grace and awe, well just then you caught a sweet whiff of that fresh-bought orchid tucked into your baby’s boutonniere that bloomed its sweet rot tantalizing as the endless death. Willie Lee and Josh were in a line of men crowded in the back when the great man came out. The lights went dark, and Heddy Days’ backup band, Parnell “Oil Drum” Baxter on drums, Odom Stanley on bass, Levon Roberts on second guitar, and the fabled harmonica player Little Shorty blowing out his lungs, started into an instrumental that got everyone toe-tapping and hip-wiggling. Quick had come into a five C’s “inheritance” lately (something to do with the chalk marks on the floor), and besides the new neon sign, he’d put in a microphone by the bar. He took pleasure in introducing his truly special acts, and over the steady choogling twelve-bar beat he said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we’re coming to tonight’s main event. We got with us on this night the genius of the blues. This is the man who came out of Panther Burn, Mississippi, and took Chicago by storm fifteen years ago. He was the king then, and he’s the king now. You know him from hits like Gonna Put the Jump on You, I’m Here, and his latest, still on the charts, Love, Don’t Cause Me No More Trouble. It’s my distinct honor—and the honor of the 6-Eye—to bring you the great man of the blues, Mr. Heddy Days.” Whoops and hollers rang out. A not-that-tall man in a gray mohair suit, with wide shoulders and thick, sausage-fingered hands, and a beaming, moon-shaped face, with sweet yet powerful eyes and a wry, humble turn to his lips, walked up and faced the crowd. The cheers got louder. Even from where Josh

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and Willie Lee were, way back in the room, the tremulous sighs of women pressed close to the stage could be heard. Josh looked at Willie Lee, curious how the kid would take his first glimpse of the Great Man. The look on the boy’s face was rapt, yet curiously serene. Josh indulged himself in speculation on Willie Lee’s thoughts: He’s beautiful, that old man, and he’s got so much stage mojo all he’s gotta do is stand there. Listen to those women! He ain’t playin’ a lick and he’s already got ’em eating from his hand. Then Josh saw the next line of thinking go tracing past Willie Lee’s cheeks and eyes: But he’s been up there so long. Thinks he can just stand there and make it happen. Sure, sure, he can play, but I can play, too. I can make my guitar dance and crow and blister the dawn. What can this old-timer do? How’s he gonna hold up ’gainst somebody comin’ on like I’m gonna be comin’ on? How’s he gonna hold up against me? Just wait till he plays, Josh thought. But Heddy Days didn’t have to actually play. The longer he stood there, his band turning over the same twelve bars behind him, the louder and louder the room got; so loud it almost drowned out the music. Whistles and hollers, a selfperpetuating orgy of appreciation, and all the man had to do was stand there. He held soft on his face that pleased, beatific grin. There was so little movement; only his eyes seemed to dance. He raised a hand. Like that . . . silence. A quick fingering of his guitar, a stolid four notes, then a snare-cymbal snap behind Heddy, and Little Shorty started blowing his harmonica in and out, out and in. It was a classic stop-time rhythm. The notes hit hard, then halted, hanging over silence filled only by a bass drum rumble that smacked you deep in the spine. Around and around it went, then Heddy began to sing: “The howlin’ wind outside the door . . .” Do-doo-doo-do-da. “Singin’ to my mother, ’fore I was born . . .” Do-doo-doo-do-da. “You gonna have yourself a

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little boy . . .” Do-doo-doo-do-da. “Gonna be a chip off an obsidian block . . .” Do-doo-doo-do-da. Heddy’s was a rich, full, scraping voice, and when he started singing again, every ear hung on his words: He gonna make you jump the nines Gonna blow and shout Yet it gonna be the quiet times That tell you what he’s all about. The music kept grinding, with something like a cement mixer in it, deep and rumbly, and that do-doo-doo-do-da beat, steady as mud, churning everybody’s bodies gently from side to side. With a raised eyebrow and a casual, throwaway elegance Heddy rode above the rhythm, Mr. Above It All, Mr. In Command, Mr. Coooolllllll, till the rhythm section dropped back to the tonic, and like that, the big man rammed the whole thing home: Because that’s who I am Everybody knows that’s who I am The secret in the whisper, the gold in the tooth The saint in the alley, the cold, hard truth That’s, that’s, that’s ... just Who I Am. Shouts, shrieks. A casual lift of the great man’s left eyebrow. Do-doo-doo-do-da. “You gonna hear me comin’ . . .” Do-doo-doo-do-da. “Gonna shake the ground . . .” And he was going round again. That’s Who I Am ended in a holler of joy and good feeling. Heddy gave a sly smile under the yellow-red spot, then raised his eyebrow again . . . and winked. And all the pretty womens, they jumps and shouts. “Well?” Josh said. Willie Lee Reed’s eyes were hooded and murky, focused

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on the stage. He was watching Heddy carefully as he took a sip of a whiskey-colored beverage from a wide-bottomed glass, winked again, this time at Little Shorty, then fingered a bottle-neck riff lightly up the neck of his Stratocaster. “What do you think now?” “Shhhh,” Willie Lee went. “I’m studying him.” Josh raised an eyebrow and started to say, “Yeah, you better,” when Willie Lee whispered again, “Come on, man, shhhhhh.” Heddy kept on through his set, never pushing too hard, laying back on Oil Drum Baxter’s drums, letting Little Shorty blow as much as he wanted, but always pulling out a soul-ripping cry or devastating guitar slide when it was needed. The audience hung tight all the way through the set, and finally Heddy whooped it down with a slow, sultry, hip-wiggling version of the Sweet Home Arthur classic Girl She’s Got It: Girl moves a wild man, he says, Now ain’t I your pawn Girl moves a preacher man, he says, All my morals be gone She looks at a blind man and there ain’t nothing he can see Next thing you hear, he’s saying, Who’s that girl in front of me? She’s got it. What it is, you don’t want to know Girl, she’s got it, she’s got it, and all you know is, you keep on wantin’ more. She’s got It! Quick picked up his mike from the bar and said, “Ladies, lay-hay-deeees, and gen’lmen, that was the Man himself, Mr. Heddy Days. Give it up for him, let him know how we love him still. Yes, just like that. Tha’s good.” A tiny spot hit the great man’s shiny forehead. Heddy gave a slight smile to the loud whoops and applause, then left the stage.

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“O.K., now we’s gonna have us a li’l break, then we’re comin’ back with what you’re all here for, the cutting session. You hotshots out there ready to take on Mr. Heddy Days? Hey, hey! Well, sign on up, get yourselves in the line.” Then off mike with a chuckle, “You darlin’ li’l lambs.” Willie Lee took himself right up there, third on the list, waiting by the side of the stage, his guitar crooked under his arm almost like it was a crutch. Josh looked around the 6-Eye to see if there was anyone he knew. There were a few white couples, bold daters it looked like, but he didn’t recognize them. His white blues-playing buddies like Bloomfield and Butterfield and Elvin Bishop, who normally would have been here, were putting together their own band and were gigging at a club on the North Side, Cassandra’s Lounge. But some of the real blues movers and groovers were at the 6-Eye. Over at a table filled with young women was Sweet Home Arthur himself. Sweet Home was a generous black man with a wide stomach and front-line shoulders who was always dressed to the nines, including his trademark double-tall rabbit-hair Borsalino, pure white with a wide pink satin band. Sweet Home was a little bit of everything in the blues scene: a powerfully gifted songwriter—he’d written a lot of Heddy Days’ songs, including That’s Who I Am—as well as a former producer for Poker Records. He’d been the leader of his own band, the Four Big Men, and was known far and wide as a general entrepreneur and man-about-town. Indeed, the news was whipping through the grapevine that Sweet Home had had a falling out with the Poker Records big cheese, Abe (Tight) Vokelman, and was doing work for Vic (the Wop) Andruzzi, the owner of Viper Records, coming out of the West Side from a little hole in the wall. Viper Records hadn’t had any huge hits yet, but word was that Andruzzi had put Sweet Home on the case. Sweet Home caught Josh’s eye and beckoned the white boy over with his pinkie-ringed fingers. Josh had recently

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duped copies of some of his best nightclub tapes at the producer’s request, and they’d hit it off nicely. Josh waved and went to him. “Set yourself down here,” Sweet Home said in his basso voice. “We got us a chair with your name all over it.” Josh smiled and pulled up to the table. The thing with the tables at the 6-Eye is that they all tilted and rocked, as if they were on a high-seas ship. Customers were always trying to square the tables up, sticking anything they could find— chipped pieces of old lacquer 78 records, metal slugs from the electric meter Quick had wired so he didn’t have to pay, matchbooks from penny insurance companies (“Let Honest Arthur Brown Save You in Your Times of Need”), lost buttons, and even the occasional cracked set of dentures—under the legs to make the tables stop wobbling. Nothing worked for long. As Josh sat down a wave of cheap gardenia perfume swelled over him; it was sweet and rotten and oddly entrancing. Josh was reminded of his mother, then turned the thought away. “Let me introduce the ladies,” the record producer said, gesturing left and right. “This here is Barbara Lee and Sally, and over there visiting from Detroit is Esméralda.” Barbara Lee was in her thirties, with a long face, a slender nose and a horsy jaw, and she was done up to the hilt. She carried intricate curls on her head and from her ears swung hoop gold earrings that caught the light. Her bold purple sateen dress was trimmed in fox fur. Josh knew she made her living on the streets. “Pleased,” she said, holding out her hand. She looked the white boy up and down, with a business kind of question in her eye. Josh was careful not to acknowledge her gaze. “It’s your first time in Chicago, darling?” Sally asked the third girl. Sally was a hooker too, with an older, froggier face than Barbara Lee’s younger equine one. Her hair was marcelled back; her dress was lavender. She had an elaborate white feather boa draped around her neck.

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The demure girl wrinkled her nose and said, “Well, first off it’s Esss-may. Uncle Sweet, won’t you ever get it right?” “You’re related?” Josh asked, looking with curiosity at the young woman. She was vividly different from the usual Friday-night crowd, pretty in a very well brought up way, her hair perfectly cut, her skin as fine as expensive silky paper. She was dressed incongruously for this blues joint, in a demure yellow chiffon dress over her knees, and a pair of white gloves on her hands. She also looked curiously bookish, with hornrimmed glasses hung from a metal chain around her neck. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, though she was pert and freshly attractive; and with her light café au lait coloring and round green eyes, she was definitely a woman to catch a certain man’s interest. “Not really,” Esmé said. Her voice flowed sweet and round, up there in range but musical, and played with the care a sax man shows his horn. “But he feels like my uncle.” “Esmé’s actually here to see—” Sweet Home started to say, but the young woman cut him off with a sharp look. “Let’s say I’m just visiting down here for a spell,” she said. “I’m here to look into a few things.” “Well, I’m glad to meet you.” Josh looked at Esmé with greater intensity. There was an intriguingly kittenish look in her eyes. She was a funny mix, he thought. You had to say she was attractive, though the magic came through her eyes and the smooth creaminess of her skin, as well as something hidden deep within her; she sure didn’t glare out at you like the two brassy working women at the table. There was also something in the way her nose thickened that carried familiarity, but he couldn’t place it. Yes, that was the strongest thing about her: the truly secret thoughts she held. He thought how intrigued he was. Of course, with his own secret, his interest could—and forever would—be only platonic. But still. . . . “Hope you like the city.”

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“Oh, I do already.” Her voice fluted up. “I love this place.” “So, what y’ all drinkin’?” Sweet Home said to Josh. “No, no.” Josh reached for his wallet. “Question is, What’re you folks drinking? I’m getting the next round.” He put a five on the table. Sweet Home gave his high-hatted head a demure shake, but then he called over a waitress and the whole table ordered. When the drinks came, Josh said to Esmé, “You’re in school still?” “No, I just graduated. Mrs. Porter’s School for Proper Girls.” Esmé gave a light laugh. “Don’t I just look like Miss Proper?” “That’s what I was just thinkin’,” Gracie said in her loud voice. “You is Miss Proper. Look, you even be wearing debutante gloves!” She chortled. “How’d you ever get yourself mixed up with this ol’ devil music? Young, nice girl like you?” “Oh, Esmé here, she’s got the blues in her blood, don’t you, gal?” Sweet Home said. Esmé didn’t say anything, just kept smiling, though with a mirthful, private light in her eyes. “You know, it’s a coincidence,” Josh said, “but I met someone else from Detroit today. Young guy, a guitar player.” Josh reached out and pointed at Willie Lee, who was pacing in place and pawing the wooden floor with his clunky black shoes while he waited in line. “He’s over there now, going to go up against Heddy Days in the cutting session.” “Which one is he?” Sweet Home said, looking over. “Think I know him?” “Said it was his first time here in Chicago, but who knows. That thin kid, with the pretty face. Third back.” Everyone looked over at Willie Lee Reed. The demure Esmé Hunter lifted her chin at an intrigued angle. “He any good?” Sweet Home asked.

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“You hear him tell it, he is. But I haven’t heard him play. ’Spect we all will soon enough.” That could have been the cue for Quick to pick up his mike again. “O.K., Heddy tells me that he’s rested ’nuf after his blistering set—” swift flurry of applause “—yessiree, and he’s ready to come back out here for the cutting session. And . . . here he is. Let’s hear it again for Mr. Heddy Days!” Wild hoots greeted the dignified older gentleman as he slowly moved back to the front of the stage. He sat a little off center, to the left; somebody had put a stool there, which he rested against lightly. His nicked-up maple-necked Stratocaster hung lightly from the strap around his shoulders. His eyes were quiet, waiting. “Now y’all know the rules here. Mr. Heddy Days starts out playing, and when he’s set us a good pace, the challenger plugs in and takes a verse. First time, he’s gotta play just what Heddy played. Then Heddy takes the next verse, the challenger after that, and, you know, from then on, anything goes. “Then it’s all up to you. Me and my judges decide who’s got the most cheers from all of you, but we’re fair men—” Quick gestured to three ancient-looking souls who held pride of place next to the club owner. There was Ed (Grumbling) Washington, with a goatee streaked with gray down past his open collar; Baby Stevenson, an albino and hairless, with unearthly near-white skin, pink eyes, and blood-red lips; and the chief of the judges, Jackson (Pirate) Jackson, who wore a black-leather patch over his left eye. They were all old bluesmen, long out of the fray, and with their wizened faces and deep-set eyes, they looked like they’d seen things unknowable to anyone younger in the room; as if they could remember back to slavery, and everything that happened since. They stared down at the stage impassively, their heads set on clenched fists.

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“Fair men,” Quick went on, “and we’ll let each of the challengers give their best shot. But once we’ve determined that by your own applause the challenger has lost, or—” a long, ripe pause here “—the heavens gone shakin’ and Mr. Heddy Days, he’s lost, well, then we’re on to the next young man. Last one standing, he be the winner, and he gets the prize, which because of the turnout tonight, is up to seventy-six dollars!” Big applause, calls of “Bring ’em on out!” and “I wanna see blood!” “He’s got an interesting look to him,” Sweet Home said, his nubby fingers tucked under his wide chin. “What you say the boy’s name was?” “Willie Lee Reed.” “Lee, huh? Like Bar-ba-ra Lee.” Sweet Home said. “’Cept that boy’s not a lady.” “Hey, who you calling a lady?” the brightly made-up woman said with a cackle. The music started. Heddy Days had his backup band behind him, which of course gave him an advantage, not that he needed one. Oil Drum and Odom got the rhythm rolling, and Heddy launched into his song Buzz On. He wasn’t playing too hard, not nearly putting out what he had in his earlier set, but he never wavered in his clear command. The first comer, a grizzled man whose hands jutted out of a loose, murky gray sport coat, was up there, playing a Scotch-taped-together guitar. Though he looked as if he didn’t just sing the blues but lived ’em every ticking moment, he didn’t have a trace of Heddy’s regal presence, and his notes fell thin and scattershot. The crowd was willing to cut him slack, since he went first and looked as if he needed a break, but it wasn’t long into the third verse that people started hawing and heeing, and quickly everyone’s voices bloomed till they shouted the sad sack off the stage. Heddy Days ran through one more verse, as if he’d hard-

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ly been interrupted, and then Quick took over the microphone: “Well, judges, what say you?” Grumbling Washington, Baby Stevenson, and Pirate Jackson held out their hands, thumbs-down. “No surprise there, I think. That genl’man wasn’t gonna do it, but I’m sure we all appreciate your giving him a listening. And if anybody want to take that ol’ boy home, get him a b-a-t-h, well, I’m sure we’d all be ’preciative.” When the chuckles died out, there was number two. He was a young guy, must’ve been right around twentythree, wearing a shiny, glitter-spangled jacket that cried out lounge!, with cuffs encrusted with rhinestones, a collar cut knife-sharp, a pair of expensive, Italian-looking pointy-toed boots and a tuxedo shirt that foamed in blue waves around his neck. But it was his head that was the real stopper. First thing you noticed was his sky-high pompadour, brilliantined up at least six inches, and at each inch there was something different going on. With a curl either cutting forward or slicing back, his hair was a marcelled marvel, like one of the Seven Wonders of the World, the Leaning Radio Tower of Helena, Arkansas, say. Then there was his skin. Had anybody seen such smooth, poreless skin? It was dark like fine leather, and looked buffed and stropped till it shone. And his eyes. Not that you could really see them: He had glitter and spangles sprinkled around them so that when they picked up the stage lights, all anybody could see was a constant explosion of small flashes. “Mr. Randall Parrish,” Quick said into his echoy microphone, “our next challenger.” “Well,” Barbara Lee said loud enough for everyone at Sweet Home’s table, and tables all around, to hear, “this be a beauty show, that boy, he got my vote. He’s so pretty, looks like he could give me competition. Damn, that boy might even do better’n me.” Barbara Lee rubbed her thumb and middle finger together in the universal sign for what-youwant, and everyone laughed.

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Randall Parrish had a new-looking Gibson Les Paul hanging from his shoulders, the brightest, glowingest flamed maple anyone’d ever seen, and he held it so proudly he nearly squeaked. He had one of those megasmiles the screen magazines wrote about, all bright marquee lights, and when he spoke, it was used-car-salesman sincere. “How y’all doing tonight?” he said, nearly elbowing Heddy aside as he moved toward his microphone. “Hey, hey,” a few people in the crowd answered; most sat on their hands. “Tha’s good, tha’s good. O.K., I’m delighted to be here— deee-lighted. My name is Randall Parrish, like our good Mr. Rudolph Smith over there just said, and I’m here to play y’all the blues. “Now, some of you been hearin’ that the blues is in trouble. Some of you even been thinkin’ that the blues has gone out of style.” Big stage pout on Parrish’s face. “But nosirrreeeeee. I’m here to tell you tonight that the blues is gonna last forever. That right, Mr. Days? O.K. if I call you that?” Heddy Days simply stood there with his moon-shaped face and his heavy, seen-it-all eyes, and didn’t move a muscle. “Well, way I see it,” the challenger went on, “is that the blues might just be a little needy. Blues might just be a little down at the mouth. Know what I mean? Them whispers might be on to something. “But I say we can cure what ails the blues. I say what the blues needs is a little pick-me-up. It just needs some razzledazzle. Don’t y’all agree?” “O.K., O.K.,” Quick said booming through his p.a., “this ain’t about speechifying, it’s about playing. Time for your cutting session, Mr. Ran-delllll Payyyy-reeeesh. Come on, Heddy, kick it!” The great man was off, just like that. It was another stoptime blues, The Dark Side, another Sweet Home Arthur composition, and the thing with playing stop-time, it’s just

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two chords, all so totally simple, but if you don’t have spoton timing—or more true, spot-on nontiming, where you have to hold and caress the microseconds between the beats as if you were holding time itself in your hands like bread dough, kneading it, pulling it, and airing it all out—then the beat blew itself out like a too-tight spring in a rusty old alarm clock. The crowd knew right away what Heddy was doing. He was leading the pretty boy right into his trap. Do-doo-doodo-da, he went. Do-doo-doo-do-da. I been walkin’ on the sunny side (Do-doo-doo-do-da) I been walkin’ too long on the sunny side (Do-doo-doodo-da) Now my feet, they’s carryin’ me long the dark side (Dodoo-doo-do-da) Dark side of love Dark side of grief Dark side of your heart Gonna steal it like a thief On the dark side, the dark side, the dark side. . . . (Do-doo-doo-do-da, do-doo-doo-do-da, dodoo-doodo-da) Heddy Days eased through the verse, made the turnaround, then took a subtle step back. It was Parrish’s turn. The younger man cranked up his megawatt smile, sparkled his rhinestone cuffs, lifted up off the ground at the down beat, hovered there for just a fraction of a hemisecond too long, and. . . . Bam! That was it. Oil Can’s drums and Odom’s bass came down, and Parrish just hung there. It was exactly like a Roadrunner cartoon. His pretty-boy, I’m-gonna-conquerthe-world smile was still there billboard bright, but the rhythm had moved along without him. He flew off the cliff,

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smiling, soaring high, but when a second later he looked down, there was no beat underneath him. Oh, no! He actually turned his mouth into a big O, just like Roadrunner’s tormenting coyote. He hung there a second, then fell. There he was, way, way down there at the bottom of a canyon, crashed and burned. There was no way back. The audience shouted and chortled and made a misery of the poor young man. “Go back to Hollywood, you pretty boy!” one woman shouted. “Nah, go back to Fuller Brush!” Barbara Lee crowed. Poor Randall Parrish. He did try to keep playing, but he was a man in total dark desperately searching for a switch. He foundered left and foundered right, and all the while Heddy Days just sat there, letting his band choogle along behind him, the pretty boy pawing blindly to find the beat while everyone else saw it hanging there right before his eyes. Finally, Quick cut him off. He glanced at the judges, who looked uniformly grim, then said, “A valiant effort, Mr. Randalllll Paaa-reee-eeeee-eeeeeeeeesh, but that ol’ stop-time, it’s trickier than you think. Come on, everybody, give it up for Randall. At least he be up here trying.” Though everyone kept laughing, they were kind—well, sometimes kind—at heart, and they showered Parrish with good-natured cheer as he left the stage. The young guitarist stopped right before the two steps down and raised his guitar and pumped it in the air in a kind of victory waggle, but even then this audience wasn’t offended. Parrish’s was the hubris of a clown, and there was no reason not to keep laughing and joking. Then Willie Lee Reed took the stage. He looked like the poor relation of Randall Parrish—a similar metallic show jacket, though Willie Lee’s was faded and splotched, and a similar fine cut to his cheekbones and jaw, though Willie Lee didn’t wear any makeup even on his unworldly purple lips, or anything on his face but a look of focus and confidence. Still, it took the audience a few min-

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utes to see that this next challenger wasn’t another Chucko or Bozo. “Hey, pretty boy, bet you gonna rock Mr. Heddy Days, too,” a laughing female voice called out. “Yep, it’s just Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour here tonight,” a male voice answered. “We got ’em purty ’nuff for TV by the basketful.” There was more elbowing and joshing, but Willie Lee paid no mind. “That him?” Sweet Home said to Josh, who nodded. Sweet Home’s hawk eyes were on the stage. “And you say he’s good?” “All I can say,” Josh said, “is that he feels like he could be good. I didn’t hear him play yet.” “He’s got an air about him,” Barbara Lee said. “I’ve met boys like that. They’re all business.” “Maybe too much business,” her companion, Sally, said. “Not always. Sometimes their business is just doing it right. Doing you right.” “Amen to that!” Sally reached over and gave Barbara Lee’s palm a slap. For her part, Esmé Hunter was slumped down in her seat, as if she were trying to hide. She was watching the stage with distinct earnestness, though she was also deeply quiet unto herself. Her large round eyes, if anything, were even rounder. “You know what they say ’bout a man who plays guitar, don’t ya?” Barbara Lee said. Sweet Home shifted his wide shoulders, then looked as if he’d had enough. “Quiet,” he commanded. “I need to hear the kid.” At that Quick called out through the p.a.: “Ladies and genl’men, we’re up to our third challenger in tonight’s cutting session. This is a young man just off the bus, he tells me, from Dee-troit. That’s right, the Motor City. Down here in windy-

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windy-land. Come to show us how they do it up there. He’s got a name you might think you remember, too, like another Deetroit boy. This is Mr. Willie Lee Reed. Let’s hear it for him.” Scattered applause and, notably, no catcalls. Willie Lee was silent as he stood before his microphone and looked respectful of the older musician next to him. His glance toward Heddy said, I know, Sir, it’d take a monster to be able to beat you. Then there was the way he held his hot-rodded guitar before him. That insinuated, And it’s going to be me. A curious silence in the audience as if they were picking up on the young man’s confidence and presence. Joking time was over, the silence said. And Heddy Days? Nothing ruffled him. He looked exactly the same as he had before each of the other contenders. Eyes sleepy, suit well-pressed. Quiet, patient, and dignified, though when the challenger held up his guitar, Heddy seemed to look at Willie Lee’s long fingers for just a second longer than was natural. Billy and Odom hit their downbeat, and Heddy let them run through twelve bars before he made a move. This time he started off spare. He played four notes, high up the neck of his Stratocaster. Four simple ringing notes, but perfect. A faint smile on Willie Lee. It was his turn, and he took the next two bars and played the same four notes. They sounded exactly like Heddy’s playing; same bends, same pressing feel. But then the young man’s fingers scampered up the neck in a fast and brilliant flurry; a scatter of bright pins that ended when Willie Lee dropped back and played those first four notes just as he and Heddy had before. Was the kid mocking? Nobody in the audience seemed to be sure. Heddy Days simply ignored his young competition. He let the rest of the twelve bar play through, then flicked out his own flurry of notes, if not as bright as Willie Lee’s, no less perfect than his first four notes. But he wasn’t here to simply flash on the guitar. The big man started to sing:

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They call me Heddy Days, bright as the newborn dawn Oh, yeah, they call me Heddy Days, I come at you bright as the newborn dawn You know, when dark night’s creeping into your soul I’m the way to keep gettin’ on. After each line, he flicked off a few stinging notes, and they were the perfect shining counter to his low-down gravelly voice. When he finished the first verse, he looked over for the first time at Willie Lee. There was no immediate expression on his face. Poker faced was the term. Watching the cards being dealt, deciding how to play them. And Heddy had played a most provocative hand: his own song from the early ’50s, ten years back, written around his own name. How could Willie Lee trump this? He couldn’t. All he could do was take a pass, and that’s what the kid did. He lifted a hand and gave a tip of his crushed porkpie to the older man, then let Heddy sing the second verse of his signature tune: The night keeps comin’ and that’s what we call the blues Oh, yeah, the night keeps coming, and that’s what we call the blues But Heddy Days’ll make you jump, and that too’s the true-bone blues. Was that going to do it? Heddy Days in a first-round knockdown, working a song only he could sing? More than one pair of audience eyes looked toward the three somber old judges. Heddy’s move was a masterstroke, and certainly a testament to Willie Lee, that Heddy would throw one of his best punches so early in their match. The band sauntered through the turnaround, half lazy now, no doubt thinking the cutting session was over; but as the musicians headed into the third verse, Willie Lee raised

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his hand to Heddy, a polite Excuse me. May I take a turn? Heddy demurely nodded, Sure, son. And this is what Willie Lee did: He sang the third verse of Heddy’s song, and though there was no way he sang it with the simple gravity and force of the old master, he brought a credible blues tone—clattering boards and creaky floors—to his voice, which shook and rattled in just the right way. But the real blow was that he knew the song so well, and knew just which verse to make his own: I got a lease in my pocket, gonna play it next time I’m in a game Lease to your house in my pocket, and I’m gonna draw to it in my next game . . . At this Willie Lee gave the tiniest of shimmies, as if he were shaking some ancient old tree and just watching bucketfuls of fruit go ping-ping-ping to the ground. He followed up with this final line, and the way he put it over, cool and smooth as ice cream, there was no question just what he was getting at. That’s why even if your name is Heddy Days You’re gonna be thinkin’ it’s time for a change. Silence in the 6-Eye. Nobody was willing to actually admit it, but the kid, if not actually showing up the old man, had certainly come back off the ropes with a real shot. Willie Lee fired a look at the three judges: Keep an open mind now, you hear? Heddy gave nothing away; looked unfazed that this whippersnapper had appropriated his own song, trifled with his own name. No, the old man simply kept his moon face clear as he held his guitar before him. The band brought My Name Is Heddy Days to completion with a punchy crescendo—a blow for the main man from his boys.

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But the crowd kept silent. Appreciating the young challenger. Looking at the judges, who kept their chins on their wizened fists. Waiting to see if Quick might peremptorily say anything into his microphone, award either of the two players a victory. But Quick, too, said nothing. O.K., next song. It wasn’t clear from cutting session protocol who should lead it off, but Willie Lee didn’t care—he jumped right out there. Took a couple steps past the microphone to the very lip of the short stage, looked down at his guitar quizzically, as if it were a magical sword just flown into his hands, then mock-tentatively put his fingers on the neck and sent out a blistering array of notes—notes flashing strobe fast. These were notes so quick and bright they formed a diaphanous curtain around Willie Lee. Had Heddy Days ever played so many notes even half this fast? Willie Lee’s fingers ripped up the neck, and at one point flew beyond the frets . . . he was making notes out of thin air! When he got to the end of the first twelve bars, the kid took a step back as if he were going to let Heddy take a turn, but then, as if seized by some wild power, he couldn’t stop himself; he just kept playing, fingers in a blur, notes flying faster in slivery stabs of silvery tone, bright and jagged as broken glass, squealing out of the amplifier behind him. As his fingers flew and flew, Willie Lee seemed to rise above it all; he lifted his chin, then cocked his right eyebrow and stared down at his no-name guitar as if it really were some magical thing, as if he couldn’t himself believe what was coming out of him. But it was a mock gesture, holding all the unbounded arrogant joy of a kid who thinks he’s smarter not just than anyone in the class, but anyone who has ever before lived. Heddy Days simply looked on with a countenance of steadfast patience. Josh sneaked a glance at Esmé, across the table from him. She was looking up at the stage enthralled, her gaze moving

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between the great man and the wild boy. She seemed to be registering different emotions from each man, a curious alarm and a half-hidden joy. Finally, she focused on Willie Lee. Her wide brown eyes were dilated; Josh could swear her lips pursed into an airy, hot-breathing kiss. Willie Lee Reed threw the guitar behind his neck. He lifted the no-namer over his porkpie hat and behind his head, so the back of the guitar faced forward and his fingers were out of sight; and yet there wasn’t a slip in his playing. Notes still boomed and shattered from the amp. Willie Lee’s mock eyebrow gesture embraced his whole face: Now his jaw had dropped. I’m doing this? Little ol’ me? Right? Right? And it was true, nobody had seen anything quite like it. Willie Lee didn’t stop with just playing behind his head; somehow now the guitar was between his legs, the neck flung up between his thighs, a shining lickin’ stick just waving there, the fiery notes still flowing out. The kid gave a shimmy, let his feet tap across the wooden stage floor, the guitar thrust out before him. Look at me! I’m a natural. I’m God’s gift. Nobody plays as ballsy as this. Whoo-eeeee! Now I got the guitar over my head like it’s a propeller and I’m a helicopter. Whoo-eeeee, whoo-eeeeee! I’m gonna take right off, gonna sail on out of here. Whoo-eeeee! Now I’ve got the guitar in front of my face, and I’m . . . playing it . . . with . . . my . . . teeth! Still the notes kept coming. What was this? A clown? A conjurer? A true sorcerer? St. George do it like this? You got some dragons? Need somebody to ride fearless straight into the lair? You got some problems need cleaning up? What they be, what they be? No worry, no worry. I’m the Guitar Man. Willie Lee Reed is here. A few feet away Mr. Heddy Days didn’t raise an eyebrow. Barely looked at the leaping and prancing young man. Kept his moony eyes half-shut, the wide plane of his forehead

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untraced. Let his guitar hang like cool armor before him. Stood there under the stage lights waiting the boy out. But it was true. Nobody had seen anything like this. The blues, well, they weren’t exactly solemn, and you weren’t even supposed to be down or depressed to sing them; in fact, the true point of the blues, with its muscular grinding beat and soul-rich growling singing, was to make the most of every blinking moment: to get the fiery spirit going so even the cautious and meek got up and grabbed whatever they could. That was the heart of the blues: It wasn’t the eternity train to promises of someday pie in the sky, it was the lowerorder church of get down and take it right here and now. It was the churn and boogie route to salvation; angels in porkpie hats with bad teeth and magic fingers, and God the thump-thump-thump in your hips. It was the cry at heaven that said, You just gimme my music right here and now and I can save myself. Grab-it-all-for-all-it-got. Don’t let nothin’ put you down. Seize it, brother. Move . . . it . . . along! But that didn’t mean the blues weren’t holy sanctified, too, even if the cathedral was a boozy club like the 6-Eye on a Friday night. Nobody doubted that. And yet here was this kid, and he was saying the blues might not be church at all but simply the biggest circus you ever saw. You just take all your troubles, cast ’em up at me, and I’ll juggle ’em and whip ’em and clown ’em into submission. I’ll make music that’ll make you laugh and smile and make your jaws drop. Yessirreee! And Heddy Days didn’t raise an eyebrow, didn’t flick a muscle, though the truly perspicacious could see a thin line of sweat trace from behind his ear to the collar of his beautiful mohair suit. The song—the rattlin’ display—ended with Willie Lee playing his guitar with his boots. How could he do that? Nobody could explain it: He was just playing the guitar with his steak-thick worker’s boots, and it sounded good.

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When Willie Lee was done, he set his guitar down on the stage like it was just that sword he’d happened upon, and now its time was done; then he took the deepest, most respectful bow over it anyone had ever seen. The place went nuts. Oooh-oooohs and Holy-molys boomed out of the crowd like cannon shots. Everyone was laughing and cheering so much that it brought tears to their eyes. Women stood on chairs clapping their hands. Men pounded tables with the bottoms of beer bottles. The applause rolled on and on. The only men seemingly unmoved were the three judges, Grumbling, Baby, and Pirate Jackson. The faintest smile crossed Heddy Days’ lips. The smile said, That was monkey playing. And I don’t worry ’bout no monkey playing. How many out there saw Heddy’s smile? The crowd kept on clapping and shouting. Willie Lee bowed, then bowed again. He was pulling in air deeply, trying to catch his breath. Finally, he picked up his guitar, ran it through his legs again, then flourished it above his head, a wild gesture of success— rubbing in his triumph. Oooh-eeeee, ain’t I somethin’? He raised his eyebrow once more, dropped his jaw all over again. Oooh-eeeee, oooh-oooh-eeeeeee! Josh had seen Heddy Days’ tight smile. It came as just the faintest of intimations, but he knew. Knew it was all over for Willie Lee. There had been something breathtaking and truly revolutionary in the kid’s playing, and something pure, too, notes that at their best ran like a fresh brook. The kid had it. But now? Now his self-congratulatory mugging was turning to shtick. The girl, Esmé, was looking differently at the stage, too. As she gazed at Willie Lee the adoration was slipping from her eyes. There was a kind of impatience, a subtle disappointment. But when she looked at Heddy Days the awe was there. Yes, she can see it, too. Smart girl, Josh thought. But there was something else in the way she looked at Heddy, an

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intensity of gaze as if she were combing over each inch of his large soul, looking for . . . something. Josh was looking almost as intensely at Esmé and caught a trace of what it was: a similar turn to her nose, soigné of course to Heddy’s wide meat, but holding an echo to the great man’s none the same. And more: They both had high-flying cheekbones, almost Indian in their cut. . . . The kid was still breathing hard when Oil Drum, Odom, Levon, and Little Shorty slipped into the next song; they stole into it easy, playing to a molasses-down-a-jar beat, oozing out a gooey, viscous rhythm that got everyone in the crowd moving in much the same way—hips slithering up and down, bellies Turking, shoulders doing a tight little hey-deeho!—and everybody moving quiet, in truth almost all of the motion going on inside themselves, as if that same thick molasses were slurping side to side in their guts. The band’s key was B flat, the seduction key, and on the dance floor couples began to melt into each other. Heddy Days stepped to his mike. Looked out at the audience, his moonlike head held high, his sultry drooping brows hooding his hawk-sharp eyes, his pillow cheeks glistening under the stage light, his gaze waiting, waiting. . . . The band played through one whole verse, Little Shorty blowing his harp in his signal note-bending, mournful style, and Heddy Days was like the audience, barely making a move. Then the second verse, still silent, just letting the music ooze and shift that thickness inside everyone, Little Shorty’s harmonica digging deeper, sluicing that loamy muck right out of everyone’s soul; and it was only when the third verse came up and the great man saw Willie Lee finally get his breath, then take a look over at Heddy that said, Hey, old man, you too shaken to play? This mean I got you? that, well, Heddy took one more step forward and hit a note. One note, using a bottleneck to keen it high up the neck of his Stratocaster. He held the note. Wiggled the bottleneck so it rang and

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rang, as if it were never going to end. Held that note up through the next chord, where the note looked as if it had just peeped its head out from an underground burrow, and hung on to that same note as the band dropped back to the tonic, where the note seemed to scamper back home. And then just before the bump up to the fifth chord, Heddy gave his bottleneck one last squiggle, flicking out a quick question; and when he lifted his left hand off the neck and his note faded softly, the bass and the drums and the harmonica brought their own tight-played answer to that question, closing it right up. One note. Absolute silence. Heddy had said it all. Nobody cried out, nobody whooped. There was a haunted quiet in the room. One note. That was all it took. All Willie Lee’s wild playing and grandstanding swept away in that moment. Heddy Days took his left hand and raised it to his forehead, gave a genial salute to the kid. The judges were extending their hands, thumbs. . . . Willie Lee didn’t waste any time. He leaned back, lifted his guitar neck skyward, bent his body as if he were about to shoot an arrow into the aether, then ran up to the same note Heddy had hit, nailed it, then threw in another note higher up, hammered-on his pinky finger to make that note ring, then let it up and vibratoed the original note to keep it singing; but he didn’t have a bottleneck, and it was just as clear he didn’t have the older man’s patience and ease, and that high, keening note, though it sounded ripe and full when Willie Lee first hit it, started to show holes—quickly got as tattered and spotty as the young guitarist’s show jacket. By the next chord the note had died. The band swung on behind him, but there were no more notes. Willie Lee stared down at his guitar in a kind of disbelief. The look was as if his best friend had betrayed him. With a flick, he tugged the

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strap off the bout hook, let the guitar drop to the floor, and without looking at anyone or anywhere at all, the kid walked off the stage. There was applause, though nothing like before. Polite. Respectful. Nobody that young, it was swiftly agreed upon, had ever given Heddy Days such a run; indeed, only the Sly Fox and Johnny Booker had been able to hold their own. And that behind-the-head, through-the-legs playing? What was all that about? There was no question: The master had won. Almost as an afterthought, down went the judges’ thumbs. Willie Lee kept his head lowered and just kept moving through the room. He looked like he wanted to just keep going, out the front door of the 6-Eye and into the snowy streets, but he had to pass right by the table where Josh sat, and as he did, Sweet Home Arthur stood up and imposed his grand presence before him. “Son, a moment.” The record producer held up his large hand. His voice rumbled. Willie Lee Reed stopped, looked up. “Son, you impressed me.” “That was shit,” Willie Lee said in a growl without any of the timbrous colors of the voice Josh had heard that afternoon. “A lot of things, son, but merde wasn’t one of them.” Willie Lee looked into the big man’s glowing face. Under his tall white Borsalino, Sweet Home’s smile looked big as the starry sky. “It was great,” Josh said. He’d come around the table to Willie Lee and reached over now to pat him on the back. Esmé had gotten up, too, but was hidden behind Sweet Home’s wide back. The kid didn’t seem to notice either of them. He stared into Sweet Home’s eyes. “I think we need to have us a talk,” the record man said. “About what?” A laughing crinkle in the older man’s eyes. “What do you think?”

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“ ’Bout what time the next bus leaves back to Detroit?” “Nope,” Sweet Home smiled. “ ’Bout your new home.” Willie Lee raised his chin. “What’s that?” “You know that song, Sweet Home Chicago? Robert Johnson did it? Well, that’s me, I’m Sweet Home Arthur. And I’m gonna help make Chicago your sweet home.” Willie Lee’s look at the big man: Oh, yeah? He shook his head, took another step toward the door. “We ain’t got—” Willie Lee paused, looked as if he were searching for just the right word. “We ain’t got . . . merde to talk about.” A proud, contemptuous spin to the foreign word. “Hey, Sugar.” Barbara Lee reached out and grasped Willie Lee’s arm. “Want to sit down with us for a while?” She patted the chair next to her. “No, no, big boy, come on over here,” Sally called, even grabbier than her friend. Willie Lee stopped. Barbara Lee’s hand was pulling on his wrist. The guitarist looked down at the two brazen women, their faces painted wantonly, their teeth gleaming. On his face was a vivid mix of wariness and temptation and disgust. “Night’s young, son,” Barbara Lee said. She reached over and patted the young guitarist’s thigh, just inches below his goods, then looked up at Sweet Home, who stood back with a curl of amusement on his lips. “You tell this boy how we got almost the same name? I’m Barb’ra Lee. You’re Willie Lee.” Big saucy smile. “It’s like we could be sister and brother . . . ’cept we ain’t.” Another squeeze on Willie Lee’s thigh. “If you know what I mean.” Something looked to move inside him, and Willie Lee gave his head a sharp shake then stepped back, muttering, “I ain’t got time for this.” He turned and went toward the door. “Son—” Sweet Home reached out, but Willie Lee dodged him and landed right in front of Esmé Hunter, who had slid out of the big man’s penumbra.

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Perhaps it was just the way she’d turned up bang! right in front of him, but Willie Lee pulled up quick. He gave the girl a long look, checking her out, though trying not to be obvious about it. It was pretty obvious, though. For her part, Esmé took in his gaze, giving him a slight smile, sympathetic but playful. She had a hip out in an unconscious vamp, and her curls jounced on her shoulders, but it was her eyes that were most alive: light-filled, playful, dancing before the young man. “Hey,” he said. “And who are you?” She smiled and held out a hand. “Esmé Hunter.” They shook, and then and there it looked like a friendly, proper greeting. “I’m from Detroit, too.” “Detroit?” Willie Lee looked at her much closer. “Do I know you? You look—” “I think I’d remember it if we’d met.” Esmé smiled. “Think you’d remember, too.” Willie Lee didn’t respond to the girl’s smart comment, just stood there. He looked like he didn’t know what to say next. Josh, right beside him, gazed on, amused, but feeling for the kid, too. When the silence got awkward, he turned to Sweet Home and said, “So, you’re thinking of offering him a deal, right?” “ ’Course I am.” Willie Lee spun around. “A deal?” “A record deal, son. Least that’ll be my recommendation. I’m working with Viper Records these days, with Mr. Victor Andruzzi. Mr. Andruzzi, he’s the big boss, you know, calls all the shots.” Sweet Home couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “But . . . I dare say my say’s worth somethin’.” Willie Lee was listening closely, his anger at himself seemingly abated. “We run out of the West Side,” the producer went on. He had wide lips, and he was moving them carefully, speaking in

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orotund tones more fitting for church than a club like the 6-Eye. “Have us some good boys. Got Tiny Lester, he’s our harmonica man. Otis Gooden, young guitar whiz, sort of like you. And we got us some ol’ Memphis boys, Thumper Jones and Sticks McGee, on the rhythm section. “Point is, Mr. Andruzzi, he always be on the lookout for new talent. An’ I think he might like you, I do.” Willie Lee turned to Esmé, who was facing him, her face lit with striking boldness, then he glanced down, looking young and callow. He muttered, “I’m just off a bus, Mr. Arthur. Chicago, it’s a. . . . I mean, I don’t even have a—” “You don’t have you no place to sleep tonight?” The young guitar player said softly, “No, sir, I don’t.” “Hey,” Josh said, “I can take care of that.” Willie Lee raised an eyebrow. “Oh, mighty me! Now we got beds, beds and record deals just falling from the sky.” He looked from Sweet Home to Josh and said, “Why you doin’ this for me?” Josh looked at Sweet Home, who looked from the white boy to Willie Lee, then said, “Well, son, I’m sure if you don’t like what we’re offerin’, you can get yourself nearly as good a snooze tonight on the midnight bus back to Dee-troit.” “No, no, you got me—” Then Willie Lee was silent for a long moment. “I mean,” he went on, “I came here to do me a job tonight, and I didn’t do nothin’. Got up in front of all these people and just . . . did shit.” “Son, what you really did tonight, someday you’ll understand,” Sweet Home said. He reached out, put his arm around the skinny boy. “But I’ll tell you what I see. I see a lot of talent and ability just needs some workin’. And Josh Green, here, all he sees is a boy who’s gonna be sleepin’ on the street if he don’t get a helping hand.” “That’s one thing I like to do,” Josh said softly. “Help music people out now and then.” Willie Lee still looked shy, almost abashed. When he

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spoke, he sounded nearly overwhelmed. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I was brought up in an orphanage, and I wasn’t raised to be ungrateful, it’s just—” “It’s all right, son. You get some rest in you, then come by on Monday and we’ll have us a talk about what happens next.” Sweet Home tipped a couple fingers to his Borsalino. “Josh, you bring him by Viper on Monday, let’s say ’bout two o’clock?” Josh thought for a second that that was exactly the day and time of his marketing class at Northwestern. Not that he’d made the last four meetings. Or even the four before that. “Can do,” he said. “You’ll be all right till then?” Sweet Home asked. “Won’t get into any trouble next couple days?” “Trouble?” Willie Lee spoke the word slowly, innocently, but as he did, he chewed on it, and at each bite it looked like he was shaking off more of his shirking shyness. A quick look stole onto his face that might make a parent start thinking bars on the windows. Josh caught it, smiled. “Sweet Home, don’t worry, I’ll keep my eye on him.” “Oh, great. An’ now I got me a keeper.” “Chaperone’s the word we use, son,” Sweet Home said. “By the way, how old are you?” “Nineteen.” Sweet Home sniffed. “Nine-teen.” “Yeah, what of it?” “Son, I don’t know how you look to yourself from the inside, but from the outside, I can tell you, you look like you got trouble as your middle name.” Sweet Home glanced at Josh. “Hey, think there’s a song in that?” “Trouble Is My Middle Name?” Josh shrugged. “Why not?” “Anyway, son, promise ol’ Sweet Home you’ll be good.” “Promise?” “P-r-o-m-i-s-e. Promise.”

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“O.K., sir!” Willie Lee barked out the final word as if he were addressing a sergeant back in the army. “Don’t worry, Willie, we’ll keep you busy. Tomorrow we can go see the Sly Fox. He’s playing down at the Madagascar.” The kid lifted his chest. “My name’s Willie Lee. Wil-lee Lee. Two Lees there.” Josh shrugged, Sure. “Good idea,” Sweet Home said. “Take the boy around, let him see how the blues works in this town. It’ll be good for him.” It looked like it was dawning on Willie Lee all the good things that were happening. Like that, he started doing a blithe happy-dance with his feet. “Hoo-eeee!” he went, then threw his head back and gazed upward. “Mr. Sky, what else you got up there gonna come fallin’ down on me?” Sweet Home left the table to glad-hand a couple of old friends, and Willie Lee turned to Esmé, who had hovered a few feet back while the men were discussing their business. “So who are you?” the boy said shyly. “I told you.” “You’re Esmé Hun—” Shake of his head. “Hunt—” “Hunter.” Willie Lee nodded. Josh asked, “What’re you doing here?” “I came down from school. Just graduated.” “School, huh?” Willie Lee pursed his brow, looked down, then puffed himself up again. “I was in Germany. In the army. I speak some German and some of that French.” Esmé nodded, smiling. “And I’m sure I’m impressed.” Willie Lee let her dig go past him, but he shuffled back and forth shyly, not looking directly at Esmé. Finally he said, “So why Chicago?” “Well, I know people. Know Sweet Home Arthur, he’s like an uncle to me. And—” Esmé took a deep breath. “My daddy’s here, too.”

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That was it: It all clicked with Josh. The forehead, the cheekbones, even the eyes— “I knew it,” the white boy said. “You’re . . . Heddy Days’ daughter.” Willie Lee looked puzzled for a second, then shook his head. Esmé sighed, then gave the faintest of nods. “You are . . . Heddy Days’ . . . daughter?” Willie Lee spoke with astonishment. Esmé turned back to the guitar player. “That’s what I understand.” “Does he know you’re here?” Josh said. “It’s a long story,” Esmé said. “I haven’t seen him since— well, I saw him once when I was four. That was . . . a while ago.” “You haven’t told him?” “I wrote to him, so, yeah, he knows I’m coming.” Esmé looked up brightly. “But I was going to go up and surprise him after the show.” Josh nodded, then said kindly, “I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful surprise.” Esmé answered softly, “Well, I hope so.” “You’re Heddy Days’ daughter,” Willie Lee said again. This seemed to visibly shake him. A deep breath from Esmé. “Yeah, and I’d better get on with it.” She glanced toward a table next to the stage where Heddy was sitting with his bandmates, a tall icy drink before him. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, but for now you’d better excuse me.” “Are you O.K.?” Josh asked as Esmé threaded her way through the tables. “Man, my head is spinning,” Willie Lee said. “Spin-ning!” “You’ve had a big day. Why don’t I get you home, get some rest.” Willie Lee was still a moment, but then the wind that seemed to ebb and flow through him kicked up again, and

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the guitar player was up on his toes, doing his skyward dance. “Holy Moses, you can say that again! Big day, big day, big day. But Willie Lee Reed’s born for big days. And I love it, I sorely do. I . . . love . . . it!”

✴✴✴✴✴ father’s table with her heart banging in her throat. She was remembering the first and only time she’d seen him. She was such a little girl, and that day was about her first memory. Her mother had spent all morning washing Esmé’s hair, buffing her skin so clean, then dressing her and redressing her in her two party dresses. That was fourteen years ago, when her mother was still just a hair dresser, before she’d bought her first beauty parlor, then her second and all the rest. Her mother, Lillian, hadn’t yet told Esmé who they were going to see, just that it was special. Esmé was four-and-a-half. They were going to a Sunday music concert, which was special enough. Something called the blues. Esmé got caught up in her mother’s nervous excitement, and that was one of the things she remembered best: the way the butterflies tumbled and spun through her, the way her forehead kept flushing hot. Heddy had always sent his checks each month (even if, some months while he was on the road, they came late), and never forgot her birthday. A slim black doll would come each year, dressed in the prettiest dresses Esmé had ever seen, along with a note signed Love, Your Father. But something had happened with her mother, Esmé could never get the full story out of her, and so Heddy never came to see her. On this Sunday, though, they were going to see him. Though her mother didn’t exactly say this to Esmé, she understood it. Her mother, too, primped more than usual—and her mother could easily spend an hour and a half in front of the mirror before she went out—and wore a silvery suit with a pair

ESMÉ HUNTER APPROACHED HER

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of white gloves just like Esmé wore now. Together, they set off on the streetcar downtown. On the way her mother sang LaVern Baker songs under her breath. What Esmé remembered from that day was the vivid smell of her mother’s gardenia perfume as it enveloped her on the trolley; the bustling crowd of towering grownups; their seats (it was Esmé’s first time in a theater) way up in the balcony, so high Esmé thought she was right up there next to heaven; the show way down there on the stage, a cavalcade of loud performers, both men and women, guitars and horns honking, and rough voices crying; and then when the name Heddy Days was announced, the way her mother leaned forward so she almost fell out of her seat. She also remembered clutching her mother’s gloved hand desperately after the show as they fought their way against the surging crowd; the door behind the theater her mother dragged her to; and then standing there, in a light drizzle without an umbrella, for what seemed an endless time. They stood there till the sidewalk emptied and nobody else was around. The drizzle kept falling. Esmé knew they were waiting for something important, just as eagerly as she waited for Christmas morning, but whatever it was never happened. When they finally headed home on the streetcar, her mother was so tense, angry, and wet she was frightening to her. Never again did Lillian take Esmé to see her father play, even when he was headlining in Detroit. Though her mother had made it clear that it was just the two of them against the world, her father was never far from her thoughts. When she was ten she’d started a secret scrapbook and filled it with every article she could find on Heddy Days—this was the blues, and there weren’t that many—but she also discovered Billboard magazine, and when Poker Records took out an ad on a new release, the nice man who owned the magazine store downtown would

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give her the page from his returns. She bought every Heddy Days record as soon as she knew about it and played them all when her mother was at work on a portable record player she loved more than the stuffed animals she was always given as presents. She came to love the music, its rawness, its power, and in spite of her mother’s best efforts to raise “a perfect little lady,” Esmé made the blues her secret joy and escape. She’d listen to her father’s records and pore over the yellowing clippings trying to conjure up the real man. Sometimes he’d be a grand figure who could answer all her questions and solve all her problems; at others he’d just turn up in her night dreams, mercurial, someone who when she went to hug him was more a puff of smoke than a real person. But here he was, finally in front of her. And the longer she stood there without doing anything, the more the savage butterflies tumbled and spun. “Excuse me,” Esmé said. She felt white-hot breaths pull fast through her throat. “You’re Mr. Heddy Days?” Heddy looked up from under his doleful eyebrows. “I’m—I’m Esmé.” That was how she’d planned it, just that one phrase. Not, I’m your daughter or Daddy, daddy, just I’m Esmé. He would either know or he wouldn’t. And if not. . . . The singer had his moony head canted slightly to the side, his mustache set flatly above his lip. He looked almost sleepy, a trademark style with him. There was no motion from him, no pulling back, but also no immediate joy. Up this close he looked old, well, not so much old as kind of ancient, dark and deep and timeless. Esmé felt herself shudder, though not from fear or worry, but as one might in a dark cavern when a stiff wind blew up from its bowels. She stood there and waited and waited. A smile. His teeth were older, yellowing teeth, not that well cared for, and it wasn’t a brilliant smile, but it was full

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and warm and to Esmé it was just like the morning sun had broken. “Welcome, love bunch,” he said. He said . . . welcome, love bunch? Heddy Days? “You know who I am, right?” What, doubt? Why would there be doubt? His smile was as big as the sun. What he said next took what was left of her breath away: “Honey, why’d you wait all these years?” She let go then. Took a step toward him, and just as he was getting up to hug her, she sort of tripped and fell into him. He was so solid: like a big, soft pile of earth. She fell, and he was just there, and the next thing she knew she was enfolded in his wide-as-wings arms. She smelled him deeply, a furious man scent of cigars, whiskey, and his well-worn suit. This close to him she believed she could feel his heart beat: a huge beat just like the bass drum off one of his recordings. Though she’d known some boys, she’d never felt anything like this, never in her memory been this close to a true man. She went so lightheaded she almost fainted. “Daddy,” she said softly. Pulled back just enough to look into his face. He was looking down at her, his eyes wide with what could only be called pride. “Odom and Levon, look at this, this is my daughter Esmé. I only saw her once before. There was—well, a situation. But look at her. Ain’t she the cat’s pajamas?” The cat’s— “Darlin’, I’m so glad to be seeing you. You finally made it to Chicago. How long you gonna be stayin’?” She was breathing in that furious man scent, all worn and smoky—the smell of trouble moved beyond. “I don’t know yet. Depends.” “Come stay with me—” “Is it . . . all right?” “Well, I say it’s all right, it’s all right. ’Course I got me more of a family now, we’ll have to fit you in with them. But

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you’re my flesh and my blood. I’ve been lookin’ forward to this day—” “Oh, Mr. Days, you don’t know how much I’ve—” “Hey, call me Heddy, or call me Pops.” A genial round smile on the great man’s face. “You mean it?” It was all loose and sloshy inside Esmé. She couldn’t quite accept that this was happening. “I’m pretty well done here, don’t see nobody else waiting to try to cut me, so when me and the boys finish up our drinks, we can just skeedaddle.” “Dad,” Esmé said softly, trying it on. “I think I’d prefer Pops.” The great man’s huge yellowy smile that had seen it all. Her father’s smile— “I think I can learn that,” Esmé said. She was coming back to herself; could just feel herself glow. “I think it shouldn’t take me too long till I get that right.”

J Chapter 2

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Willie Lee Reed’s moods spun like a wheel of fortune at a carny: If he wasn’t ringing the bell by crowing loud, he’d hit the sulks. On the way to Josh’s apartment he hardly said a word even as Josh tried to make small talk. Finally, he muttered, “That was sick. That was so goddamn sick.” He spoke in a low mumble; Josh could see his lips moving and make out about three quarters of what he was saying. He went on, “I had that ol’ man, that . . . then I just blew it. That ol’ man, he was just standin’ there. Standin’ there, doin’ nothing! How’d he do that, doin’ nothing? And I . . . I kept trying to punch through, but . . . what a damn disaster. . . .” Josh had a nice one-bedroom on the North Side, paid for by his parents, with an unusual Spanish motif: arched doorways and blue-and-white tiles running from the kitchen to the bathroom. It was a far cry from the wooden tenements Willie Lee had known in Detroit, and his eyes grew wide when Josh turned the key. “You don’t mind the couch?” he said. “My friend,” Willie Lee said, his feet ringing their clatter dance on the tiles, “I suspected I was gonna be in the park tonight.” URNED OUT

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Josh laughed, but of course the guitarist wasn’t kidding. Willie Lee stretched out on the fold-out sofa, climbing under the covers with his pants and shirt still on. Josh sat for a moment watching him. “I have a question,” he said after a moment. “Looking at you, I’m just wondering, people must always be coming on to you.” “Coming on—” Willie Lee yawned. “You know, making you . . . offers.” “For what?” Josh shook his head. How could this Willie Lee Reed be so dense. But there was something detached about him, no denying it, except when he was playing his music. “You know, for love. Fall in love with you.” Willie Lee looked startled. “I mean, I could see how easily—” Josh caught himself. “I mean, any girl could fall in love with you.” “Oh, sure,” Willie Lee said, yawning again. “Of course the ladies do. Sure. Ladies, ladies, ladies. . . .” There was something curious in his tone, a false note to the bravado. Josh didn’t know how to read it. The kid seemed to be lost to himself a lot, maybe that was it; his single-minded focus on playing his music. A second later Willie Lee was out. Josh went to his bedroom, where he lay awake for over an hour thinking of the tall, lithe young man in the room next to him. Saw his beautiful face. Had thoughts all jumbled and burdened and in their distinct way redolent of Willie Lee’s earlier selfcastigating, though at bottom it was pride that allowed him not to do anything more. In the morning over cornflakes and canned peaches the kid was beaming. “Hey, I slept great—can’t remember the last time I had such a sweet night. In Detroit, I was sleeping in a room coulda been a refrigerator box. Know what I mean?” “Glad you’re here,” Josh said over a bite of cereal.

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65 “And dreams?” Willie Lee went on. “Hoo-boy, I had some stuff happening to me! You shoulda seen it. Cars, fancy guitars, and women, man, ladies running hot and cold. Everything a guy could want. All just laid out like it was on a plate.” Willie Lee bounced up and down a couple times, his voice rising shrill in braggadocio, but Josh easily heard the underlying false notes. It was like the kid was grabbing elements out of a cartoon fantasy as he went along: his voice airy and wishful, a young kid in a toy store. “I am the greatest,” he went on, grabbing confidence now. “That’s it. I am just one boo-tee-ful Negro.” The kid raised his eyebrows. “You agree?” Josh smiled and lifted his spoon to the kid, a saluting tribute. It seemed harmless enough to play along, and the boy was glorious, the high spirits just spritzing off him. “That’s how I’d call it.” But as he said it, his loudest thought was, What are Willie Lee’s secrets? What is this kid covering up? “Damn right. Now what we gonna do today? You gonna show me some of them sights? Some of the fine parts of my sweet new town?” That’s what they did. The snowstorm had passed, the air crisp and clean in the nostrils; a brilliant sun sparkled silver everywhere Josh drove the two of them. Down Lake Shore Drive, around the Loop, farther out along the lake, all the while Willie Lee soaking it up with his big eyes and making endless hoo-eee, all-confidence noises. That night they saw the Sly Fox at the Madagascar Club, back on the South Side, where everything was dirtier and more crowded. Josh, known at the club for his taping, was being shown to an up-front table, but Willie Lee held back by the curving bar. He stayed back there watching the amazing Fox perform. The stage was just a small platform, a drummer, guitarist, and bassist crowded together, and between them was this huge, fullback-sized guy with bulgedout brown eyes, his head jutted forward, then lifting as he

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crowed into his signature song, Look Out in Your Chicken Coop. A moment later he was down on his hands and knees, a fat green microphone cupped in his hands, and he was actually padding on all fours around the stage, amid the sticky spilled beer and cigarette butts, howling into the mike, then tilting up his head as if chasing the midnight moon. He flashed quick, sly eyes, and no way you knew what he was going to sing or do next. The Sly Fox was a completely mesmerizing performer. The kid took it all in. Didn’t say much. No raucous bragging, no traces of his earlier despair. Just a calm sizing things up. The Fox wasn’t playing a guitar, though he did accent his grunts and moans with a grunting, moaning harmonica, and perhaps that was the reason Willie Lee didn’t look inflamed with envy or a killing competitiveness; or perhaps it was just that this man before him was so clearly a simple force of nature—a woolly, black-furred, square-jawed man-beast risen out of myth—that any response other than total awe would be all wrong. On the way back to Josh’s place Willie Lee remained quiet, clearly working over all he’d seen. But the next morning he was ripe with his bursting confidence. “I’m gonna take him—I can do it.” Willie Lee said. “Who’re you talking about?” Josh had made an omelet, a dish the kid had clearly never seen before. Willie Lee looked at it like somebody was serving him tire shreds; but after Josh had insisted he try it, he inhaled the whole thing in five bites. “Who do you think: the Man.” “Heddy Days?” “Good Days, bad Days . . . Heddy Days—I’m gonna take that man!” Willie Lee banged his hands on the table. “When?” Josh was smiling. “Tonight?” “Whenever he shows his wrinkled ol’ face.” Willie Lee was bouncing in his seat.

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Josh lifted an eyebrow. “What do you have now you didn’t have Friday night?” No immediate response. “Hmmnn?” “I can do it, I’m gonna take . . . that . . . man.” Willie Lee tried to hammer the last words home, but it was clear the bragging in his voice was fainter, self-circumscribed. “That Heddy Days, he’s gonna be—” The kid just let the last word hang. Josh swallowed the rest of his orange juice, then said, “I think you want to go with what you already got—” “Whatta ya mean?” “Sweet Home Arthur.” Willie Lee was silent a minute, sipping his coffee, then he said, all enthusiasm, “Then let’s do it. Why don’t we go see that Sweet Home man today?” “It’s Sunday.” The kid started bouncing again in his seat. “But I can’t wait. The world can’t wait. Willie Lee Reed’s got himself an appointment with destiny.” “Yeah, yeah, appointment with destiny,” Josh said, laughing. “Might be true, my friend, but your appointment’s not till tomorrow at two.” Willie Lee stood up. “I’m gonna go see him now. You know where he lives?” “Nope.” “But somebody will, right?” “I don’t know who.” “Come on, let’s go find him.” The kid stuck out his arms, twirled around till he looked dizzy. “I got rockets in pockets. Lookee, I’m one of them newfangled jet planes. I just gotta take off!” It took a while but Josh got Willie Lee calmed down. He had to do it, but he was hesitant also; in truth he was a little in awe of the kid’s fiery, shoot-the-moon energy, his certainty. Now they had all of Sunday afternoon staring them in the face; and everyone knows what Sunday afternoons are like.

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Josh looked over at his textbooks, thought he really ought to take a look at them. He might be going back to classes, he just might. The kid had pulled a paperback mystery off Josh’s bookshelf, then kicked his feet up on the coffee table and starting turning pages avidly. What would it be like, Josh wondered, to know so clearly what you want to do with your life—to be so bold in going after it? He looked at Willie Lee’s high cheekbones, his perfect chin. To just go after what you want with such abandon, such fire. . . . He sighed as the bottom fell out of his stomach. I’ll get there someday, he told himself. I will. The next day Josh drove the kid to the West Side, on a street with little but bedraggled pawnshops and liquor stores with tilted signs. They found the record man at his office— well, the rattly pine table Sweet Home called his office—in the back of the record store Vic Andruzzi ran. Andruzzi himself wasn’t there, but his dwarf wife, Miriam, was up front staring through the dingy window with the curved black lettering: VIPER RECORDS. She was a really short woman with piled-up hennaed hair, three lines cut like canyons through her forehead, and too much makeup. She’d been dragged into her husband’s stupid loser business with the Negroes, and she gave Josh and Willie Lee a look like poison, then glanced down at a tabloid newspaper. They pushed through the narrow racks of 45s and LPs to the makeshift studio/office in the back. Sweet Home lifted his large head, tipped back his Borsalino, and said, “Hey ya, kid. How’s it hangin’?” Willie Lee nodded, shuffled his feet nervously, then beamed brightly and said, “Doin’ just great, Mr. Arthur.” “You know, you shoulda come by yesterday. Didn’t realize Monday’d be such a stretch.” See, Willie Lee went with his eyes to Josh. “Now,” Sweet Home said brightly, “let’s go crack open that ol’ world like it’s a sweetmeat nut.” Willie Lee tilted his head quizzically.

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“Pack up your ol’ guitar, son,” Sweet Home said. “We’re gonna be takin’ us a trip.”

✴✴✴✴✴ his own home, a free-standing threestory house on 54th Street, off Washington Park, the whole place not too large, but each room open and airy. It was the pride of his life. Esmé loved it at first sight. There was a small concrete porch that her father liked to sit on, rocking on a metal chair, sipping a beer, letting the neighborhood come up and pay its respects. They’d sit out there afternoons, Heddy tipping his porkpie at whoever walked by. They gazed out over a front lawn bedizened with flowers: daffodils, jonquils, and hyacinths. Sefronia Jones, Heddy’s common-law wife, had a green thumb . . . and an iron will. Sefronia was a nurse at Chicago General and worked the four-to-two a.m. shift, which meant she was around the house most of the day. Which made the house smaller than it should be, even though her and Heddy’s kids were grown and moved out. Tensions started almost immediately. Heddy was such a grand soul, and Esmé was surprised when she was introduced to the short, large-eyed, firm-jawed Sefronia. It was the first night after the cutting session at the 6-Eye, and her father was showing her the guest room, fumbling around trying to find sheets and towels. “Where does that woman keep that stuff?” he cried. He was going from closet to closet, Esmé following behind, casting her eyes on the framed photos on the walls: Heddy with other blues luminaries, Heddy with Abe and J.V. Vokelman, Heddy with Martin Luther King, Jr. “Damn! I know there’s sheets some place. Stick with me, girl, we’ll find ’em, get you settled down in a minute.” Sefronia, off her shift, let herself in the front door. She dropped her keys on the table in the foyer, pulled off her

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nurse’s cap, called out softly, “Heddy, you still awake?” then pulled up short when she saw Esmé. She stood there, leaning forward, right in front of Esmé and her father. “Who’s this?” “Now, Sephie, I’m tryin’ to get this girl settled. And I can’t find the damn sheets.” Sefronia kept her eyebrow cocked, then said, “You know where they are. Don’t be such a fool.” She led them to a closet Heddy had already poked his head into and pulled out well-starched white sheets. “Now who is she?” “She’s visiting from Detroit.” Heddy’s eyes were half shut, that languorous, nothing-bothers-me, snake-deadly look he had on the stage. “Thought we could put her up for a spell.” “It’s three in the morning.” Sefronia’s eyebrows were flying. “You going to tell me who she is?” “In the morning, pumpkin.” Heddy wiped a hand across his brow. “Let’s just get her settled, and I’ll tell you everything later.” “Can’t you least tell me her name?” Sefronia gave off a sly smile, as if she was quickly coming up with her own explanation for this attractive young girl’s presence. “I’m Esmé.” She held out her hand. “Esmé Hunter.” Her first name nipped at Sefronia, but the second one bit. “You’re—” “Now, Sephie, I said the morning,” Heddy said firmly. He raised his hands in a gesture of comity, though Esmé picked up on the desperation in his tone. “It’s late, we all be needin’ us some rest. We’ll work it all out in the morning. What you say?” That morning Sefronia cooked a stack of waffles, the house flooding with the crisp, golden smell, and Esmé ate them with strawberries and a flood of syrup. Heddy’s common-law wife seemed . . . pleasant. They’d clearly had a talk, and what Sefronia had intuited, Heddy had confirmed. But pleasant was just her hostessing on the surface; underneath, as she quickly came to discover, Esmé was simply Heddy Days’ child by

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another woman. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand and empathize, but that didn’t make it any easier. Esmé quickly learned it was best to stay out of Sefronia’s way. She’d sleep late in the morning, keeping hours similar to her father’s, which meant the first time they’d see each other was at lunch. Lunch was the household’s big meal, and Esmé feasted. After that Heddy headed out to the porch, a couple quart bottles of beer in his hands, and his daughter would join him. She could tell he did love having her here, talking out his life: his mother and brothers crowded into the postage-stamp-sized sharecropper’s cabin, working the tractor in the mulchy, fetid Mississippi fields, starting to play in run-down sheds transformed into weekend juke joints, learning his craft, finding his voice, then taking the long train trip north after the war. “Chicago was a different town then,” Heddy said one afternoon. “It was truly a blues town. Everybody loved the music—you could hear it on every corner, just blarin’ out all over the place.” “What I hear, you were the best right away.” Heddy tilted back in the metal rocker. “Well, people say all kinds of things. But I did get me a band together pretty easy, and me and my boys got us plenty of work. ’Course, with clubs, must’ve been three times as many goin’ then.” “And you got signed to Poker right off?” For all that Esmé had tried to follow her father’s career, it left her breathless to be hearing about it from his own mouth. She was careful not to ask too many questions or seem too eager; just cherished each moment sitting with him and letting the stories come. “Seems that way, yeah. Ol’ man Vokelman, he come down to the Madagascar and listened in, and next thing you know, I was signin’ a heap of papers.” Heddy laughed. “Think they did O.K. by me, though. Sold a heap of records, least back then.”

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“What’s goin’ on now?” Heddy sighed. “Don’t rightly know. I’m just playin’ my music good as I can, take the rest as it comes.” There was a note of sadness, exasperation in her father’s tone she didn’t feel she could yet go at further. “But let’s not just talk ’bout me. What’re you gonna be up to here in Chicago?” “No plans, really.” Esmé smiled at her father. “Just takin’ it all in.” “That sounds pretty good to me, young girl like you.” Heddy smiled at her, then got a funny look on his face. “I got me one question.” “Yeah?” “Any boys in the picture?” “Pops!” “Well, come on, darlin’, I can be curious, can’t I?” Esmé forced out a smile, stifled a sigh. “No, Pops, no boys.” No, there weren’t any boys, at least none that she was interested in. That was one of the reasons she was here in Chicago, see who might turn up. She caught herself. But somebody already had: that kid who’d taken her father on and almost whipped him at the 6-Eye that first night. O.K., there was her sigh—she couldn’t hold it in any longer. That boy, Willie Lee Reed was his name, she couldn’t get him out of her thoughts, even though she knew it would be crazy to try to see him again way things had gone with her father. “Well, pretty girl like you, you gonna find yourself a boy lickety-split.” Her father raised an eyebrow. “And when you do, you remember I’m your Pops. I want to meet him. Want to look that boy in the eye and see if he be worthy of my li’l girl.” Would Heddy care if Willie Lee Reed did come around? Well, Esmé had no particular hope of ever seeing the boy again anyway, so what did it matter? Still, she found herself all lit up at his words. What a sweetie her ol’ man was turning out to be.

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“Promise?” “Promise what?” “That you’ll be respectful of your Pops and bring any suitors round to meet him. Serious suitors that is.” She laughed at the old-fashioned word suitors. “I wouldn’t be holding my breath.” “Oh, you never know.” “O.K., Pops.” She laughed again. “I promise.”

✴✴✴✴✴ A ROAD TRIP—a

booked engagement out of town? What next was going to fall from the sky? Was it Memphis, New Orleans, New York City? In his mind’s eye Willie Lee saw gaily spinning tires, bright silver ribbons of asphalt, and adventures just hanging down like ripe fruit to pick. So where were they going? Gary? Where was that? Gary, Indiana, son, home of steel and smoke . . . and more smoke. Sweet Home said, “We’re gonna warm you up out of town. Got you a gig at the Tru-Bowl Lanes.” “Tru-Bowl . . . Lanes?” Willie Lee frowned. “Lanes means . . . bowling?” “Son, it’s a good place to start. You’ll see.” They filled the car with Sweet Home, Willie Lee, Josh, and the backup band the record man had hired, then ran down the four-lane road between Chicago and Gary, out of the city, through fallow fields and muddy farms. Soon the air thickened; it was a gray, acrid cloud looming ahead of them. The air took on a metallic tang as they got closer, beginning to make out the heavy limestone buildings of Gary’s downtown. Tru-Bowl Lanes was a long, one-and-a-half-story building, around the corner from a row of tire-repair joints and pawnshops and just south of the 9th Avenue train tracks. Josh, who hadn’t been to Gary before, was amazed by the vivid line

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drawn by the tracks: On the northern side were neat, singlestanding stone and wood houses, and on the southern, tilted, squashed-together shanties; on the north side, tall oaks and wide lawns, and on the south—called the Patch, once marshy swamp and still swarming with mosquitoes—nothing but narrow roadways, cracked concrete, and trees and bushes on this April day you couldn’t imagine ever sprouting leaves. The bowling alley butted right up to the tracks, but it was still on the south side; and inside the carpet was threadbare, the shoes people rented had holes in the toes, half the balls had chunks out of them, pool cues along the wall curved like bananas, and from a coffee shop adjacent a thick, greasy aroma settled over everything. It was 5:30 p.m. when they pulled up in front. The place was half filled with kids bowling. The loud whizzing of balls down the lane, the crack and crash of hitting pins filled the cavernous room. Willie Lee took one look around and said, “I don’t see no blues club here. I don’t even see no stage.” Turned out the stage was in a lounge behind the alleys, not really a room as such, just a sixty-by-sixty-foot opening off it; there was a short wooden platform, raw plywood, even closer to the ground than the one at the 6-Eye, and the whole shebang was so close to the lanes that each time a ball hit the pins the crash ricocheted around the room—you could almost see the noise moving, from behind, then to the right, and finally flying back out to the alleys themselves. Sweet Home laughed. “It’s the blues, son, what can I say?” The band set up their amplifiers and the drum kit, Sweet Home paid a pin-setter on his break a couple bucks to stand guard, and they all went out to dinner at a gizzard joint three blocks away. The grease in the air here was even thicker than at the Tru-Bowl. Josh almost gagged going in. Sweet Home pinched the waitress, who called him “doll.” The record man smoked a cigar all the way through dinner. His stomach quiet, Josh dug into a plate of chicken with rice and gravy,

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famished. Willie Lee was quiet and sullen at first, but after facing down, then licking clean a gravy-rich plate of sirloin tips, his high spirits got the best of him. “O.K., O.K., I don’t care where I play, long as I play my music. Comprende, my friend?” No one paid him any mind, just kept eating. “Now I ain’t rehearsed with you new boys—” Willie Lee waved his fork toward the backup band, Thumper Johnson on bass, Sticks McGee on drums, and Tiny Lester on harp “—and you might not get everything I’m doing, but don’t worry, I’ll carry you.” Sweet Home swallowed a bite of banana cream pie; he seemed to like his dessert in between bites of chicken and dumplings and puffs off his Cuban. Then he said, “Kid, don’t be a jerk. These boys have played around.” Willie Lee popped wide eyes. “I’m sure they have.” “No, I mean . . . these boys have played around. You ever hear of Bearcat Jackson?” “Down in Memphis? Cryin’ Shame with Sonesta Clarke.” Sweet Home gave a slow nod. “Well, you ain’t a total idiot.” He took a big bite of the pie. “Sticks and Thumper were in his backup band.” Willie Lee shrugged. All right. “And now they’re here to help put you over.” But Willie Lee was irrepressible. “Gonna have to play loud,” he said. “Think we can do that?” “Loud?” Thumper said. “So we can be heard over them goddamn bowling balls.” Everyone gave a smiling nod then, meaning, Oh, yeah, we can play loud. And so they could. The four musicians set up on the wooden stage, warming up by honking notes through black Fender amplifiers turned up to ten. Clippety-clippety-clop, McGee ran his drumsticks around the small kit. They were purposefully shooting their blues into the alley itself, but all

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that came into the lounge was the smashing of balls against pins and the pins clattering away, then the whoosh as the ball rolled back to the player. There was one other white guy in the room—Vic Andruzzi, owner of Viper Records. Sweet Home hadn’t been sure he’d show; the label owner had made a point of saying if he did come, it wouldn’t be squashed in with the help but in his own black-and-white Caddy. Andruzzi was nothing if not conspicuous, especially here in the Tru-Bowl. He was about five-six, not much taller than his wife back home, and he favored open-neck knit shirts and loud-checked sport coats— the one tonight was black and maroon, over a pink-andyellow Banlon shirt—along with a string of thick gold chains. He was the kind of man who’d been reading Playboy since it had come out ten years before but still got it all wrong. Andruzzi had come to the blues by a circuitous route. As a young man he’d been in construction, then after the war had sold aluminum siding, before he got married and made a nice career leap: His wife had a few, um, connections, and soon Andruzzi was driving a black Lincoln and making pickups on policy numbers. He ran a liquor store for a while, which did O.K. but was boring; and Vic Andruzzi if nothing else needed action. He complained to Miriam, who did what she could. Vic had always liked music, though his tastes ran toward Mario Lanza and Johnny Roselli, and the family had decided to put him up in the record business in the West Side ghetto. In truth, he’d probably be happier peddling discs out of a store in Cicero, but his backers knew there was money to be made from the coloreds, and even though Miriam hated it, the West Side it was. It was Andruzzi’s one life inspiration that instead of just selling the black discs, he could make them; and if his clientele liked this loud raucous noise called the blues, hell, he’d damn well give it to them. Better that than leave all the business to that Polack Abe Vokelman over at Poker.

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Some damn good records were now coming out on Viper, though that was probably only because Andruzzi had been savvy enough to pick up Sweet Home Arthur after Vokelman had fought with him and Sweet Home quit. Andruzzi had told Sweet Home he should be grateful to him, and, well, he wasn’t sure that the colored really was. But Andruzzi knew that Sweet Home gave his soul to the rackety Negro music, and, hey, here it was Vic Andruzzi, not Abe Vokelman, who was checking out this hot new kid, so he shouldn’t complain, should he? Except he’d just lost a bundle in a game that afternoon in Chicago—money increasingly not there to be lost—and was in a foul mood. Kid better be worth this trip down to Gary. Andruzzi knew better than to really trust any colored, and Sweet Home better not be pulling him. Andruzzi, hanging in the back, beckoned Sweet Home over as Willie Lee took the makeshift stage. The two older men passed words. Josh could see Andruzzi looking around the virtually empty lounge, his perpetual scowl deeper than usual. Sweet Home held up his hands: patience. Finally, the kid was all plugged in; Sweet Home lowered his hand, the house lights went down, some sad little twirling colored bead lights glowed wanly, and Willie Lee said into the microphone, “Hey, Gaa-reeee! This is Willie Lee Reed here to entertain you. Come on in, get down with some . . . bluuuueesssss!” The band crashed right into a version of Dust My Broom, taking off from Elmore James, who took it from Robert Johnson, but Willie Lee not sounding like either of them. He sang about getting up early in the morning and going out and dusting his broom, then fired his fingers high up the neck, a quick strafing, then dive-bombed back down the fingerboard and whomped out a line of bass notes. The band was right behind him, and he was playing great, and . . . nobody was in the room.

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Josh, hanging by the opening to the bowling alley, could tell the music was getting out on the main floor, but no one seemed to notice. Maybe they thought it was a radio? Or they were too wrapped up in their matches? Willie Lee seemed not to worry. He finished Dust My Broom and launched right into an original, Woodward Avenue Blues: I’m gonna ride my Dodge down Woodward Avenue Gonna ride that Dodge all ’long Woodward Avenue Gonna sit in that car till some sense comes back to you. His singing was sharp, incisive, brilliant. And no one was there to hear. Josh watched Vic Andruzzi, who well as he could seemed taken with the kid’s music, but then his gaze would wander over the empty room, and Josh could see the wheels spinning. Willie Lee kept going. He finished up Woodward Avenue, then jumped on another homemade song, swooping his long fingers up and down the neck faster than anyone had ever seen. Sticks and Thumper and Tiny Lester were clearly having a great time behind him as Willie Lee smiled and jigged all across that stage. There was something wonderfully unleashed about his performance, even more so than at the Friday-night cutting session. Sweet Home’s idea was a good one: to get him right out here, away from the Chicago pressure, where he could really cut it all loose and . . . draw not a soul. By now the lack of attention was clearly getting to Willie Lee. At one point he stopped and said, with sharp contempt, “And that’s why they call Gary, Indiana, the Home of the Blues.” He went right on playing his set. Meanwhile Andruzzi was putting on his heavy alpaca coat. Sweet Home spoke a few more words with him, then went to Willie Lee on the bandstand; and though the kid

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kept playing his usual wild notes, he was also deep into conversation with the record producer. Finally, Willie Lee nodded. He gestured to the band to keep going, then got down and unplugged his beat-up guitar. He took a second cable from the case for Thumper Johnson’s electric bass, and left the performance lounge altogether. Josh couldn’t figure where he was going, but Sweet Home just gave a sage nod. Andruzzi stood there in his alpaca coat, twiddling his stubby thumbs. The kid was gone about three minutes. When he came back he had a long length of plain old brown lamp cord and some black electrician’s tape. He bent over the cables and lamp cord, and when he was done, he plugged his guitar back into his amp. He played out some cord. Then some more. Then . . . more. The band had kept going, and Willie Lee fell back in with them, his guitar notes as slippery and sleek as ever; but he was off the stage now, unlooping the cord, past Andruzzi and Sweet Home, past Josh by the opening, and out into the bowling alley itself. He walked up to a group of young women, all wearing the same blue-cotton jackets with a logo that read HARRISON CLEANING SERVICE, and began playing to them. He crouched over, brought his ax up by his chest, bent notes with abandon, smiled, danced with his magic feet. The young women stepped back. Who was this crazy boy with the puffed-up natural hair and shiny, worn gold showcoat, sticking his guitar in our faces and playing . . . like an angel? “Hey, hey, ladies, come on,” the kid called to them, chanting to the beat, “we’re in a groo-ooo-ooove here. Come on, come on, come on.” Then to the next lane over, a bunch of men in paneled shirts, smoking cigars, who stopped bowling just long enough to hear the music coming from the lounge behind them and look at the happy fool. “Hey, you guys, we’re rock-rock-rockin’ here. Come on in!”

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And they did. There was such joy and exuberance flying off the kid that everywhere he went with his beaten guitar and the jury-rigged cord—it was at least 200 feet long—he got converts. As if Willie Lee Reed were the fabled Pied Piper, they danced behind him back into the music lounge. There he kept moving, leaping and prancing, the cord snaking through the jiving crowd, all the while tethered to the amplifier, the music booming out loud and wondrous and true. Had they ever seen anyone play like this before? The blues, well, you’d never call it sedate, but it usually was played on a stage, or maybe in a dusty parking lot around Maxwell Street on a Sunday morning, but who’d they ever see go into the crowd . . . and keep going? The kid did, and these bowlers in Gary loved it. Ten minutes into the enchanted show Vic Andruzzi went up to Sweet Home and mouthed clearly, “Sign him.” Then the short record label man turned, said louder, as if this was a pronouncement nobody dare argue with, “I got me a midnight game back in town,” and took off. Willie Lee played three sets, and he played them like he’d never played before. Pretty soon into the show nobody was left bowling, and when the kid finally quit, he was playing to a crowd that stretched well back into the alley, and to the consternation of the manager, onto the wooden lanes themselves. At one in the morning, the band packed up. There was going to be a party at a black-only hotel on Washington, not far from the bowling alley. “Don’t worry, son,” the producer said to Josh with a jolly smile, “we’ll just cork up your face. You got the curly hair anyway. It’ll be no problem at all.” But Josh had an address on a piece of paper in his pocket, and it was starting to burn a hole. He excused himself and told Sweet Home he’d meet them at the hotel at whatever time he wanted for the ride back. “I’m not gonna ask,” the producer said. “But these par-

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ties, sometimes they go all night. Then there’s no reason to sleep; ’sides, by dawn you’ll be dyin’ for your own bed. Better get here early, no later than seven?” “Seven it is,” Josh said, hoping that he, too, wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night.

✴✴✴✴✴ RUFUS SHAW, THE PROMOTER in Gary who had set up the Tru-Bowl show, was hosting the party. Shaw had been in the office overlooking the alleys when he’d seen Willie Lee head out to the lanes and round up an audience, and he’d been impressed. Shaw was a short, rotund, cigar-smoking, hairslicked-back gentleman, most notable for a silver pin the shape of a lucky four-leaf clover in the lapel of his red-andblack pin-striped suit. Among other things Shaw was the king of policy in Gary, and he went almost everywhere with a large retinue, all of whom piled into the hotel rooms—all kinds of hangers-on, junior mobsters, dice men, loan sharks, as well as a hive of girls who put new spins on the word bad. Not to mention a host of the town’s finest citizens, black and white bankers, religious men, elected politicians, all of whom loved their nightlife. Shaw was working the crowd, bright smiles, glad hands, claps on the back for his more powerful guests, on his way to greeting Willie Lee Reed. For his part, the kid hung back in a corner, talking only to Sweet Home Arthur and feeling intimidated by the crush of people and the way the gig had gone. “Hey, kid, lighten up,” Sweet Home said, leaning back on his heels and scoping the party. He was pleased to note that his white Borsalino was clearly the nicest hat in the joint. “They loved you.” Sweet Home was nursing a tall Scotch; Willie Lee was drinking Coke, as usual. The record producer was trying to console the kid, but his true attention was

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more and more on the bevy of attractive ladies Shaw had brought to the party. “You had ’em crowdin’ into that lounge, all of ’em on their feet.” “You think so?” Willie Lee was in a postshow stew of selfdoubt. As he saw it, he’d had to work awfully hard to get the crowd’s, well, Willie Lee didn’t think it was love, no matter what anyone said, just a kind of easy attention. And he’d had to spend huge amounts of his own flash to get these Garyites to do anything. Flash was fine, and he did love being the showman, but afterward he always fell seething with guilt. He wasn’t totally sure why, just had an instinct that a show like this in Gary wasn’t getting him any closer to taking down Heddy Days. “Kid, gotta say, you’re the shits down here in Gary.” “Yeah, Gary.” Sweet Home lifted an eyebrow and winked at a lady with a huge feather boa wrapped around her neck, then said out of the corner of his mouth, “Listen, son, don’t knock it. I got us a plan for you, and you came through tonight. That’s no small thing.” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Sweet Home’s sharp eyes shone down on Willie Lee. “You givin’ me lip, son?” Willie Lee really wasn’t, he was just distracted. He shook his head no, then shrugged. He looked up at Sweet Home till he saw the older man’s attention snap fully away from him. The older man’s head just spun around. Willie Lee turned to see what had so grabbed Sweet Home. “Ooh, look at that,” the record man said. “What?” “Fox that just came in.” Sweet Home nodded toward the door, where a tall, striking woman with a bold silver stripe through her thickly curled black hair had sauntered into the party. “You ever see anything like that—look, that woman there, with the skunk stripe?” Sweet Home wasn’t the only

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man glancing her way; half the men in the room were cocking an eye at her. They tried to be subtle, but their gazes kept flicking away from whomever they were talking to and following the stunning woman. “Jesus,” Sweet Home went on with a slight grimace, “I knew me a skunk-stripe lady once, down South.” Sweet Home shut his heavy eyes for a second. “Holy foolin’, I’ll never forget her.” Willie Lee found himself watching the woman with the silver stripe with an urgent curiosity. He’d never seen anyone quite like her. She had perfect cheekbones, a dimpled chin, and wide Betty Boop eyes—but in no way was she cartoonlike. She seemed to float along on her five-inch stiletto heels, moving with a slinky grandeur and a brilliant hauteur, her black sheath slit daringly high up her left thigh. She seemed to know just what she was doing but also clearly paid it no mind. And so it wasn’t her obvious sexiness that Willie Lee was responding to as much as something more unsettling to him: a faint but distinct sense this woman put forth that she knew of things profound and mysterious; a touch of recognition in Willie Lee that rattled him deep in his soul. “Look at the way men are going for her.” Sweet Home gave his head a shake. “Man, she’s some prize. But that stripe—” Just then Rufus Shaw came up to his guests of honor and bellowed, “Sweet Home Arthur, Sweet Home Arthur, how you doin’, my man?” Shaw was dark as pitch and spoke with a gruff baritone, words more grunted than articulated. “Pretty good.” The way Sweet Home half smiled, it was clear he didn’t know who this was. “Hey, I’m Rufus Shaw. I own the Tru-Bowl.” Sweet Home gave a friendly nod and held out his large hand, which swallowed up Shaw’s. “Glad to meet you.” “This the boy, eh?” Shaw said loudly over the crowd noise. He moved in next to Willie Lee, looking up at him. “This is him.” Sweet Home reluctantly turned his

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attention from the skunk woman and dropped an avuncular hand on Willie Lee’s shoulder. “He did well at your place tonight. A few problems at first, but he came through in the end.” “I know,” Shaw said, nodding. “I was up there in the booth.” Out came his hand again, this time pointed right at the kid. “I’m Rufus Shaw.” “Willie Lee Reed.” The kid shook Shaw’s hand politely, but with no great enthusiasm. He was still thinking about the woman with the silver stripe and didn’t see the need to slather up this Gary butterball. “Yes, it’s an honor,” Shaw said, looking down at Willie Lee’s long fingers with quiet curiosity. Then he turned to the record producer and added, “You know, Sweet Home, I’m expanding here in Gary. Going to be opening me a club soon.” He tapped his lapel with the brilliant silver pin. “Call it the Four-Leaf. Going to be movin’ into recording, too. Label’s called Steelworks. Seems appropriate, eh?” Shaw was bouncing on the balls of his feet, which gave him an extra inch or two every couple of seconds. “What do you think?” Sweet Home gave a pleasant but noncommittal smile. “Good luck,” he said. This was just some guy in Gary after all. “Well, yeah.” Shaw drawled out the last word. “I was thinking maybe your Willie Lee Reed here could be Steelworks’ debut artist. Willie?” “It’s Willie Lee,” the kid said sharply. Shaw barely shrugged, turned back to the record producer. “Sweet Home, what do you think?” “I think we got us a deal already, Rufus. With Vic Andruzzi of Viper, back in Chicago.” No emotion crossed the club owner’s face. “And that’s all, well, consummated?” “Yeah.” “I see.” Shaw stepped back, rubbed his hands together.

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He was a cool man, and you couldn’t say he was looking nervous. “Vic Andruzzi.” “It ain’t Poker, but, yeah, I think it’ll be good exposure for the kid.” “O.K., well, then, that’s that.” Shaw stepped back, still no visible emotion, then glanced around the room, beckoning to the woman with the silver stripe who Sweet Home and Willie Lee had been so fixated upon. “Darlin’, come on over,” he said with a big, proud smile. “I want you to meet our special guests. Gentlemen, this is Silver—wanna guess why that’s her name?” The elegant woman with the large eyes and bright silver stripe came up and stood next to Shaw, rising over him. She draped a fine-boned hand on his shoulder. “Hi,” she said to Willie Lee, “I’m Silver.” “That’s your . . . real name?” It was a curious thing to say, but it just popped out of Willie Lee’s mouth. She smiled, then winked. “Real enough.” Shaw patted her arm. “Silver here, well, she’s a genuine asset to me—to my business. Aren’t you darlin’?” “I try to help,” she said. Her voice surprised Willie Lee; it was soft, gentle. Actually, it only surprised him for a second; after that, it seemed just the voice to blend with the stirrings he was feeling deep within him. “More than that, she’s been like—well, she’s always been like a daughter to me. I took her in when she was . . . not quite what she is now. Right, darlin’?” “I owe everything to Mr. Shaw, I truly do,” Silver said, and her tone rose to a put-on flutiness; the clear ironic spin to her words was lost on nobody, even Shaw. “She’s something, eh?” Shaw said. “It’s a pleasure,” Sweet Home said. He held a halfentranced, half-cautious look on his wide face. “Silver here, she just loves bluesmen,” Shaw said. He did something, stepped back or sideways, that made it seem as if

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Silver had stepped forward, right in front of Willie Lee. “Don’t you, darlin’?” She rolled her eyes a little at Shaw, the way a seven-yearold girl would when her father told people how much she loved to play with dolls. Then she gave Willie Lee a smile and said, “I love the music, yes. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hear you tonight. Word is you were really amazing. I heard about a long, long cord—” A faint rise to her right eyebrow. “Boy got himself an audience, that was true. Worked damn hard.” Sweet Home gave his shoulders a shake. “We’re proud of him.” Through this Willie Lee kept quiet. Silver was standing only inches from him now, and it was an amazing thing: She wasn’t touching him at all, and hardly moving, but heat came off her black skin and just pressed and warmed him up and down his side. He wasn’t at all used to this and felt more than a little confused. “I just . . . played,” he said. “I’ve seen ’em comin’ and goin’,” Sweet Home said, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder, “and Willie Lee, he’s the true article.” “That’s what I’m saying,” Shaw said. He stood back watching with a quiet smile the way Silver was moving in close to the boy. “And I think it’s a damn shame a boy like that’s goin’ to a . . . a paisano motherfucker like Vic Andruzzi.” At Andruzzi’s name, it sounded like there was something stuck in Shaw’s throat, and a second later he made a loud, rough clearing-it noise. “Sweet Home, you ain’t gonna reconsider? I can do better than Andruzzi straight up.” Sweet Home did give it a moment’s thought, then shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me anything about Vic Andruzzi. Not a damn thing!” His thick eyebrows went up. “But I am working for the man, and . . . he is in Chicago.” Sweet Home smiled genially, then shrugged: That be that. Shaw as before looked unruffled. “Well, so be it,” he said

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with a biblical finality. He reached out to shake Willie Lee’s hand one more time. “And how long are you here in Gary?” Silver asked Willie Lee, stepping even closer to him. There was something very soothing in her voice and the way she spoke her words. Her locution sounded educated, and Willie Lee found that surprising but also curiously welcome. “We got to get back, get to work,” Sweet Home said. “Goin’ as soon as the party’s over.” “Oh,” Silver said, then glanced down at Shaw. “And it’s right up to Chicago?” “Straight up Route 20.” “You know,” Shaw said, “Silver here, she has relations up in the City.” Silver smiled: “My mother.” “She’s a little shy, but she’d love it if you could give her a ride. Right, doll?” Willie Lee looked closely at Silver. She looked anything but shy, but what did he know? He did like hearing this about her, though. “I don’t know if we got room,” Sweet Home said, quickly reading the situation. “We’re pretty full up, got us Willie Lee’s band, and this white boy who came down with us—” But Silver wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “Sugar?” she said, moving even closer to Willie Lee. The temperature coming off her went up by degrees. Willie Lee dug his fingernails into his palm, a swift, excoriating pain to counter what he was starting to feel. “Just a ride to Chicago so she can see her mother,” Shaw said. Willie Lee took a deep breath. His face was growing hot. He clenched and unclenched a fist, and shuffled awkwardly back and forth. “Damn, boy,” Sweet Home said, “if you want her to come so much, just say so.”

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It still took him a long minute, and it was an awkward one, because what kind of red-blooded man wouldn’t want this woman cuddled next to him in a car all the way back to his new home? Everybody was looking at Willie Lee. Finally, he said, “We can fit her in, can’t we?” “Damn right,” Shaw said, finally letting out emotion in a surprising rush. Silver moved up and slipped a hand around Willie Lee’s arm. Like that they simply seemed to be together. “It’ll be fine, Mr. Arthur,” she said. “I can just sit on this sweet boy’s lap. I won’t take up any extra room at all.” And Willie Lee? He looked both abashed and thrilled.

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HE KEY TO A GREAT BLUES recording is the sound,

and the sound comes from three things: everybody playing in the same cramped, crappy room, with no baffles or anything else between the players, the music one sinuous flow bleeding into the mikes; everyone playing as loud as they can, sound as ear-grinding as a cement mixer; and most important, getting a hot signal, searing the music to magnetic tape so deep in the red that any proper RCA or Capitol Records engineer would run screaming from the room. It takes a certain mooncalf innocence to put together a worthy blues session, raiding gambling dens and rounding up hungover or busted-flat players, gluing up the necks of their guitars so they won’t fall off, keeping them in tune, making sure they know the lyrics (famously, the Sly Fox, who lost no pride not being able to read, often had lyrics shouted into his ear even as he sang them), keeping the beat, then making sure the engineer is fearless enough to capture music as magical and evanescent as a firefly in a glass cup. The Viper Records studio was a fifteen-by-twenty-foot room behind a shop that sold records and took in phonographs and black-and-white TVs for repair. The room was encased in white acoustic tiles, microphones hung off boom stands, there was a smattering of scarred-top wooden stools. Over in the corner sat a battered upright piano. Half a dozen

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gold-tweed amplifiers lined the walls. The floor was peelingup linoleum, cracked just enough, it turned out, to trap stray reflections and actually make the room not too live, not too dead. In a corner walled off by a big glass window was the control room, with a shiny Ampeg recorder and a mixing board crammed in next to an aluminum-rimmed green-vinyl kitchen chair. The control room and studio could comfortably hold maybe seven people. Here today were Willie Lee Reed and Sweet Home Arthur, as well as Sweet Home’s go-fer, a soulful-eyed sixteen-year-old kid and budding bluesman called Jimmy Cricket. There was the backup band from Gary—Thumper Johnson, Sticks McGee, and the harp player Tiny Lester. In the control room was, Shoes McGee, the engineer who was Sticks’s brother and also partially deaf, which meant he recorded more by the way the music physically hit him than by its sound. Next to him was Vic Andruzzi, rubbing his hands together like a proud parent. Also in the main studio room was Josh Green, who had dogged Sweet Home the previous day till the big man said he could attend. If that weren’t enough, the woman with the silver stripe in her hair was there. Sweet Home had ensconced Willie Lee in the Marigold Hotel on Cottage Grove, and it turned out that Silver went there with him. Sweet Home didn’t like the feel of that, she was too close to that Rufus Shaw in Gary, but the record man knew he should keep the kid happy, and evidently Silver was what he wanted—certainly she wanted him. Right now she was dressed like a million bucks in a slinky black-and-red dress suit and a pure white silk blouse with a silver pin. Sweet Home took a close look at it and was pleased to see it wasn’t Shaw’s trademark four-leaf clover; instead it was a horseshoe turned luck-side up, with a root shape within it. The root shape tugged a deep southern memory in Sweet Home, but he couldn’t place it. For the rest of it, Silver’s hair was upswept, and she looked sexy and

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savvy at the same time. She didn’t say much, but she kept a close eye on Willie Lee. It was suddenly boiling in the small room, and at Sweet Home’s request Jimmy Cricket opened a window; a truck backfired, blat! blat! blat! right outside, the big man shook his head, and Jimmy pulled it shut. Then it got hot again. The heat pipes were whistling, a high C sharp, and Shoes McGee kept pointing at them from the control room. Sweet Home shook his head hopelessly, then had Jimmy tell Thumper and Willie Lee to turn up louder. “I’m as loud as it gets,” the kid said. Then he issued a huge smile. “Want to put me through another amplifier?” Sweet Home put a finger to his chin, nodded, then said, “Jimmy, get that Y cable, send the boy through that Bassman over there, too.” “Yes, sir,” the boy said. He was a shy, sweet-tempered, jug-eared kid from down Sweet Home’s street. He loved music, sang fine, played the guitar with raw but prodigal ability, and could make sounds come out of his mouth as rich as any musical instrument. That’s where his nickname came from, the way he clicked and clacked through a range of percussion. He seemed to prefer this to speech. Jimmy hooked up Willie Lee’s battered guitar to two amplifiers and turned both volume knobs up all the way. When Willie Lee hit a chord it shook the walls. “Holy shit!” Shoes McGee cried in a kind of maniacal glee. “That pinned the fucker.” The players bustled about, trying to get everything set up. Sweet Home waved Jimmy over to open the window to get another blast of cold air into the room. Josh took one of the stools in the corner next to Tiny Lester. He’d taken off his coat, and now he put it back on, then took it off again. No way was the place going to get comfortable, but he hardly cared. He hadn’t been to a serious recording session before, but he’d prevailed on Sweet Home that he’d practically dis-

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covered Willie Lee and, besides, the kid seemed comfortable around him. Sweet Home, who was worried about how Silver might distract Willie Lee, evidently thought having Josh there couldn’t hurt. And now, though Vic Andruzzi, tapping a rubber-erasered pen against the control-room glass, looked bored through the preparations, Josh kept his eye on everything. It was a big graduation from his own efforts toting around his Studer recorder to even this backroom studio, and he didn’t want to miss a thing. “O.K.,” Shoes said through the control room mike, “I’m ready when you are.” Sweet Home glanced at Willie Lee, asking, Ready? Willie Lee was looking at Silver, leaning against a wall, her long, black-stockinged legs stretched out noticeably. He had an oddly diffident look; seemed floating half above all the preparations. He was thinking about something Silver had said a couple days back: “Sure, you go ahead with your recording session, try to make yourself a big hit. But if it don’t work out, Willie Lee, don’t forget I got some of my own ideas.” And she wouldn’t say more. “Willie, hey, you ready?” The kid looked at Sweet Home a long moment, almost disdainfully. Finally, he replied, “Willie Lee.” Sweet Home rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, kid, come on, you ready?” Now there was a quick flash in Willie Lee’s turbid eyes, a furious spark beneath the coolness. “Ready? I’m ready, ready, ready,” the kid started singing into the aluminum boom mike, mimicking the Little Richard song from a few years back. He kicked his feet in a smooth tap dance. “I’m ready, ready, ready—to rock and roll.” He gave out his beautiful smile. Sweet Home made a gesture that said, Well, yeah. Then a nod to Shoes and one word: “Tape.” Everyone started playing. Willie Lee stared at Silver, his

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eyes strong on her, like he was talking right at her, a funny kind of all-attention that made it look as if playing music were the furthest thing from his thoughts; indeed, he hardly seemed to be holding his guitar, yet after a few bars of rhythm, his fingers flew up the neck, and out of the linked amplifiers burned a brilliant sear of notes. Tiny Lester pulled a green bullet mike up to his harmonica and howled a rush of notes as Willie Lee lifted his head to the microphone directly in front of the drum kit, then at just the right moment sang, “I got the kind of woman, she wants lovin’ all the time.” His gaze hung on Silver all through the obligatory repeat: “Yeah, I got the kind of woman, she wants lovin’ all the time.” A flurry of notes, wiggle of his shoulders, then: “If I give her all she wants, what’ll be left to call me mine?” A fine-line smile cut between Sweet Home’s lips. Willie Lee had been flashy and proficient and amazing, sure, but he hadn’t been that sexy, not in his music; but this song, it was easy to see the producer thinking, pos-i-tive-ly dripped. I keep my hands up guarding, that woman’s looking for a hole Yeah, the more I keep guarding, the more she’s lookin’ for a hole But I say, ‘Listen to me, woman, I gotta hold on to my soul. Vic Andruzzi, his shoulders relaxed now under his pink sports coat, was just as obviously thinking, Money. Mooooore money. She says she don’t understand, what’ve I got to lose? Yeah, she’s just not understanding anything ’bout what I got to lose But I tell her to her face, ‘Nothin’ less than my best friend, the blues.’ Yeah, nothin’ less than my best friend, the blues. When the song ended, Sweet Home said, “That an original?”

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Willie Lee held this big smile, but it was quiet—inner looking and dull glowing—as if he were an old rich people’s family heirloom polished up. “A what?” he said. “Did you write that?” Willie Lee, still in front of the microphone, saying, “I guess so.” “You . . . guess so?” “Well, I just made it up now, that writin’ it?” Was he kidding? Sweet Home rolled his big eyes again, as if he just couldn’t know, but the gesture was different now, underlain with respect and admiration. There was a phrase they all used for blithely inventing something brilliant out of nothing: air music. “Whattaya call it?” “Ain’t got that far.” “My Best Friend, the Blues,” Sweet Home said with a swift finality. “And it’s our A side. You got a B side you can pull out of the air, too?” Willie Lee smiled. “Just get the boys playin’, I’ll come up with somethin’.” And he did. A faster tempo this time, a song about coming to Chicago, ending with the verse: So now, old Chicago, put your hands in your pocket, you got nothin’ to fear You old Chicago town, you know you got nothin’ to fear Things are gonna rock ’n’ roll now that Willie Lee is here. This time a fat, saucy cat smile on the kid’s face. He beamed out, saying, “You want another one?” Sweet Home laughed. “No, no, that’s enough for now.” And that was it. The whole session done in less than an hour. “That was great,” Josh said, coming up to Willie Lee as he pulled his guitar cord from the tweed amps. “Really great.”

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“Hey, thanks.” “No, I mean it,” Josh said. Willie Lee smiled in a way that said, Of course you do. Right then Silver came over. She entwined her hand with Willie Lee’s, then kissed his ear, just like that, wet and sloppily. Josh turned his head. When he looked back she was whispering to Willie Lee. The kid was silent, absorbed; he pursed his brow, looked down a moment, then blushed. Silver kept her words, to Josh just faint mumbles, coming. Finally, Willie Lee took a step back, then vividly shook his head no. Silver’s smile was light, playful, diaphanous. Her eyes glowed almost unearthly. Willie Lee shook his head again, then turned to Josh. There was both bravado and desperation in his voice when he said softly, “That’ll show that ol’ Heddy Days, right?”

✴✴✴✴✴ you could cut a couple sides on a Friday, have boxes of 45s in hand on a Monday, get the A song on the radio Monday night, put the discs in record shops, furniture stores, beauty parlors, and package stores all through the neighborhood on a Tuesday, then wake up to a hit on a Wednesday—your song blaring out of every radio and record player in town. Or you could do all this and find out that somebody else greased disc jockeys better than you, the song playing out onto the street didn’t get anybody to stop in their tracks and turn in to buy it, there was a new release from somebody with far more fans that same morning, and your bullet-bright Friday 45 has just become a midweek misfire. Of course on that tremulous Sunday before his first record was to be released, Willie Lee Reed was certain that My Best Friend, the Blues was going to blow the spout right off WHEN MAKING A RECORD

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the kettle. Look at it: He’d shown up in Chicago, and two weeks later had a free place to live, a record in the can about to come out, and a woman living with him, by God! Woman living with him . . . hmnnnn. Things with Silver were, well, not as she wanted them—which she was only making too clear. What she wanted from him she was both endlessly vocal about yet also hid from him in her secretive, satin-veiled way, but what Willie Lee knew was this: The simple truth was that she simply wasn’t seeing him right. Silver thought what everybody thought: To be a true bluesman you had to have cavernous appetites, be a cozyin’up buddy of the devil’s, collect ladies like charms, sport trouble as your moniker. Oh, yeah, Willie Lee had known trouble, little but, but the tight flame of his purpose on this earth left little room for such worldly distractions. He liked a wild time, sure, well as the next guy; but he also found he didn’t like what liquor did to him, not to mention white powders or hand-rolled smokes, and that he had, well, some hesitations about getting too close to the ladies. That’s what Silver really didn’t understand: That he wouldn’t simply jump right into bed with her. He didn’t know how to tell her that his true course besides music—the at-bottom salvation in this life—wasn’t guided by desires for women or inebriation or vice but by a simple, old-fashioned book. It was called The True Soul, and it had saved him. He hadn’t been much in school, the terrors of his foster-child life messing him up too much, but once he’d gotten to Germany in the army, there’d been so much time on his hands, and so little difference from one day to the next, that he just started reading everything he could; and reading became his secret pleasure. He’d discovered The True Soul in the trash—in the trash!—in the barracks in Grafenwöhr, the freezing base up near the Czechoslovakian border where he was stationed. It

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was a pocket-sized book, with a dog-eared cover and yellowing pages; an old book, printed, according to the frontispiece, in 1908; and, curiously, there was no listed author, just a publishing house in London called The Third Eye. The book had caught his attention atop a pile of discarded paper cups, greasy sausage wrappers, and the limp condoms used with the prostitutes soldiers actually smuggled into the bunkroom. Willie Lee had always hated to see anything go to waste, and he just picked up the perfectly decent-looking book and put it in his pocket. Later, after his life had changed, he could never quite explain to himself why he’d taken The True Soul, but when that same afternoon he started reading it on guard duty, from the first page each word sounded within him with a lightning fury. He was in a small wooden shed, an ice storm blowing around him. He had a flashlight with weak batteries dribbling out a yellow light. All morning he’d stared out into the bleak white tundra. He had a way then of letting his mind go fully blank—it was the only way to get through the hardship duty— and just let the blankness of the world around him ease into his own being. And it was when he was in that still, unmoving, purely empty state that he pulled out that small book that he’d just pulled from the trash and read the words: “The only truth you need to know is the truth within yourself.” At the moment there was no truth within himself; there was nothing. The words that followed played on his utterly white canvas: “You own the True Voice. That is all. Just listen to it.” He listened. More nothing. In Detroit he’d led a confused, desperate life. He’d been parentless, a city castaway, used and abused by Reverend Stockton, and now an army private. There were parts inside him still so raw and bruised he flinched each time they were touched. Still, he explored himself carefully—nothing. Was it possible there was no True Voice inside him? Reverend Stockton had told him that

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the only voice that mattered was Christ’s, but he’d beaten the Lord into the boy, and Willie Lee could never hear talk of Jesus without wincing. He’d known the fire in his fingers, but that seemed way back in America; there was truly nothing inside him now. Just this utter white blankness on the seeming edge of the world—and this book, The True Soul, burning under his eyes. He turned the page. “The True Voice will speak to you in time. And when it does, it will simply say: Listen.” He read on. You had to be quiet to hear the True Voice, and quiet was, surprisingly, the gift of his being in the army. He went daily to his wooden shed in the middle of the iceblown landscape, and his only worry was Russians coming over a small hill half a mile from the barbed-wire perimeter of his base; and though Willie Lee was a diligent guardsman, he figured that if the Russkies really were coming, he probably wouldn’t be the first to see them. So he read his book. The True Soul told him that he was a Singular Soul, with a gift that the world would cry out for; but that he had to treat his gift carefully or it would be betrayed. He’d always understood his gift to be his music, though not everyone agreed. (In one orphanage after the Reverend Stockton’s he’d had his fingers beaten with wooden rulers whenever he was caught playing the out-of-tune piano in the basement.) But he persevered in his faith in himself, and now in the guard shed he would lay The True Soul down and practice his music. He had to do it in his head, imagining a guitar, his long, knuckled fingers bending and pressing over invisible frets hanging in the air, but that was fine—made his practicing even more perfect. Slowly he came to understand that the True Voice was his music, his guitar. But it wasn’t a given. According to The True Soul, his True Voice could be betrayed. There was much in the world that could betray him. He could in fact betray himself. That was

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a phrase he didn’t immediately understand. There was nothing in his experience (or perhaps there was too much in his experience) to let him see it clearly. He read on, and finally he understood. To betray himself meant to take what was light and pure inside him and make it dark and wrong. That’s what the book said, and the words were a blessing to him: It was all in his power. There were temptations in Germany, as there had been temptations all his life, and before he found The True Soul, Willie Lee had taken those temptations. He was no virgin, for sure, but by the time he read The True Soul, three years after he finally left the Reverend Stockton’s, he’d come to recoil from what the book called the Blistering Thing, for the way his skin burned and his soul showered him with guilt and despair. He came to understand that all temptation, sexual or darker, was the opposite of his True Voice. It was never easy, all those long days on the post, pinching his thumbnail into his skin to keep the youthful desires down, to let the quiet surround him until the voices in the dark were beaten away only by the loudness and force of his True Voice. The True Soul said that if he was good, his soul would cherish him and his musical gift correctly. It was like the way those prizefighters did it, especially that Cassius Clay, whose bouts were so thrilling: You had to keep yourself to yourself, pure, your febrile energies turned inward where they would make you stronger and more focused. Above all you had to avoid temptation. Silver was nothing but temptation. That first night in the hotel room she’d slowly undressed, her beautiful clothes falling off her as smooth as a dance, while Willie Lee sat in the room’s one chair watching, his manicured fingernails tight into his wrists, his legs crossed violently before him. She spread herself out on the bed, then smiled welcom-

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ingly to him. For his part, Willie Lee only felt fire up and down his wrists and ankles. He didn’t move. “Darlin’?” “In a minute.” Willie Lee thought that sounded like what he could say in this circumstance, even though he didn’t mean it. “In a . . . minute?” Silver shook out her unpinned hair. Her silver stripe ran from the roots all the way to the tips of her hair, like a long, curving river, and she sailed a hand through it gracefully. “What’re you waiting for, darlin’?” He was waiting for her to go to sleep. He couldn’t say that, not yet. He said, “I just want to take in your . . . loveliness.” “Oh, how sweet.” She sat there proudly, letting him look, enjoy. “O.K., now why don’t you come share my—” a little laugh “—loveliness.” He stood up swiftly and left the hotel room. On the way out he said over his shoulder, “I got to get some air.” Out on the street he was breathing in and out as wildly as a steam engine. He bowed his head in his hands and cried to himself, Be true, be true, be true. When he went back up an hour later, Silver was asleep. He lay down next to her in all his clothes and looked at her. There was a place in The True Soul for women, and he wondered as he had from the beginning if his instincts were right: that this woman called Silver was his Soul Partner. He recalled the chapter in the book that he’d read with poignant longing. Your Soul Partner, it said, exists apart from your daily life; they come before your time on earth, and will live beyond it, too. Only they can see into your True Soul. How do you know them? When your Soul Partner speaks, they will echo your True Voice. Their True Soul will harmonize with your own True Soul. The result is Music, a True Music that harmonizes with the Magic Chord of the Universe. What made him stick with Silver was that he believed he’d seen the light of the True Soul in her eyes. That was the

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recognition he’d sensed that night in Gary. The book went on to say that not always did both Soul Partners recognize each other at the same time; often only one recognized the shared soul before the other. But if they were true Soul Partners, their bond would always be revealed in the end. But she didn’t see it yet, and he wasn’t sure; and till then he just couldn’t be with her in the way she wanted. The next morning she’d asked him what was wrong, and he just told her he wasn’t ready for her that way yet—wasn’t at all. He was sorry. “You don’t have to be sorry.” Silver was in a pink sheath dress, her hair sporting a daisy on the other side of her stripe. “I just don’t . . . understand.” “Are you mad?” Silver took a thoughtful second, then said, “Can I say I’m disappointed?” After a moment Willie Lee shook his head. She nodded. It was not at all clear what she was feeling right then, probably not anger but some dismay and impatience; and a fitful uncertainty that made it obvious she’d never met a man who acted like this before. That’s how they were, though. Silver did nothing to hide or dull her sexual interest, and Willie Lee did nothing to address it. Each night he walked the streets till she fell asleep, then tumbled asleep himself in his day clothes. This had been going on for a week. On this night they were back in his hotel room after dinner. Sweet Home had just left a message with the night clerk that the first boxes of My Best Friend, the Blues would be on the street in the morning. The kid was dancing around the room, snapping his fingers loud as castanets. “The record’s really got you going, yeah?” Silver said. She sounded a touch exasperated. She was sitting against the backboard of the bed, her filmy blouse untucked from the short skirt rising up her long, black-stockinged legs.

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“ ’Course it does, mama!” Willie Lee threw a wild shake of his head. This was the most free and animated he’d been all week. “It’s gonna shake the world by its tail.” And he bent over and wiggled his butt like he was some kind of funky chicken. Silver had to laugh. “You do that better’n I’d have thought.” “Do what?” “Shake your tail feathers.” “Woman,” the kid crowed, “I am a man of many talents.” “Oh, yeah?” Silver rolled over on the bed, her flimsy silk blouse lifting so that the bottom of her black brassiere was showing. “Like what?” “Someday you’re gonna see.” “Someday?” Silver raised an eyebrow. She leaned over, and one of her breasts nearly fell out of her blouse. “Why . . . someday? Why not right now?” That caught Willie Lee up. He stopped his tall-knee marching about, clipped his arms close to his side. Looking straight at her, he gave a his head a quick shake. “What is it, Willie Lee?” Silver said softly. “What is it that keeps you away from me?” He shook his head again, tighter, fainter than before. “Don’t you think I’m thinkin’ about you all the time? Don’t you think I want you—want you bad?” Silver licked her upper lip. “And shouldn’t I at least get an explanation?” Willie Lee sighed, long and loud. He had learned in the army that when it came to The True Soul, people were just waiting for some reason to poke fun. But those people didn’t have the True Voice in them, or anything like the True Voice. Now Silver . . . would she understand? She seemed very smart to him, which was surprising since she was so beautiful. He just didn’t know if he could trust her. He did realize that just now he’d sort of flirted with her, and maybe that meant he owed her more than just his silence.

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O.K., a deep breath. And slowly, carefully, he told her all about the True Voice and the Inner Soul; how he hoped they could share the True Voice—how they would if she just . . . listened. She did listen, quietly, thoughtfully. It was all he could ask for. There were her beautiful eyes, which would open so deep he felt he could just leap into them like a cool green pool. And there was her silence, which he loved. She got very quiet and listened to him, and off of her came a silence that carried music. It was a silence similar to that he’d known in the guard’s shack in Grafenwöhr. The effect on him was startling. As he explained everything to her, Willie Lee also closely eyed the silent, in-drawn Silver, remembering how he’d been struck by his first glimpse of her; that touch of deep, mysterious recognition. In her silence she felt so close to being what a Soul Partner must be it scared him. Then she started talking. “Willie Lee, I just don’t know.” Silver gave her head a shake. “I understand they’re words that mean a lot to you, and don’t get me wrong, I know they’re beautiful words.” Her voice slowed. “I know a thing or two about words, too, you know, honey. Was a time I was just like you, loved the sound of my own mind. Yes I did.” Silver closed her eyes, looked to be deep within her own memories. There was a pure, innocent glow to her skin that captivated Willie Lee. “But then, well, I learned about the world. Learned how it truly works. How you want something, as much as you want your record to be a hit, and it don’t come free. What you have to give to the world to get anything from it.” “What do you mean? What do you have to give?” “Sometimes, Willie Lee,” Silver said softly, carefully, “it’s that same soul you be talkin’ about.” The kid shook his head. “That’s not what my book tells me. It tells me all about betrayal and falseness. Tells me all about letting the true things go—”

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“Is that what you think,” Silver said, her eyes brightening. “That I’m trying to take your true soul?” Did he think that? The kid was silent. He didn’t want to believe that, but he just didn’t know. “Come here, baby.” Silver was using the softest, gentlest, cooingest voice she had. She stretched out on the bed, her left breast showing half its eggplant-colored nipple, smoothly caressable skin rising up her neck. “Come on—” Willie Lee was scrunched into the chair, arms wrapped around his knees, feet all the way up under him. In a small voice he said, “I can’t.” “Willie Lee?” Silver’s hand quick, stimulating on his arm, down his side. “Darlin’.” “No, Betty Ann.” Silver flinched, gave her head a shake. In a moment of distraction she’d told him her given name, Betty Ann Norton, before she got her silver stripe and became Silver, but she didn’t like to hear it; it stirred up too many things. “I asked you not to call me that.” “But that’s your true name,” Willie Lee said loudly. “We’re talking about you bein’ my soul partner. What about you being your true name?” Silver glared at him then. He’d pulled one on her, and she hadn’t expected it. She adjusted herself so that her breast was covered. “I am who I am, darlin’.” There was a bite to the word darlin’, and Willie Lee heard it. “More than I am— than you think I am.” “I bet.” Willie Lee was smiling. Damnit, he was getting to her. She felt a flush of anger toward the young boy. She was here to do a job, but he was making things so . . . complicated. O.K., a deep breath. She wasn’t here to lose focus. She adjusted herself one more time in the bed, exposing her aubergine breast again. It’s full flesh peeped out over her camisole. She spread herself back

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on the bed and opened her legs, shifting enough to hike her skirt way up her thighs. “Willie Lee,” she said, drawing his name out, exasperation in her tone now, “why don’t you just come over here and do what any ol’ man would want to do.” The kid pulled his head back. She’d been this direct before, but then he hadn’t let his guard down by telling her about his book. He told himself he was no more tempted than before, but he also knew it wouldn’t be so simple to avoid her. He felt open to her in a way he hadn’t before. It wasn’t as easy this time, but he had to do it. He shook his head once, swiftly: No. “Aaaagggghhhhh!” Silver went, throwing her arms out wildly, thumping them on the mattress. She flopped around the bed for a moment in complete frustrated release. Then she propped herself up on her elbows and said straight at the kid, “What in the devil is wrong with you? What is it?” The way Willie Lee looked over at her, it was as if he were in shock. “You’re not man enough for me, are you?” He was silent. His face reddened. “It’s really as simple as that, right?” Willie Lee kept silent, but he was shaken. Was there something wrong with him? Was that what she really thought, he wasn’t man enough for her? After all he’d told her? That was nonsense. “Of course I want you,” he said, loudly, finding his braggadocio voice. It didn’t sound like him but it was him. “What do you think?” Silver cocked her eyebrow. “Well then?” Willie Lee was up out of his chair, pacing quickly. “Well, I got things on my mind.” Silver laughed softly. “What else could be on your mind, darlin’?” “My—my record.” “Oh, that.” Soft, dismissive.

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“What you saying?” The kid’s voice lifted. When he’d mentioned the record, he suddenly felt on safe ground. But he hadn’t expected her cool tone. “Just that I think you’re makin’ an awful lot of that record.” “My Best Friend, the Blues? What you sayin’ about that?” Now Willie Lee was strutting alongside the bed, waving his hands. He held on to the idea of the record with clenched fingers. It was so much better than the Blistering Thing. “Sugar, don’t get yourself so upset.” “But you’re sayin’ something ’bout my record.” “Willie Lee, don’t shout.” Silver sighed. “It’s a good record, it is.” “Now what’re you sayin’!” “Oh, Willie Lee, look, you’re all upset.” Silver flicked back her striped hair, ran a hand demurely through it. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Tell you, let’s just see how it does.” “Damn right see how it does! That record’s gonna kill ’em—” “I just hope you’re right, sugar.” “But you’re sayin’ something, ain’t ya?” Now Willie Lee spoke more softly. “Talk like that, you gonna hex it.” He looked at her glaringly. “I’m not doin’ no such thing.” Silver was leaning on her arm now, her blouse back all the way over her chest. “I’m just sayin’ let’s wait and see. I’m hoping it’ll do good.” “Damnit, woman, you gonna hex it!” Willie Lee cried. “You’re putting some bad mojo on my record!” Silver was silent a moment, a faint smile on her face, then said, “Now how could I possibly do that?”

✴✴✴✴✴ MY BEST FRIEND, THE BLUES came out on Monday morning, and Sweet Home Arthur had promised the record would be booming out of storefronts in South Chicago and all over the

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radio, but when Willie Lee went nervously walking the streets that morning, a beautiful May day with a slice of wind off the lake to make spirits soar, he didn’t hear it anywhere. He heard new and old tunes by Johnnie Booker, the Sly Fox, Billy Boy Arnold, Jimmy Cotton, Johnny Shines, Big Walter Horton, and of course Heddy Days, but his own record wasn’t anywhere. He kept walking. He was a little concerned but tried not to let it get to him. Still, he wondered why it wasn’t out there. Where was his record? What was going on? One reason he didn’t hear it was that Vic Andruzzi, the owner of Viper Records, had one thing he loved more than music or anything else: cards. Andruzzi had a taste for the cards that made his nose actually twitch when he smelled a game. This hadn’t always been the case, but in the last seven or so years it was only during a poker game that he could forget himself. It was like magic: Put a spread of cards in his hand and nothing else existed, not his marriage to the dwarf, not his rocky business, not the tense relations with his relations—Miriam’s brothers—that kept threatening to spin disastrously away from him; nope, nothing but the red and black numbers, the sly, unrevealing smiles of the jacks, queens, and kings. Poker was even better than drinking, though of course the game and hooch went hand in hand. A good game felt like a hot ball of oblivion he could hide inside. Andruzzi craved that oblivion; it was all, he understood too well, that kept him going. This life was hard, and he counted it a blessing that he’d found such an effective way to slip its bounds as regularly as he did. At bottom, he knew, he’d sacrifice anything to keep the game going. Of course, he wasn’t playing for matchsticks. Lately, luck had been running against him—actually, it almost always did—and Viper Records had fallen into some trouble, so there wasn’t as much money as there should be for pressing up discs. With My Best Friend, the Blues, Andruzzi

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had run off only 900 copies, reasonable, he thought, on a new kid, figuring he could go back to the pressers if demand warranted. But most of these discs hadn’t gotten much farther than the storage room next to the studio. Andruzzi had been up till four in the morning Sunday night in the every-week game he joined with some of the other Chicago record men, like Frog McIlhenny, a vice-president at VeeJay; Chick Hunt and Big Ted MacNeely, who ran ChicagoLand distribution; and Abe Vokelman, the owner of Poker Records, Andruzzi’s main competitor. It was a pretty humiliating night. The whole blasted thing came to a head in one last pot, Vokelman raising the roof, and Andruzzi having nothing at hand to meet him. “You out, Vic?” Vokelman said, smiling. Andruzzi looked down at his skimpy pile of chips: not close to matching Vokelman’s raise. Then at his cards: nice jack-high full boat. The label owner lifted himself off his chair, started to gather in the chips. “Hold it, Abe. I got me an idea. You heard about this new kid I signed? Sweet Home thinks he’s the future of the blues. What say I—” “You puttin’ up the motherfuckin’ talent now, Vic?” Vokelman said. His eyes were laughing. “You want him?” Vokelman shrugged. “I’ve heard a thing or two. Kid’s pretty hot. Sure, toss Willie whatshisname into the pot.” Was this crazy? But Andruzzi smelled a winner, just had to do something. He pulled out a pen with a naked girl on it and wrote the name Willie Lee Reed on a slip of paper, then dropped it on top of the mound of red, white, and blue chips. When he pulled his hand back, he lowered it below the table edge and crossed his fingers. “O.K., you motherfuckers, day of reckoning,” Vokelman said. “You gonna flip ’em?” Andruzzi sighed, half shut his eyes. He turned over his

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three jacks and two 7s. Found he was holding his breath. Well, it was close: Vokelman turned up his own full house, but it was top 8s, under 5s. Damn! That was close— too close. But Andruzzi had won, his jacks sweeping the 8s handily. It wasn’t often that he beat Abe Vokelman, and when he staggered to bed that night, he was crowing loud in his head over taking the Polack. Now he ought to really make the fucker feel it. He’d get out there right off the next morning and start breaking the kid’s record wide. When he did get up, at two in the afternoon, he knew he’d made some resolution the night before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember it. And then he had to get moving: There was a Monday-afternoon game he enjoyed on State Street in the Loop. Bunch of mugs drove down from Milwaukee. Easy pickins. Just the thing to build on all the money he’d taken from Vokelman the night before. Andruzzi’s spark-plug wife, Miriam, who went to bed every Sunday night right after Ed Sullivan—she’d been pleased: Her favorite, the Italian mouse Topo Gigio, had done his ingratiating schmooze—did pull a few 45s from the cardboard boxes stacked in the storage room and got preview copies out on Monday morning to the usual places, and there was at least one store that put the new record on. So it was that Heddy Days himself on Tuesday caught My Best Friend, the Blues blaring from a portable record player set up on the street in front of McReynold’s Liquor Store. Heddy stopped for a moment, curious. He couldn’t place the singer, though he sounded a little familiar; but he liked the tune, the passion in the singing, the wild, stinging guitar thrown up the neck. Any other time he might’ve stopped and asked who it was, filing the name away; Heddy knew he had to keep up with the up-and-comers. But he didn’t stop today. He had important business on his mind. It was about his home. He’d bought the three-story house

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on 54th Street half a dozen years back, and he bought it the only way Negroes could buy houses: on contract. This let you get property with a very low down payment, but the monthlies were large, and if you ever missed a payment . . . well, over the years Heddy had seen it happen to almost half of his neighbors, the sheriff there the next morning, the locks on the doors changed, and all your worldly goods out on the street. No sight was sadder than some family sitting on a couch in the middle of the damn street. With Sefronia’s nursing work, plus what Heddy pulled in from selling records and playing, they’d always been able to make the monthly nut. But Sefronia had lost some hours at the hospital, and Heddy’s record sales, well, they weren’t what they’d been; and month after month they slid under the contract bar with just a little less room. Now it looked like they might not make next month’s payment, and Heddy was on his way to talk to Abe Vokelman about this. He wasn’t sure how much he could say to the old Polack—though Vokelman had always been good to Heddy, the bluesman knew Vokelman really only worshiped the dollar—but he knew he had to say something. He sighed, and it was air from deep in his soul. Worse thing he could imagine was to lose his house now that his daughter Esmé had moved in. The great man winced. No, no way would that do at all. Abe Vokelman was thinking about My Best Friend, the Blues, too, remembering his loss to Andruzzi two days before. The kid was on Abe’s mind at the standing Tuesday afternoon meeting with his son, J.V. J.V. was short for John Vanderbilt Vokelman (the middle moniker an “old family name,” as Abe had been lying to everyone since J.V. was a boy). Vokelman was tilted back in his black leather office chair. J.V. was in a window alcove on the secondfloor office, looking down on South Wabash Avenue. “You know anything ’bout some new boy ol’ Sweet Home dug up, sposed to be pretty solid goods?” the old man asked.

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J.V. shook his head. It was his job to be out there scouting new talent now that his father was older, and he was a little anxious that he didn’t have an answer. “What’s his name?” “Willie Lee something.” “He must be new to town, otherwise I’d know him.” “Some of the other guys at the game had heard of him.” Vokelman lifted his imperious brow. What hair there was formed a U about his bald spot; he had so much forehead that when the light hit it just right, it seemed to stretch back forever. “Andruzzi’s even got a record out on him already.” “I’ll get on it, Dad.” Vokelman gave a quick nod. “You know what’s going on.” “I know.” “I mean, it’s not gettin’ better.” “I know, Dad.” Unlike his father, J.V. still had a full head of hair, worn fairly long and pulled straight back off his head and oiled back. He was wearing white-boy blues clothes: a sparkly blue-paneled black satin shirt with a wide collar, tight black pants, and ankle-high Italian boots. “The bottom line don’t lie,” Vokelman went on insistently. “Whether it’s pigs or llamas or records, the bottom line don’t lie.” J.V. had been hearing phrases like this all his life and he barely heard it now. But he knew what his father was talking about: The blues Poker records sold so dominatingly in the ’50s were now selling only sporadically. And though Poker had made some quick moves with that new rock ’n’ roll back in the late ’50s, by now even teen music seemed in the doldrums. And there were so many other players: Atlantic in New York, Laurie, all those Brill Building little gobs-of-spit labels, Modern out of L.A., King coming north from Cincinnati, and Motown and Fleur de Lys from Detroit, not to mention the majors like RCA and Capitol. But even they weren’t doing that well. Poker Records, well, Poker was in the toilet. At least that’s how his father kept putting it, seeming to particularly relish the cloacal reference.

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“The bottom line doesn’t lie, you’re right.” J.V. said this with as much sincerity as he could. That of course was true, but still. J.V. was far from a yes man, though he had learned long ago that his father was boss and had to be played carefully. “You know what we should do, we should—” A loud buzzing erupted from his desktop intercom, and Vokelman stopped mid-sentence. “Yes, Doris. Oh, he’s here. Right, he wanted to see me. Good, O.K., show him in.” Vokelman himself got up from his desk to go to the door and shake the hand of his favorite bluesman. “Heddy, Heddy, come right in.” Vokelman spoke fast, with a quick, nervous condescension. “We didn’t keep you waitin’, did we? You know my son, J.V.? We were just discussing the business. Doing a little strategic planning—that’s what business gotta do these days, I don’t know, it’s in that motherfuckin’ Fortune magazine, you ever read that?” Heddy, for all his deep understanding of his greatness, was always a little hesitant around Abe Vokelman. He wasn’t scared of him, and in his heart he knew the old man needed him more than Heddy needed Poker Records, and they did go way back together, but still there it was, just that hint of the way it had been for the bluesman when he was a boy driving a tractor on Mr. McGambert’s farm. Mr. McGambert had never been bad to him, though his overseer Cecil liked to take a cane to any boy making what he called trouble, but he’d always been . . . the white boss. Heddy hated that thing inside him that wouldn’t let him shake a similar feeling with Vokelman. “Can’t say I read the Fortune magazine,” Heddy said. Heddy knew that Vokelman knew he had some trouble making out words on the page, so something was going on here already. He added, “Though I know Sweet Home, he do.” “That don’t surprise me,” Vokelman said, looking slightly taken aback at the mention of his former employee. “That

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motherfucker always had too big a head for him. Just think of that white hat! Not to mention too many damn ideas.” Vokelman took his seat behind his desk. “But, hey, we’re not here to talk ’bout him. Disrespectful motherfucker’s water under the bridge, water under the bridge. Come on, have a seat. Can I get you a drink?” Though it was just two in the afternoon, Heddy nodded. “J.V., you mind?” J.V. went over to the bar. He knew it burned his father to give the talent good whiskey, but he didn’t hesitate. Poured the best they had for both his father and Heddy, then carried the glasses over. “You’re not joining us?” J.V. shook his head. Abe Vokelman leaned toward Heddy, who’d taken the chair next to the desk. “He’s given up the hooch,” he said, then added sotto voce, “taken up the weed.” J.V. threw a wince toward his father, who under his thick eyebrows and shiny bald head winked a Gotcha! back. After both men had sipped some of the fine liquor, Abe said, “So, sir, what can I do for you?” Vokelman had a way of calling Heddy “Sir” that the bluesman never knew how to take. He wasn’t making fun, really, though you couldn’t also say it was a word used with great respect. Still, it was better than a lot of things the older man could call him. “Well, Mr. V., don’t want to beat round no bush.” Pause, while Vokelman gave a tepid nod. “Have to say there don’t seem to be as much . . . money comin’ my way lately.” “That’s ’cause you’re not selling as many records.” “Well, I—” “But it’s not just you, Heddy. It’s everyone. It’s us, too. That’s what J.V. and I were just talking about.” “Well, Mr. V., um, I have me some personal problems. Sefronia, she lost some hours at the hospital. And—” Now

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Heddy paused. No, it just didn’t seem right to tell him about the house. He knew the white man wouldn’t understand about the contract, and just the fact the house was in danger irked Heddy’s pride. “And I got me a new daughter staying with me. Could use a little—” “A new daughter?” J.V. said. Heddy looked over at the boy, then smiled. “It’s complicated.” Abe said sharply, “You’re not comin’ here like that motherfucker Little Shorty, always asking for a handout?” Heddy turned back to his boss. His whiskey, sweet as it was, stayed on the corner of the desk. “No, no, well, maybe an advance. It’s, well—” Vokelman waved his hand. “It’s all right, you don’t have to explain nothing to me. You’ve always been straight with me, and I’ve always been straight with you.” Well, Heddy thought, if you haven’t been actually straight, you haven’t been totally circular. “And I’ll be straight with you now. We’re in trouble, too.” Heddy sucked in a deep breath. “But my trouble is—” That wave again. “I’m sure it’s urgent.” A bright look to his son, who remained silent and impassive. “If it ain’t urgent, it ain’t trouble, I always say. Hey!” “We’ve been talkin’ ’bout a new date,” Heddy said. “Been a while since a record of mine come out.” “You’re right.” “And I have me some ideas—” “And I’m sure they’re great ideas, too.” “So we can—” “Absolutely, absolutely. New wax on you, Heddy. You got my promise on that.” Abe reached back and took up his whiskey glass, then tipped it back and tossed down the rest of the liquor. He leaned over and shook Heddy’s hand. “Soon as we got our bottom line lookin’ a little more healthy.”

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“Oh.” Heddy felt a little flush. He was proud and hated to talk to anyone about these things; especially Vokelman. “And that’ll be? I mean, I just want to make me another record, get me a little advance on it, but I got the—” “We will, we will.” Vokelman was all beaming skin and smiles. There was a pause, and Heddy understood he was supposed to leave now. But . . . what had actually happened? All he knew was he still didn’t have what he needed. “Sir, about my troub—” “Oh, yeah, yeah, that immediate motherfucker.” Vokelman made an ostentatious gesture of scratching his bald head. “I got an idea. You know, Mildred and I have some work around the house needs doing, and I know from the past that you’re pretty handy. Some painting, maybe some electrical. She wants one of these newfangled electric kitchens of the future.” A quick shake of his head that said, Women! “Think you’d be up for that?” Heddy took a deep, deep breath. Tried to read the situation. Was there contempt here? No, not really. Misunderstanding? Well, if you’d made records that made some man rich enough to have his wife be thinking about an allelectric kitchen, and then he asks you to wire it, well, no way you could say that that was the height of perfect, balanced understanding. But when all was said and done, Heddy could see what Vokelman was really saying: The bluesman was good with his hands, did have lots of experience, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’d made ends meet doing labor. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “Well, that’s great. Mildred always likes seeing you, Heddy. She’ll be thrilled. When do you want to get started? Sooner the better.” “How ’bout tomorrow?” Heddy said. He was wondering how well his educated daughter from Detroit would understand this. But it was their house! A sigh, then he decided that

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this was his life, the only life he knew, and he was damn proud of it . . . damn proud of it, even when it went curling up round the edges. He believed that Esmé would see it right. Vokelman reached out with both his hands this time, took Heddy’s, held it tight, and pumped it up and down. “Oh, one last thing, Heddy. You hear anything about some new kid Sweet Home’s turned up, Willie Lee something?” “Willie Lee Reed?” Heddy waited a moment, got an ifyou-say-so shrug, then said, “Think I went up ’gainst him in a cutting session a few weeks back. Pretty boy from Detroit, my daughter, she’s been talkin’ him at me.” “He good?” Up went Heddy’s chin. “Not good ’nuf to cut me.” “But worth lookin’ into?” What was Vokelman saying? That he wasn’t gonna commit today to another record for Heddy but was interested in some young punk? The great man let out a sigh. “You go see ’im, make up your own minds, gentlemen.” “Fair enough, Heddy, fair enough.” Vokelman shook the bluesman’s huge, weathered hand again. “Well, tomorrow it is, then. Mildred will be lookin’ forward to seeing you.” When Heddy was gone, Abe turned to his son and said, “Willie Lee Reed, eh?” A quick tight nod. “J.V., you know what you gotta do. Just do it.”

✴✴✴✴✴ SO WHERE WAS THE FUCKIN’ RECORD?

Sweet Home Arthur talked to Andruzzi at the shop on Wednesday morning, complaining that everywhere he went he couldn’t find My Best Friend, the Blues; Andruzzi, with bags under his eyes and a red flare to his nostrils, got right in Sweet Home’s face. “Hey, boy,” he cried, “who’re you givin’ lip?” Sweet Home stood his ground. “Seems to me, boss—” hissing vitriol dripping off the last word “—you put out a

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record on a guy, you want to see that record on the street. Might sell some then. Make some scratch you can take back to the tables—” “I run my business my own goddamn way, and I don’t take no advice from uppity sons of bitches,” Andruzzi cried. “I’m just saying—” “You’re just saying!” But Sweet Home was right, of course, as he always was, and later that morning Andruzzi himself drove three quarters of the discs down to ChicagoLand Distributors so they could get them onto trucks and moving into stores pronto. They just never got there. Since there were two main distributors in town, ChicagoLand and Acme, it had taken J.V. Vokelman only two phone calls to slow everything concerning My Best Friend, the Blues down to molasses. Sweet Home didn’t know this; instead, he went off on his usual rounds, talking up the furniture store owners and beauty parlor ladies with whom Miriam Andruzzi had left the advance copies on Monday. What he heard was: “Sweet Home, I played us the record, and I tried to like it, but this kid, he’s just too wild. What, he got ants in his pants?” Or: “If he’s gonna play this crazy sounding thing, he should be shouting rock ’n’ roll.” Or: “I just don’t get it, Mr. Sweet. What’s all those notes doin’ there? And what in hell’s he singin’ about?” And the single worst comment, Sweet Home knowing that when a record had the jump, you immediately heard its catchphrase all over the street: Billy Lee Parker, his friend who sold nothing but discs off a cart on the corner of 48th and State, playing them on a windup player underneath a big blue-and-white umbrella, told him, “I like the record myself, Sweet Home, but one lady I done played it for said, ‘That man ain’t my best friend, no way.’ ” None of this shook the record producer’s faith much. He knew Willie Lee was simply the damn future of the blues,

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but these were old, respected friends, and he left them with their opinions. By Thursday, Willie Lee was starting to get nervous. He still wasn’t finding My Best Friend, the Blues anywhere. Not in the record shops, the furniture shops, the liquor stores, not in the five-and-dimes. Still not on the radio. Record sailed into the air never to be seen again. He didn’t understand it. Sweet Home had promised him. How could his record get released and just not be anywhere? He didn’t know about Andruzzi’s gambling habits or the sway of the Vokelmans of Poker Records or any of the normal complications of a new release. The kid began to blame himself. He tried to keep upbeat about the record, but his mood began to sink. Then Silver announced she was going back to Gary. “What’re you leavin’ for?” Willie Lee was puzzled. “Don’t worry, darlin’. It’s nothing. I just gotta go see my mother.” “Your mother? I thought we come to Chicago to see your mother.” “Um, my mother, she moves around.” In truth, Silver didn’t have a mother anymore; she’d died of a heart attack when Betty Ann was twelve. Her real father had skipped before she was born, and she was left with her stepfather— and that was a story she never wanted to tell. “I’m just going for a little while.” “You’ll be back?” Though he tried to hide it, there was a plaintive note in his voice. As much as he was used to having little to call his own, he’d quickly come to count on all the good things that had come his way in Chicago. Silver heard the hint of forlornness in his tone. “Oh, darlin’, ’course I will.” The kid looked so sad, like she was taking away his puppy. Not that he did anything with her more than he’d do with some damn pet. “I just gotta check on a few things with Mom.” What she was really heading back to Gary

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for was to talk with Rufus Shaw. He wanted an in-person account of how his plans were working out with the kid. “And you’re going for. . . ?” Silver was in front of the mirror in their hotel room, putting finishing touches on her makeup. “Just a few days. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.” She turned with a cool smile. “Meanwhile, maybe you can start selling some of those records—” Willie Lee gave her an abashed yet determined nod—the record, yes, damnit, I’ll do it—and she kissed him. “Listen, darlin’, I’m gonna look into a few other things in Gary when I’m gone, might come up with something to help your career. Get it going a little better—” “You think—?” “Willie Lee, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know why your record’s not doin’ better. But maybe I got us some solutions.” Another kiss, again on his mouth, though not returned much at all. His lips were warm, and soft enough, but there was no give in him, no moving toward her, no release. She fought back a sigh. She knew that he’d come to need her around, which was much of what Shaw wanted from her, but then he was still mystifyingly wary of anything physical. That, as well as the record, were two of the things she needed to talk over with Rufus. On the bus to Gary the amused thought crossed her mind that Rufus Shaw maybe was her true mother. It was Shaw who had taken her in when she was fifteen, not long after a wave in her hair turned silver, and he’d given her the most family she’d ever had. The silver stripe had appeared one night all at once, and just when it was needed. She was Betty Ann Norton at the time, of course, and she was living with her stepfather— Silver never knew his real name; everybody on the street called him Dingle—and her sister Margaret Joy in a shanty in the Patch, the Negro part of Gary. Margaret Joy was only

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a couple years older than Betty Ann, but she was already round as a beach ball and had a fluffy black moustache above her lip. She didn’t seem to mind being big and unattractive; indeed, her unpleasant looks freed her to say and do pretty much just what she felt, and she used that freedom to get her way from their stepfather. Betty Ann, on the other hand, was already lovely but shy: willowy, with fine skin, large, milky eyes, and a full-lipped mouth. Boys at her school bothered her all the time, but Betty Ann wasn’t much of a social butterfly. She liked school and her courses, and her great passion was the yearly spelling bee; she was one of the rare girls from the Patch to get to the city-wide finals. She liked to read and held long imaginary discussions with herself about a wide range of serious subjects: physics, geology, philosophy, and religion, as well as less-structured, more personal spiritual matters. She did enjoy her good looks, though, particularly her hair. It was naturally less curly than her friends’, and she used special products to make it straighter still. It hung to her shoulders in thick waves. In truth, her hair was her pride and joy. Not just her pride and joy. Lately Dingle had taken an unusual interest in her—and especially her hair. He reached out brazenly as she walked by in the kitchen and grabbed at it, and there were nights when he came in drunk that he’d stumble right up next to her bed and start fondling her hair. She and Margaret Joy shared the bedroom, and while Betty Ann lay there pretending to sleep while the foul man, reeking of whiskey and pig’s feet, stood above her, combing his dirty hands through her hair, she could see her sister’s eyes open and glowing, watching everything. “How can you stand it?” Margaret Joy said one morning. She said it funny, though, and Betty Ann wondered if there was a little jealousy in her tone. Betty Ann shook her head. “I can’t,” she finally said. “Tell him to stop.”

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She shook her head again. “I would.” “I bet.” “Betty Ann!” “Sis, listen, it wouldn’t do any good.” “If I told him to stop, it would,” Margaret Joy insisted. “So how would you do it?” Margaret Joy’s eyes glowed that way they had, as if little white fires were in each globe. “Oh, I have ways.” Up went her chin, which, like her lip, had more hairs than it should. “I do.” “Can you do something now?” Betty Ann looked in awe of her older sister. “What’ll you do for me?” “Anything you want.” Margaret Joy gave her head a shake and said, “Let me think about it.” It was a month later that Dingle came home and noisily entered the girls’ room. As usual he ignored Margaret Joy and went straight to Betty Ann. He was drunker than usual, weaving across the floor. Betty Ann, who never went fully to sleep until after Dingle had come home and passed out, watched him come at her. Nothing more had happened following Margaret Joy’s ambiguous promise, and now she had the worst feeling about Dingle’s intentions. The drunken man started with her hair, but this time his meaty hand fingered the pink collar of her one nice pajama tops. He fumbled at the collar, then wiped his greasy fingers down her neck toward her breasts. She pretended to be asleep, but she could barely breath. From the corners of her eyes she could see her sister, who was watching as always. She silently pleaded with Margaret Joy. Her sister didn’t move. Betty Ann didn’t move. Dingle’s fingers were well down her shirt. Then he stood up quick. Betty Ann turned over and saw his face; it had blanched. Her stepfather did a double-take, then backed up. He shuddered and left the room.

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What had driven him off? “Margaret Joy,” she whispered, but her sister either was, or was pretending to be, asleep. Betty Ann lay awake puzzled for an hour then slipped into sleep herself. In the morning the stripe was there. It jolted her when she looked in the mirror and saw a vivid streak of silver running from her middle part to her left shoulder. The band of color was three and a half inches wide, she measured it, and was the same steady pewter tone all the way down. She stayed in front of the mirror for over an hour, fingering her hair, wondering how it had gotten that way and what it all meant. Had the sudden appearance of the silver scared Dingle? Did Margaret Joy have something to do with it? The longer Betty Ann looked at the stripe, the more she fell in love with it. Her sister seemed as amazed by the stripe as she was. It quickly became Betty Ann’s pride and joy. The silver stripe made her feel special, singled out in a way she’d never been before, and gave her an unexpected new courage. What it didn’t do was keep Dingle from bothering her. But she knew now she’d no longer have to take it. She thought of asking Margaret Joy to help her but didn’t fully trust her. Betty Ann made her own plans carefully. One morning after her stepfather had been out all night drinking, she heard him come into their room. She was ready for him. She fingered the fine silver strands in her hair as he came close to her. “Don’t touch me,” she said. Dingle looked astonished to hear anything. “You talkin’ to me!” “Don’t . . . touch . . . me!” She spoke slowly, furiously. The way she ran her hand through the silver stripe struck sparks in the yellow morning light. “You touch me, and it’s the last you’ll ever see of me.” He scowled down at her, then laughed in her face, mov-

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ing in with thrusting hands, which she pushed away. He slapped her. “You whore!” he shouted. Betty Ann kept still. His fingers entwined in her hair. He ran them through the silver stripe. She stayed still. Across the room Margaret Joy watched, with a thin smile on her face. Betty Ann would have liked her sister’s help but didn’t expect it. Dingle shoved a hand all the way down her shirt. He was leaning over her, off-balance, and Betty Ann made the move that she’d been rehearsing for the last few weeks. She’d hidden a kitchen knife under her blanket, and she pulled it out, then twisted herself out from under Dingle and cut him— two quick flicks across his cheek, making an inverted cross. He flew back, howling. There was a line of blood on his cheek. Betty Ann reached out and cut his other cheek. She did it carefully and finely—with the delicacy of a diabolical surgeon. The lines of each cross met an inch from the corner of the sides of his mouth; the vertical line stretched right up to each eye. As Dingle cried murder, Betty Ann simply got up, took the bag she’d already packed, gave her sister a look that said, What about you? and got one back that she read as Don’t worry about me, sis. Betty Ann left forever. Rufus Shaw was famous in the neighborhood. He ran policy, which in the Patch made him the closest thing to a rich and successful man anyone knew. Betty Ann knew of him because he’d hosted the celebration when she almost won the spelling bee, and singled her out then for special attention. Shaw had a well-earned reputation for being always ready to offer assistance to anyone in trouble, as long as they understood they would have to be ready to help him back someday. When Betty Ann appeared on his doorstep—and unlike almost everyone in the Patch, who lived in wooden tenements and squatters’ cabins a strong wind would nearly blow over,

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Shaw had a brick house, three stories, with a wide porch—the policyman took her right in. He gave her her own room and made her feel totally at home. He told her she could stay as long as she wanted, and he meant it. He also let her know he thought she had great potential, and he encouraged her to stay in school and stood up proud with her when she graduated. Margaret Joy was at the graduation, too. It was the first time Silver had seen her in three years. The story she’d heard was that Margaret Joy had kept house with Dingle for all this time, but now her stepfather was said to be dead, his body found along a railroad track. The two sisters made up. Margaret Joy invited her to move back into the rooms in the shanty, and Shaw said that he thought she was old enough that that might be smart, but first he had other plans for her. Silver was so grateful to him that she said, “Yes, of course, Mr. Shaw. I’ll do anything you say.” What he had in mind was what he called her “further education.” All along she’d been sent to a charm school to be taught how to walk properly, speak well, use makeup right, and dress to kill, and those lessons were evident. Now he had something else in mind. She felt his eyes on her silver stripe as he spoke to her. “It’s a woman I know, she’s down South in Alabama, I’m gonna pay your way there, and I want you to learn everything she’s got to teach you.” “What’s it going to be?” “You’ll see, darlin’. It will be . . . very interesting to you.” She spent nine months with Mother Montgomery in a small town outside Tuscaloosa. Mother—Silver was encouraged to call her that—was powerfully impressed by the silver stripe in her hair. They hit it off. Mother taught her lessons all morning and much of the afternoon. She learned saints, candles, roots, powders, oils, recipes, and much more. She studied hard and loved the new confidence and power her studies with Mother brought her. She also respected her new

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knowledge, in ways feared it. The deep forces she glimpsed never left her less than in awe. Back in Gary, Shaw put her right to work. She became in many ways his righthand man, and she liked the job—the prestige and sense of being special. He had many women around him, some more beautiful than she, but she was the one he went to when there was a special situation—as there was with Willie Lee Reed. And she had always come through . . . till now. When Silver got off the bus in Gary she took a cab to Shaw’s office, hidden away behind a package store on Adams Street. The office was a large, strikingly spruced-up building next to a weedy vacant lot—the message: My way of doing things pays—with a nest of rooms full of buzzing secretaries and hard-looking guys lounging about. Shaw’s office was in the back and well protected. The boss’s main bodyguard, Jomper Blassy, was there with him. Shaw gave Silver a careful, discreet kiss on her cheek. He was careful not to touch the stripe in her hair. “Well?” Shaw said when they were seated in his office. She shook her head. “He’s a . . . funny guy.” She was in the chair next to Shaw’s gun-metal-gray desk. As soon as she’d shown up, he’d sent Blassy from the room—a mark of how seriously he took her, she noted. She also saw that Shaw was wearing a black cowboy hat and cowboy boots, more and more a uniform for him. Next thing you know, she thought, he’ll strap on a six-shooter. “That means?” her boss said. “I mean.” Silver gave her head a good shake. The more she thought about Willie Lee’s restraint with her, the less she could believe it. “He’s not like other men. He—he doesn’t touch me at all.” Shaw’s eyes went wide. “What is he, a fruit?” Silver shook her head. “I don’t think so, Rufus.” This was a fairly recent privilege, being able to call him Rufus, and it

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always gave Silver a small pleasure. “He’s just got—got some notions in his head. There’s this book that’s stirred him up more than I do.” She laughed. “Can you imagine?” “A book?” Shaw cocked an eyebrow. “Darlin’, frankly, I cannot imagine.” “But it’s true.” “You sound like you almost enjoy it.” Silver smiled. “It’s different.” “You sure he’s not a fruit?” She shook her head. Shaw sighed. “So where’s that put us?” “Well, his record’s doing nothin’, as you might’ve heard.” Shaw nodded, then leaned back, considering this. “I have been hearing that. I think it’s probably for the best.” “I think so, too,” Silver said. “Means he’s less . . . stuck up there.” “You hear about Vic Andruzzi?” Shaw said. “Amazing story. Seems he was in a card game with all them other white record guys, and he actually put the kid’s contract on the table. In a bet with Abe Vokelman of Poker.” Silver raised an eyebrow. “Willie Lee didn’t say nothin’ about that.” “Probably doesn’t know.” “Andruzzi didn’t lose, did he?” “By the skin of his teeth, no. Good thing, too. If Vokelman gets his hands on the kid, that’s it for us. No, Andruzzi pulled it out and kept Willie Lee. The fuckin’ Wop putz.” “Yiddish, Rufus?” Silver smiled. Shaw gave her a wink, then she said, “So I take it we’re not worried about Andruzzi?” “The paisano? His head’s up his ass half the time.” Shaw lifted a cowboy boot to his desk, tipped it back and forth. “Nah, he’s the least of our worries.” “And the greatest?” Shaw was silent a long moment, then he looked Silver

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straight on and said, “I thought we’d have the boy here by now.” “I’m working on it.” “I know you are, darlin’—” “But—” “So I want to know what you’re gonna do.” “Oh, Rufus,” Silver said, laughing, “he can’t hold out forever.” She smiled at him, comfortably saucy, as if to say, Hey, it’s me, Silver! “I don’t doubt that, babe.” “And he is smitten with me, I can tell you.” Shaw gave her a sharp look then. “And you?” “Me?” “You sound like you’re havin’ some fun with the boy. You smitten a little, too?” Silver gave her head a quick shake, though she did it mostly for Shaw’s benefit. Was she? There was Willie Lee’s looks, his high-cheeked, smooth-skinned beauty and his deep brown eyes when he stared goofily at her. There was also what she recognized deep within him, a pain that seemed familiar to her. She hated to admit it, but she was a little taken with the kid. But for Shaw she shook her head again. “Nah, Rufus, it’s just business.” Shaw smiled. “I don’t really care, darlin’. Might help if you like him—might make you more involved.” He leaned across the desk then, right in her face. “Move a little . . . quicker.” She wasn’t used to this, criticism implied or direct. “I’m doing what I can.” “I’m sure you are, sugar.” Shaw wasn’t smiling at all. “So answer me just one thing.” “Yeah?” “When you gonna own him?” “Own him?” Quick sideways glance at her boss. Shaw’s eyes were focused, sharp, beady black dots in his

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wide face. “Sugar, I’m sure you’re doing the best you can with your God-given talent.” A smile, but it wasn’t at all light or friendly. “But you have, you know, other ways.” “Rufus—” “I know you don’t like to go that way, babe, but this is crucial.” Silver was fully alert now. She knew what Shaw was saying. She held in a sigh. “Let me give it another—” Shaw cut her off. “You do what you have to do—but you get him here soon.” He got up from his desk, the meeting over. “And you own him.” She looked up at him. “Mr. Shaw—” “Own him.”

✴✴✴✴✴ and Margaret Joy’s place and got the Buick that Shaw loaned her for business. She knew there was no ambiguity in what Shaw was asking, and she reluctantly went to gather the ingredients she’d need. There were two stops. The first was deep into the Patch on 18th Avenue, a small shop on a half-burned-out block, between a dry-goods store and a liquor store. On a wooden awning was a single word: CURIOS. The window below it was dark, hung ceiling to bottom with a black-velvet cloth, and cluttered on the ledge there were candles, bits of rock and metal, and rows of small bottles with sun-faded labels. The door was all wood with just a peephole, and when she tried it, she found it was locked. She tried to remember the right knock, hadn’t had to use it in a while, but it came back to her easily. Rap . . . ten seconds . . . rap-rap . . . five seconds . . . rap-rap-rap-rap. The woman who let her in was, though she had a slight hunchback, tall and dressed elegantly in a long, orange-andblack caftan. Her hair was a natural, an aureole around her SILVER WENT DIRECTLY TO HER

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long face. Curiously, her eyes were a little off alignment. Her name was Mrs. Herron. Her shop was lined counter after counter with bottles, jars, and large glass containers containing a cornucopia of powders, oils, and charms. “Ah, it’s my silver-striped friend,” Mrs. Herron said. “Long time no see. Everything going all right?” “Sure,” Silver said. “Sorry the door was locked, I was in the back over the stove.” Indeed, a vividly pungent smell, rooty and sour, and faintly familiar to Silver from her time with Mother Montgomery, floated through the shop. “I won’t keep you. I just need a few things.” Mrs. Herron raised a finely plucked eyebrow above her crooked left eye. “I thought you had sworn off our—” Silver shook her head. “I can’t get away from it.” She shrugged. “Guess I need me some help.” Mrs. Herron stood behind the main counter. “What’s the object? You be needing money? It ain’t better looks, and I’m sure it ain’t a man, either. What, somebody laying evil in your pathway?” “Believe it or not, it is a man.” The shop proprietor laughed. “That’s one for my books. You want to tell me all about it. I bet you ain’t never had trouble that way.” Silver felt tired. Maybe it was the smell from the back. “Got it now.” “O.K., so what do you need?” “I got a list.” And she did, drawn it up in her head on the way over here. She spoke quickly. “I could use some dragon’s root, a lodestone, black cat bone—can’t decide if I need the whole bone or just the powder—” Mrs. Herron had dropped her somewhat gleeful incredulity over Silver’s problem and was all business. “You’re going to be cooking this up, right?” “I got to get to that boy fast, yeah.”

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“I always think the original bone gives you the best results.” Mrs. Herron frowned. “The powder, it seems to lose something.” “That’s what I remember,” Silver said, nodding. “And I could use some fresh John the Conqueror root.” “You ain’t messing around.” “I’m not.” Mrs. Herron bustled behind her counter, reaching into this jar, pulling down that bottle. She wrapped everything up in a red-flannel sack. “That’ll do it?” Silver nodded. “Rest of the stuff I can pick up myself.” “You should take some of this.” Mrs. Herron held out a small brown-glass bottle, stoppered with rubber. She lifted the cap and waved it under Silver’s nose. The smell was violently sweet with a cut of sharp flowery spice, underlain with a moldy, earthy muskiness. “Orris,” Silver said, squinching up her nose. “I always thought orris was a little much.” Mrs. Herron held out the small vial. The irisy smell sailed in nearly visible ribbons through the boiled-root scent of the room. Silver sighed, then shook her head. “O.K., throw it in. I don’t know if I can bear to put it on me, but—” Mrs. Herron quickly stoppered the vial and dropped it into the bag. “There’s no overkill here,” she said. Her uneven eyes were starting to get to Silver, making her feel a little off-center herself. “Either he reacts or he don’t, right?” “Oh, he will,” Silver said. Outside she gasped down big lungfuls of the air, even though it was the usual wickedly acrid sulfurous blend. She had one more stop, an old Negro graveyard behind a small wooden church on the west side of the Patch. She got out of her Buick and walked the dusty, half-kempt trails between weather-chipped headstones and the occasional sarcophagus holding an erstwhile church elder. She was looking very

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specifically for a trident-leafed plant growing within six inches of a concrete headstone. Even though it was still daylight—around her a slanting yellow-orange sunset light sparked off glittery chips in the stone—Silver was alone in the graveyard, and she felt its still, dark powers. It was odd, the notion came to her, that she had to come to a graveyard for a love mixture; but she understood in a deep, inchoate way how the power of love was tied to the power of death. Both could be too ripe, heavy, like that orris Mrs. Herron had made her take with her. Indeed, she couldn’t imagine death without the tantalizing scent of love, or love without the moldering-leaf smell of death. She felt it all now, and had the curious thought that what she’d found in Willie Lee Reed was not very different from what she was experiencing in this empty graveyard. She moved as quickly as she could and soon found the appropriate herb the right distance from the stone. She gingerly tugged out the spiky-leafed plant and scooped up a handful of dust along with it. She put both in another redflannel bag she’d bought from Mrs. Herron. The final ingredient she’d brought with her from Chicago: a vial of Willie Lee’s urine. How had she come to get that? Even in Chicago she must have known things would reach this point, but what she’d had to do was totally distasteful, and she didn’t want to think about it at all. Back at the apartment house she climbed the wooden stairs, pushed through the half-hinged door of her and her sister’s rooms. Sometimes she couldn’t believe she lived like this, but Shaw hadn’t yet come up with anything better, and she sort of didn’t mind living with her sister. She was glad, though, that Margaret Joy was out; made everything less involved. She took out the small iron pot she kept way in the back of their pantry, ran some water into it, then set it to boil on the stove. One by one she dropped in the black cat bone, the dragon’s root, the heavy lodestone, and the John the

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Conqueror’s root—the same curled-up root shape of the pin she often wore. She separated the roots from the graveyard plant, minced them on a cutting board, then dropped them in, spooning after it three tablespoons of the graveyard dust—no, what the hell, make that six tablespoons. She really wanted this to work. Wanted everything settled with Willie Lee and Shaw. She didn’t like having to go this path to get what she needed. It wasn’t that it felt like cheating, it was just opening up doors she felt safer kept shut. Was Mrs. Herron right: there was no overkill? She’d meant, Silver understood, he either comes to you or he don’t. Well, all right, let’s get him. She held the last vial—Willie Lee’s urine—in her hand. The urine would personalize the concoction, as well as make it nearly foolproof. She hesitated for a second, feeling lightheaded; perhaps it was the rank smell already rising off her boiling pot. At this moment, it was funny, but she felt not a bit of the desire she had for the guitar player. It really was all business. A long sigh. Well, business it better be. Let the kid’s record die the way it looked like it was doing, let him fret his association with Sweet Home Arthur and Vic Andruzzi, then let her work the magic in her hands and bring him to her. Own him! Rufus had said. What did that really mean? It sounded so . . . huge. Was she ready for that? She held the vial of urine above the boiling pot, now reduced to little more than a cup. The smell of the brown liquid bit at her nostrils. Own him? She was dizzy as she let a single drop fall into and then get engulfed in the bubbling liquid. Immediately the smell changed; she couldn’t describe the difference, but like that she felt Willie Lee was there with her—and suddenly she was stirred, right in her loins. No, it wasn’t just business; she couldn’t escape it, she wanted that high-cheeked, taut-assed boy, and she was angry and frustrated that she didn’t have him yet. Just the one drop of urine—that was all the recipe called for—and that was all she’d need.

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What if she put in more? That word came to her: overkill. She began to pull the vial of urine away from over the pot, but then another vivid scent-intimation of Willie Lee rose out of it; the smell of him shook her, flared her anger. Damn that boy! She upended the whole vial of golden liquid into the pot. The strong smell of him that burst from the furiously boiling liquid nearly blew her out of the room.

✴✴✴✴✴ BY FRIDAY, ESMÉ HUNTER knew all about the fate of My Best

Friend, the Blues. She’d heard right off that he’d made a record. Good for him, she thought, and when she learned it was released, she went out looking. She combed State Street, went over to Cottage Grove, asked in any store with records in the window or bins out on the sidewalk, but what she heard was, “Had me one demo copy of that, but it’s gone” or “Don’t know nothin’ ’bout no record called My Best Friend, the Blues. But you know, that’s a catchy title—’times I think the blues is my best friend.” Esmé understood only too well. She kept going back to the moment at the 6-Eye when that saucy boy had looked up at her, and how after that she hadn’t been able to get darling Willie Lee Reed out of her thoughts. Since then, nothing. She looked harder for the disc. Along the numbered streets, poking into laundries, layaway stores, beauty parlors like her mother’s, and shoe-repair joints—no telling who might have some 45s in the back. “Who that?” said the furniture man with eyeglasses down his nose. “Willie Boy What?” said the bouffanted hairdresser. “He on Viper Records? That explains a lot,” said the geezer at the newsstand with the 45s pinned to his wall and the big Poker Records sign behind the dusty magazines. “Viper Records ain’t what you call, um, dependable.”

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Her father in the mornings asked her what she was up to all day, and she said she was seeing sights, getting around, enjoying the big city. That seemed to mollify him. She knew better than to bring up any mention of that guitar-slinging kid. Finally, she found it. She was on the West Side and had just stopped in at the office of Viper Records, figuring that was certainly the place she could buy a copy of it, but the only person there was a nasty little white woman with shrieking red hair who shouted obscenities at her, then chased her away. Now she ducked her head into a laundry not far away. There she found a sweet-faced woman with hips wide as a truck, dressed all in white with a turban on her head, saying, “You know, sugar, we just got us some discs in the other day. They’re in the back. Let me go look.” And there it was, the red-and-yellow label with the curled snake around the perimeter, and beneath the hole: MY BEST FRIEND, THE BLUES WILLIE LEE REED AND THE SWEET HOME ARTHUR BAND

She ran home, popped it on her father’s old RCA 45 changer, and stood back. There was this big question for Esmé: Would she hear from the grooves what she remembered seeing and feeling that night at the 6-Eye? The needle dropped, then a quick drum downbeat, and there the kid’s guitar was, front and center and searingly hot, a strutting fusillade of notes kicking into Willie Lee’s high-pitched but sultry voice: I got the kind of woman, she wants lovin’ all the time. Yeah, I got the kind of woman, she wants lovin’ all the time. If I give her all she wants, what’ll be left to call me mine? Esmé blushed, then immediately chastised herself. She’d been caught by the first line: Who’s that woman he’s singing

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about? Goddamn! Then she told herself it was crazy to take it personally, it was just a record. She kept her attention simply on the music coming out of the grooves. Did the song have it? She knew it did, but immediately played it again—then again. She lifted herself, floated around her father’s den. She loved it. Damn! Yes, she loved this record. “What’s that?” she heard behind her, her father’s voice catching her mid-twirl. “Um, new disc I picked up.” Esmé lowered her hands to her side, brushed down her spinning skirt. “Don’t recognize the player.” It was 6 p.m., and Heddy was just back from working in Abe Vokelman’s kitchen. He was wearing blue overalls stained with paint and grease. His face looked hot, grimy, and sweaty. The job was going all right, Mrs. Vokelman was interrupting him all the time with fresh glasses of lemonade and brownies, and Mr. V. was leaving him an envelope with the right amount of cash in it every day—an envelope now happily tucked into his rear pocket. But now he had some terrific news and was looking forward to telling his new daughter. “Who’s that playing?” “Um, new kid.” Up went Heddy’s ears. “What’s his name?” “Um, um, Willie Lee Reed?” Esmé said this softly, as if she could slip it past her father. He looked tired and hot, and she knew he had a gig at Brownie’s that night. She squinched up her face. He probably just wanted a shower and a long cool beer. Maybe he wouldn’t— “Wait, didn’t I hear that record on the street the other day, and . . . damn, ain’t that that kid from the other week?” Heddy’s voice came from deep in his chest. “He got himself a record out this soon?” “What kid?” “Esmé Hunter, don’t give me that. You know damn well. What’re you doin’ with his record?”

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“Um, playing it?” Esmé watched her father shoot her a look of scorn, fortunately undercut with some amusement. He went over to the RCA and looked down at the disc. “Hmmmm,” he went. “Viper. And look, there’s Sweet Home all over it. Man used to be my friend—” “Isn’t he still?” “That man?” Heddy lifted an eyebrow. “That man left me high and dry with that Abe Vokelman. That man, he—” “Oh, Pops, I’m sure he’s still your friend.” But Heddy was now a fire-breathing locomotive rolling down a single track. “That man!” he cried. “He call himself Sweet Home! Hell, I knew him when he was Reginald. Yep, he had that purty-boy name, his momma gave it to him. Hell, I knew ’im when he still lived with his momma.” “Pops, you’re foolin’ with me, aren’t you?” “Am I?” Heddy had a twinkle in his eye, then like that he pulled the train to a halt. “Well, you’re probably right.” “That’s better,” Esmé said. “And you don’t mind that I’m listening to . . . that boy?” “You mean, like you’re some kind of traitor or something?” “Father!” “No, no, darlin’, I’m still just joshin’ you.” Heddy had a huge smile, the gold in his mouth gleaming. “Glad to hear anybody be sellin’ blues records these days.” “I don’t think it’s selling. I had to go all over hell to find the damn thing.” “Essie!” “I’m sorry, Pops, all over heck.” Now Esmé was smiling wide as her father. Father and daughter both laughed. “Hey,” Heddy said, “I got me some news.” “Good news?” One of his mysterious smiles. “Well, yeah.” Esmé lit up at her father’s obvious joy. “What is it?”

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“This ol’ man, he’s goin’ to . . . Europe.” “Europe?” “That’s right, child. There’s a tour ’bout to suit up, American Blues Tour, and me and the Sly Fox and Little Shorty and a bunch of other people, we’re goin’. Gonna see Paris, Hamburg, Stockholm, Copenhagen, maybe even Berlin we don’t have us a war over it ’fore I get there. And, best of all, we’s gettin’ paid very nicely—and money’s comin’ up front.” “That’s great!” “Oh, yeah.” The great man threw back his heavy head. The tour had saved the house, in the proverbial nick of time. “Oh, yeah.” “When’s it start?” “Well, that’s the good news. We’re flying out of here in one week. Just enough time to finish up Mrs. V.’s kitchen.” “One week?” Esmé felt her legs go weak. “What’s the matter, sugar?” “Pops, I love it here. But what’m I going to do if you’re gallivanting all over Europe?” “You just stay here.” “What about Sefronia?” “Oh, child, you only think there’s trouble there.” “She—” “She’ll be happy to keep you here. I’ll make sure of that. Hell, we’re only going for a month or so. You just don’t worry ’bout nothin’.” Esmé drew a deep breath. She was worried, though. She knew her father didn’t see it, but there was at best a tense truce between the common-law wife and the daughter by an, um, previous relationship. Good thing Sefronia had got her hours back at the hospital and was working a lot. But just the two of them in the house? Esmé couldn’t see it. But her father looked so happy. “Sefronia, she’s at the hospital tonight, so what say you and me go out and get us a big steak ’fore I have to play?”

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“I’d love it, Pops.” Esmé was spinning wheels quick, thinking what she might do. She didn’t know anyone in this town except her “uncle,” Sweet Home Arthur, and then there was that nice white boy, Josh Green, she’d met at the 6-Eye—and kept bumping into at other clubs. He always invited her to his table and bought the first drink, and he never pressed any stuff on her. They were simply chums. Yeah, maybe she should talk to him. Her father startled her reverie, saying, “Then take that damn arrogant little piker off the RCA and get yourself dressed in some steak-eatin’ clothes.” He rolled his huge white eyes in his moony face. “Steak-eatin’! You know what I mean.”

✴✴✴✴✴ BY SUNDAY NIGHT EVEN Sweet Home Arthur was losing faith. He knew by Thursday that the record was having major problems with distribution and the deejays, and he wasn’t sure where the trouble was coming from—though he had his suspicions. Still, he was determined not to let My Best Friend, the Blues die just like that. Get the kid out there, get him playing to support the record—that was the ticket. Of course the hotter clubs were booked, but by pulling some favors, he got Willie Lee into the Terrapin Club on Friday night, Greenie’s Place on Saturday, and Cassandra’s Lounge on Sunday. Each night Sweet Home was there, with Jimmy Cricket toting a couple boxes of records, trying to move those babies off the stage. But it just wasn’t happening. What was wrong? Was it Willie Lee? Up on stage he seemed to pour his all into it . . . well, he would start off a little hesitantly as he had in Gary, but soon enough he was digging deep into his bag of tricks. He had the audience with him—the cheers were there—but at the end of the night, they weren’t selling records, and the

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next day there was no more airplay on the radio. By Sunday night, six days after the record came out, Sweet Home, sweaty and half drunk, felt the stink of a bomb all around him. He turned to Cassandra Rogers, eponymous bartenderowner of Cassandra’s Lounge, and said flat out: “The kid’s great, right? So why’s he not clicking now? Why ain’t nobody buying his record?” Cassandra was a large woman in a lavender muu-muu, with big hair piled in elaborate shiny black curls atop her purple mascaraed face, as well as big hands that won more hand-wrassling matches than anyone would ever know. She was universally known as a cool customer, and Sweet Home valued her opinion on almost everything. “He can play, no lie,” she started off, “but—” slanting look with her eyes “—I’m not so down with what he’s singin’ about.” “What do you mean?” “I mean.” Cassandra licked her lips, spoke slow, “he’s not singin’ about me.” “You?” “Yeah, me.” “Why should he sing about—” Sweet Home pulled up, then: “Oh, I get it.” “You see what I’m sayin’? I’m listening to his lyrics, and what I’m hearin’ is: ‘If I give her all she wants, what’ll be left to be called mine.’ I mean, come on! That’s just the kind of man I want, one who’s constantly going, ‘Leave me alone, what you want from me? Why you so much trouble?’ ” Cassandra was wringing out the towel she’d been using to swab down the bar, and that piece of cotton was turned so tight it almost screamed. “You know what I want,” she went on, “it’s a man who goes, ‘Sugar, what you neeeeed? What you craving that I got the cuuuuure for?’” “He ain’t singing that, is he?” “Oh, he could. He’s got the eyes, got the nose, got the . . . lips. He’s one purty boy, and these days with all these

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teenagers out there, that ain’t gonna hurt. But he’s gotta have the love. You know, Home, the lo-oooo-ooove—” Sweet Home nodded, but also moved a step back from the bar. The way she was cooing, well, there had been more than a few nights years ago, before Sweet Home became an at-home married man—well, a sort-of at-home man—and before Cassandra grew to the size of a meat locker, that she’d invited him to help her close up the joint. But had to face it, those days was long past. The big lady did have a point about the kid. Not for the first time the record producer wondered about him, where he’d come from and all. Detroit—that didn’t tell him anything. Being an orphan—well, that was sad, but what did it mean? The army—Sweet Home wasn’t sure he believed that, wasn’t sure how much he trusted Willie Lee’s stories at all, though he had no evidence yet that he was a tall-tale teller—but even his being in the army didn’t say much. The one thing he did know was that there seemed to be some strong wind—of talent, of driving ambition—behind the kid’s back, which was good. But where did it come from? And how did the kid use it? He was moody, no question. There was that wariness he fell into sometimes, then there were the other times when he was crowing world-bedamned loud and it was like he expected everyone to just stand up and salute him. Who knew what was goin’ on in that kid’s head; crazy stuff, far as Sweet Home could tell. Like that woman hauntin’ around him, the producer couldn’t make heads nor tails of that one. She didn’t seem to be your usual shack-up. She had to have some kind of game, though try as he did, Sweet Home couldn’t yet read it. Maybe it was that silver skunk stripe in her hair. That thing gave him the willies. Oh, yeah. He knew about a silver stripe like that, knew what it was about, knew it meant nothing—not one goddamn thing—that was good.

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✴✴✴✴✴ BY THE NEXT MONDAY—one week after the record was released—even Willie Lee Reed had to face how great a disaster My Best Friend, the Blues had become. Sales barely over a hundred, mostly off the bandstand at the gigs Sweet Home had dragged him too, no airplay, no accolades, no celebration—no talk of the blues having a new king, a new Heddy Days. And Willie Lee no closer to what he wanted more than anything: that stillness, that true power that the big man had thrown at him in his final, crushing note. The gigs had gone O.K., but his record was stiffing right and left. He was all set to sail on its success, the way everything had just fallen right to him since he’d come to Chicago, but now nobody seemed to care. Silver was away in Gary, not there to buck him up. But, really, it was neither the record nor Silver’s leaving that threw him into his morbid despond; at bottom he knew it was something much deeper and central: a hitch in the well-timed firings of his soul. Truth was, Willie Lee was sitting in his hotel room falling apart. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his guitar, fingering the strings. Unamplified notes twanged thinly. Some men, he knew, named their guitars, but Willie Lee didn’t think that was right. His guitar was too many people for him to fix it once and for all with a name. He always liked it to be just who or what he needed at that moment. At this moment the instrument was a murky pool, gray, flat, unknowable. Another flurry of notes. His fingers moved perfectly, but what came out seemed strained, forced, even false. There was no connection between what he was feeling inside— which was little but emptiness and ennui; and those bruised, sore spots dark in the corners—and what he heard, which sounded like the playing of a fancy-pants faker. Who was he

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trying to kid? That’s why My Best Friend, the Blues had gone down, people were seeing right through it. He kept coming back to that one face-flushing moment at the 6-Eye cutting session with Heddy Days. The way the old man had played that note, that one note, and had given him echoes of a voice so true and powerful that Willie Lee had just fallen down in the face of it. One note. The old man had taken him. Taken his pride. Taken his music. Willie Lee called one note out of the unamplified guitar, his own single note, and heard it rise into the stuffy hotel room air, where it weeped and quivered and . . . finally broke down in tears and collapsed. One note. One’s True Voice should be one pure note— The True Soul said as much. His own True Voice should sing that note, but it was merely silent. His fingers should be able to find that note, but they felt weak and misguided. His own soul should resound with the perfection of that one note, but his soul had lost all its music. He was so quiet sitting there he could hear each tick of the clock next to the bed. It was still ticking, and Willie Lee still hadn’t moved, at 11:30 that night. Across from him the hotel room door opened. He didn’t move. “Oh, you’re here.” It was Silver. “Whew, what a nasty trip that was. Hey, how you doin’?” “I’m being quiet,” Willie Lee said after a moment. He didn’t know if he was glad to see her or not. Actually, so far her presence in the room hadn’t much registered. “Quiet?” “Thinking.” “You don’t sound so good.” Silver was moving toward the bathroom, feeling sticky from the trip back from Gary. She took her bag with her and rinsed herself off with a wash cloth. When she left the bathroom her bag wasn’t in her

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hands. She walked over to a wooden bureau and pulled out a clean pair of black frilly underpants and matching bra. Then she stopped and looked closely at the kid. He seemed different, deeply quiet, almost abashed. When she’d met him he’d been so loud, so bold—there’d been so damn much of him. “Willie Lee, what’s wrong? Is it the record?” No immediate answer. Finally the kid sighed and said, “It’s doin’ nothing.” Though she and Shaw had agreed that the record’s stiffing would help them, the simple fact of its failure shook her. “Oh, you poor baby,” she said. She went over to him, her blouse open, an expanse of sleek black skin clear below her shoulders, the clean underwear in her hand. “No wonder you’re feelin’ terrible. I’m so sorry.” She dropped next to him on the bed. “What happened?” “I don’t know.” “The guy in the white hat, nothing worked with him?” “While you were gone, he had me play some clubs—” another shrug “—didn’t go nowhere.” “Oh, baby.” “I just don’t know, Betty Ann—” She bristled, snapped back to herself. “Darlin’, I’m Silver.” He looked at her then. He was such a boy, and so obviously lost. She felt a little bad for what she was about to do, but knew she had to do it anyway. In her lightest, most normal voice she said, “I need a drink—can I get you something?” Willie Lee shook his head. “It’s awful hot, Willie Lee. Why don’t I get you one of those Coca-Colas you like. There’s some in the ice box down the hall.” She buttoned up her blouse, then started out the door. “You sure, darlin’?” She got him a Coke anyway. Took it into the bathroom, popped the bottle cap, and poured it into a glass. Reached

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into the bag she’d purposely left there. In it was the vial of liquid she’d cooked up in Gary. She put ten drops into the Coke, looked at it for a second, then upended the vial and shook in a full squirt. Too much? She was determined that what had to happen with him went down tonight. “Here you go, sweetie.” She held out the brown liquid to Willie Lee, still sitting on the bed. He took the glass, and she unbuttoned her blouse. His gaze fell on her black bra in a way that surprised her. “Bottoms up.” She drank her Coke and looked at him. He wasn’t drinking. “Come on, it’ll make you feel better.” “It’s just a Coke.” “Yeah, and it’s cooling me right off.” His eyes, they were still on her, and in a different way from before, more needy. He must have missed her—really missed her. A thought caught at her, and she almost reached out to wrest the Coke from his hand, but at that moment he lifted the glass and took a long gulp. She’d purposely not put any ice cubes in the drink, and with another sip he emptied the glass. “That was good. Thanks.” Silver sipped at her own, unadulterated drink. She wasn’t sure how long it would take her potion to work but figured at least an hour. She believed she would notice the change as it came over him. “I’m sorry I left you,” she said. “Seeing you this way.” “You do what you have to do.” A faint smile on Silver. “I do, yeah.” He looked so forlorn, and she felt another pang of sympathy for him. “It’s not just the record, is it, darlin’?” Willie Lee sighed, didn’t speak for a moment. He reached over and set the empty Coke glass down on the cigarette-scarred side table. Then he said softly, “You’re right, it ain’t just that.” He gave his head a swift shake. “I just don’t feel like me—don’t have my True Soul.”

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Silver winced, there was that talk again. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand it, it had just seemed to get in the way of the easier carnal way of possessing him. She remembered all he’d said to her about his crazy book, and she had a quick, heart-deep inspiration. “Darlin’,” she said softly, “I want you to know that I know the True Soul.” Willie Lee had his guitar on the bed with him, but now he set it down so it leaned against the side table. Silver was only a few feet away, mostly undressed. He said in a soft, uncertain voice, “You do?” She nodded. “I’ve always known it, Willie Lee.” “And?” She could feel it, something was truly different with him, but it wasn’t her potion—that wouldn’t be working yet. Perhaps his despair, or the words she was saying. She sat down next to him. Her blouse was falling off her shoulders, and her white bra was bold against her black skin. She took Willie Lee’s hand, held it gingerly, pressed with her thumbs against the fleshy part of his palm. He had such soft hands. She had put on the scent of orris, and she knew how enticing it was. Was that working on him, too? But she knew more that it was her words. She leaned in toward him and whispered, “Willie Lee, I am the True Soul.” Her eyes burned like coal as she said these five words. He shook. She could feel it, a shudder right through him. She held his hand tightly, knew she couldn’t let him go. There was no turning back now. Rufus Shaw’s words were in her ears, and if this was the way to get to him, so be it. She repeated those five words, let them burn before him: “I am the True Soul.” She could be that for him; she felt so full with her own power that at this moment she would be as much as anyone or anything that ever traced this earth could ever need, be it flesh or spirit. As she spoke those words she was suddenly so much more than herself that she felt she filled the whole room.

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“Oh, my God!” he cried then as if it were revelation. Yes, he felt it; he knew it. “But, baby, don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m here for you,” she cooed. She was a woman, too, and still trusted that more than the other. She reached over and pressed his shoulders, then dropped a hand along his flank. This was the closest he had let her get to him, and she was surprised—and damn pleased—to see that her sensitive fingers running over his taut stomach were stirring him. Was this the potion working? No, she was certain, not this soon. “Baby, I’ve always been here for you.” The kid’s eyes were starkly round. His breathing was louder, deeper, more steady. “I don’t know,” Willie Lee got out, but there was no strength or conviction to his words. Her voice whisper-sang to him, “Baby, anything you need. Silver’s here just for you, darling, here, whatever you been needin’, here for you. . . .” Her hand was at his belt now, and she marveled that he wasn’t moving or pushing her away. And, look! There was a bulge below her hand, a distinct long hump down his leg under his pants. She dropped her hand and took it. It was hard. She moved her hand slowly back and forth, her own breaths coming quicker, hotter now. She leaned over and blew into his ear. He jolted. O.K., O.K., don’t be so overt with him. Careful. She pulled her head back though she kept her hand on his cock. Pretend I’m not even here. Just keep him hard, keep him hard. He was feeling odd, a way he hadn’t felt ever before. Was it her, the power rising off of her? But it felt more like a fever or illness rising out of himself. Still, her words had taken him by surprise. Was she the True Voice? He was surprised how much he wanted to believe her, wanted it desperately. He didn’t feel quite right. Was it fever? Or was it because there was nothing inside him. Nothing to hold on to. Was that it? Or was it the one note—the note he couldn’t hear? Silver did a well-practiced shimmy and her bra loosened,

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then fell away. She kept one hand on his cock and with the other slowly unbuttoned his shirt. All the while she spoke softly, with just the words and the tone she knew men loved, “You’re the best, Willie Lee. You’re the best, the best, the best. . . .” Fever or not. One note . . . or not. Here it comes. He felt her fingers. The Blistering Thing. He shuddered. He winced. But what else was there? This was pain beyond endurance, but pleasure, too. Did it make a difference? What difference did it make? One note. One . . . goddamn . . . note. He fell back on the bed and then she was over him, and he was undressed, and she was undressed. She was over him. She was groaning. “Let me feel you, darlin’. Inside me. Big, big, biiiiiggggggg inside me.” He felt hands, her hands, anybody’s hands; they beat soft and dark as bat’s wings against him. There was no way out. She reached down and took him, took the red hot thing, and it was the reverend’s hands and the nameless woman at the orphanage and his blundering attempts to be normal all over again—it was the Blistering Thing. As she pulled him inside her, he wanted to scream. There was no pleasure, only an excruciating torture. He deserved it. He’d always deserved it. One note. If he could just hear that one. . . . But there was nothing inside him. He was inside her. Was she the True Voice—or its Forever Opposite? His hands were hot. What was this fever on him? It was blistering, blistering. He saw her silver stripe swaying above him. She was a demon come to take him, to destroy him . . . but so what? What was there to hold back? What was there of Willie Lee Reed in this world that would make one small bit of difference? He tried to cry out but there was no sound. It was all one note . . . and that one note was not his.

J Chapter 4

Under the Spell

A

LTHOUGH HE’D BEEN

ready to wager his newest signing’s contract two weeks earlier, when Vic Andruzzi heard that Willie Lee Reed had left town he slowly went red with rage. The thing that burned him most was that he’d found out about the kid’s defection at his weekly game with the record boys. He was down about $70 when Abe Vokelman said, “Hey, Vic, I hear your new boy skipped on you.” Andruzzi looked up from a bad hand with a scowl. He seemed to be losing a lot lately, though he never kept records of wins and losses—it made the game too much like business, which he despised. “What’re you talkin’ about?” “That kid, what’s his name, one I almost won off you couple weeks back. Willie Boy Something?” “Willie Lee Reed. What of him?” “Hear he’s left town, hooked up with this guy in Gary.” Andruzzi set his cards down in front of him. “Gary?” “Some black guy down there, name of Shaw or something.” “Yeah,” Frog McIlhenny said, “I heard that, too. Guy’s opening a club down there.” He snorted: Like we should worry. “But, you know, it’s Gary.” “Wait,” Andruzzi said. He started to stand up, then real-

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149 ized this was way too obvious an overreaction. Instead he picked his cards back up and tried to coolly hold them in front of his face. But his frustration got the better of him. “You guys sure about this?” Nods around the table. “Then how come I don’t fuckin’ know about it?” Chick Hunt, the dealer on the hand, lifted a thick, bushy eyebrow and somehow gestured with it in a way nobody could mistake right at Andruzzi’s stack, dwindled before him. “Well, Vic,” Vokelman said. He set his cards down and actually was rubbing his hands together. “You’re one smart motherfucker, what can I say?” The rest of the guys laughed, Vokelman the loudest. “Gary, huh,” Andruzzi said under his breath. His face was flushed hot. “That shit Rufus Shaw, huh.” “Come on, Vic,” Spiker Wallace, the A&R guy, said. “You’re holdin’ things up. We got a bet to you.” Even though his cards were shit, he pushed a large stack of chips into the center of the table. He wasn’t thinking straight, seeing sheets of red before his eyes. Willie Lee Reed. Gary, Indiana? Rufus Shaw? A . . . nigger? “O.K., whattaya got,” Chick Hunt said. Up went everyone’s hands. Andruzzi’s pair of 10s did nothing; three of the other men beat him, and it was Frog McIlhenny who raked in the pot.

✴✴✴✴✴ was turning out to be any blessing for Rufus Shaw. Ever since Silver had brought the kid down a week back he’d seemed a wreck. What did that girl do to the boy? Shaw smiled to himself, couldn’t help it. But the damn thing was the kid was one messed-up Negro. Shaw was in the back of his chauffeured Lincoln, on his way over to that slum apartment Silver shared with her sister to check up on her and Willie Lee. His bodyguard, Jomper, NOT THAT WILLIE LEE REED

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was at the wheel, steering them through ever more ruined parts of the Patch. Didn’t nobody fix potholes here? The Lincoln bounced and shuddered down the pocked streets. Those children there, can’t somebody dress ’em in anything clean? They gotta be playin’ in the street—don’t they got a playground? (Shaw of course knew they didn’t.) Those elms, drooping and leafless, can’t nothin’ grow right down here? That mucky brown water pooled up at the street corners— sewers backing up again? And those wood shanties, damn, shouldn’t somebody just burn ’em all down and build up something half decent? Truth was, when he allowed it, the sorrows of his people bled at Rufus Shaw, which made it all the more distressing to him, the troubles he was going through. Willie Lee Reed was in a way the least of it; the worst was all the pressure he was getting from politicians and hypocrites like the Reverend D.K. Williams. They even had a name for it: The Crusade Against the Underground. Written up in the papers and proclaimed from the pulpits. They also called it the Crackdown on Sin and Driving the Criminal Element from Our Streets. There are gangsters in our midst, evil men preying on our helpless citizens, selling us sin and temptation, diverting us from the path of the true and righteous. So what that ninety-five percent of those upstanding, sinless churchgoers were getting just what they wanted: a chance to gamble pocket change on a better future. Hell, you knew politicians and preachers were his customers; everybody liked a little thrill in their dailies. So why were they goin’ against him now? Shaw didn’t get it. Damn them all. It wasn’t like there was any other way an ambitious kid like him could get anywhere in a place like the Patch. Shaw had gotten started when he was twelve as a policy runner, when the game was fairly new in Gary. Policy was the perfectly reasonable pastime where a customer picked a string of numbers, and then once a day numbers painted on

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wooden balls were drawn out of a well-spun large metal drum. The game was totally (well, almost totally) on the up and up. The winning numbers were immediately printed out, then run over to the policy centers up and down on Broadway, where they were posted for everyone to see. Speed was of the essence; everybody was dying to know how they did, and as a kid Shaw moved faster than anyone else. Then when he was twenty he saw an opening and started up his own book. The first one was Steeltown, then Long Atlantic and Short Pacific. A book was the structure that ran the numbers, and by some quick deals (and genial threats when necessary), pretty soon Shaw’s three books were the only ones in Gary. Being a black man who ran the policy made Shaw a hero in the Patch—and maybe a threat. He had grand ideas. His first policy center was behind a tailor shop on Adams; pretty soon, the tailor was making him money. His second, behind a liquor store, ditto. Then he bought and refurbished the Tru-Bowl Lanes because he always loved bowling and there was no place to do it in the Patch. (The bowling alley moved Negroes north to the edge of what had been all-white land.) And then because he loved music—had even played drums in a band as a teenager—he started putting on shows in the bowling alley. Then his crowning achievement: He dreamed up and built the Four-Leaf. That’s when the crusade started. First rule of running policy, you make nice with the authorities, and Shaw had the cream of Gary’s law establishment—all those big white men in their boxy suits and their brown fedoras—in his pocket. Shaw smiled, remembering a time a few years back when one Reginald Weed legitimately hit for $7,000 on a $25 fivenumber Jack, and all Shaw had to do was call downtown and get Weed arrested for . . . fixing the game. The poor schnook spent three days in the pokey till he agreed to forgo his win-

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nings in exchange for his freedom and the return of his $25 bet. But his grease was gone. Now cops were picking up his runners and hauling them in on trumped-up charges; they were sending trucks with firemen carrying axes to break up his policy centers, cracking the metal drums and sending the balls scattering down the streets like dropped marbles; and there was even talk of a grand jury about to be seated in Rufus Shaw’s honor. He didn’t get it. Could they be that boiled up about his new club? What could be so bad about his opening the FourLeaf Club, bringing a high-class entertainment establishment to the blighted Patch, a club that would specialize in Negro music and give the hardworking souls of South Gary a place to go to let off steam (and, sure, buy watered drinks and hook up with Shaw’s women)? Was the blues somehow more troubling to the churchmen than policy? It made him crazy that the preachers, especially the good Dr. D.K. Williams, pastor of the St. Paul Baptist church and the leader of the “crusade,” could actually see the blues as a threat. Shaw knew Williams well; they’d grown up together on opposite sides of Madison and 16th Avenue. Ask Shaw, D.K. was a pompous windbag always spouting off about Jesus, didn’t know nothin’ about how the real world worked. Way Shaw saw it, D.K. should be able to have his flock on Sundays, but what did he need ’em for the rest of the damn week? Well, so it was a battle between the Lord and the Devil’s music. Shaw didn’t want to go up against the Big Guy, sure enough, but then again, he didn’t mind fighting the prunefaced hypocrites and prudes. The blues was the truth sure as anything anybody ever heard in church. And of course he had his secret weapon, the best young blues guy he’d ever seen, Willie Lee Reed. If the fuckin’ kid would just get out of the damn bed.

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“Almost there, boss,” Jomper said. They were deep in the Patch now, heading down Van Buren. Shaw thought that maybe he should give Silver more money to move her out of here, though she seemed to like living with her sister, and Shaw had a soft spot for family. But the place was really a dump, a truly decrepit floor of a sagging wooden building, reached by a crooked outdoor wood-plank stairway, and built smack dab on a swamp, early-summer bugs swarming, weird gases flowing up the loose boards. Shaw had to hold his nose just to get up the stairs. Jomper knocked on the front door for him, and after a few raps Margaret Joy answered the door. “The kid here?” Shaw asked the short woman in the shapeless dress. Margaret Joy just rolled her eyes, then said, “Come on in, Mr. Shaw. You, too, Jomper.” Silver was in the room they’d fixed up for Willie Lee. She was sitting on a worn rattan chair, looking at the boy in the bed with a long, fretful face. “O.K., whatta we got here today?” Shaw said, loud in the small room. “How is he? Any change?” Silver gave a disconsolate shake of her head. “You look pretty rotten, too. What’s up?” Silver sighed, then waved a hand toward Willie Lee. She looked like a mother at her child’s sickbed, waiting for a doctor for whom she’d already given up hope. Shaw didn’t wait for any further answer. The policy man moved to the end of the bed, grabbed Willie Lee’s feet under the sheet, then gave him a sharp pull. “O.K., kid, up and at ’em,” he said in his booming voice. Willie Lee barely moved. He was lying flat, soaked with sweat, his thoughts so tangled and tortured by now he was barely thinking at all. Who was this short, blustery man tugging at him, his arms waving, voice rising and falling like a foghorn? He was like some crazed big, black crow. What he was saying was that he hadn’t brought Willie Lee here just

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to lollygag around in bed acting funny, he’d brought him here to work. “What’re you saying, Rufus?” Silver was standing now next to Willie Lee, trying to prop him up at the head of the bed. “I want him to do his job. Why else we got him down here?” “But the club’s not open for another week at least—” “I want him in the studio.” He gave Willie Lee another furious shake. “Kid, I want you to come make a record with me. You hear that? Another record.” He was bellowing. With Silver’s help Willie Lee got himself up on his elbows. Sweat poured down his face, dripped onto the sheet pulled up over his thin, bony chest. His eyes spun. “Damnit, stop giving me this shit.” Shaw was pacing now, up and down the side of the bed. “Listen, kid, I want you off your ass by tonight.” He flicked up his black cowboy hat. “This morbid shit has gotta stop.” Willie Lee looked at his guitar, propped up in a corner. It looked as alien to him as a baseball bat or a luminous cross. The idea of Willie Lee getting out of her bed and actually doing something brightened Silver. She’d been blaming herself for his condition, and blaming herself worse that she couldn’t make him better. “What’d it hurt to do a session?” she said. Willie Lee looked up at her. He didn’t understand much of what was happening to him, but he did know what had brought it on: In Chicago he had given in to the Blistering Thing. He could remember Silver’s cooing ways, her seductive tongue, her dazzling silver stripe—and then there was that weird, tingly something else inside him, leaving him lightheaded and moved in ways that made no sense—but still, damnit, how could he fool himself, it was he who had faltered, he who had let the bad things out. Was she his Soul Mate? The answer was lost in the bedroom heat. Yes, Silver had made herself available, but that was what temptation

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always does—The True Soul said as much. But who had given in to her? Who had thrown himself at her the night before? It was Willie Lee himself, no one else. When he was unresponsive the next morning, the fever that wasn’t a fever already upon him, Silver had insisted he go with her to Gary. She seemed truly shaken, as if this weak Willie Lee was not at all what she expected. She said she thought she could help him if he let her take him home, and he simply no longer had it in him to resist. Didn’t have it in him to do anything but lie in this narrow bed. Was it just the effects of the Blistering Thing? He’d never felt so tired, so possessed by weakness. There was some weird kind of other thing inside him, he knew it, but had no idea where it had come from, and so he ignored it. He just blamed the Blistering Thing, the way it scorched every part of him. Made him full of blinding anger and hate for himself. Left him incapable of doing any damn thing . . . yet now this man wanted to kick him out of bed and make him play music? “I’m not well,” he got out. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen. He turned from Shaw to Silver. “You know that.” “Kid, we got you a doctor in here, he said there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with you he could see. Doctor I paid for, I might add.” This was true. A Dr. Montague, a roly-poly gentleman in a crushed porkpie hat, had come and poked and prodded, and said that he couldn’t find anything amiss. Silver had held her tongue all the way through his diagnosis. “So listen, you’re not sick. Not a fuckin’ thing wrong with you.” Shaw reached down and gave the kid another vigorous shake. “You just been lollygagging. Time for that is up.” Willie Lee shot a plaintive glance at Silver. She said, “Willie Lee, I think it’s best. You can do it.” “We got everything set up, you just gotta bring your ax, plug it in, and do your job. What else are you here for, you putz?” Shaw went over, planted his large face a couple inch-

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es from Willie Lee’s, glared into his eyes. “No, ain’t nothin’ wrong with you. Tell him, Silver.” “Willie, come on, I think it’s a good idea,” Silver said. “Willie Lee,” the kid insisted. “Willie Lee.” “You see, you’re gonna be fine,” Shaw barked. He grabbed the kid and yanked him out of the bed; Willie Lee stood there in his yellowing underwear, Shaw’s meaty hands on his shoulders. “O.K., it’s all settled. We’ll start tonight.”

✴✴✴✴✴ of his house. No baffles on the wall, just concrete. A couple of mikes. A mixing board. A big reel-to-reel Ampex. “What you say?” Shaw had hired a drummer and bass player, and in the small room when they played, the walls echoed so loud Willie Lee could hardly hear himself. Willie Lee stared straight ahead. Was this his fate? His head felt like it had black flies tumbling around in it. He stared straight ahead. But there was a guitar in his hands, and finally a kind of rote took over and he started fingering chords. They sounded . . . well, he couldn’t quite tell. Still, he summoned up all the power he had left and said, “Let’s get it on.” The band kicked into a standard twelve-bar, Willie Lee cut his fingers into the fretboard, then stepped to the mike. He saw the big tape recorder turning, just like the white boy’s in Chicago. For a second he longed for the life he’d found there, and then he started singing, “Had me a time in Chicago, time I didn’t understand / Just had things going in Chicago, though I didn’t understand / Fell under the spell of a special woman, came down and made me a man.” Words off the top of his head—more air music—and they sounded all right, but he wasn’t really feeling them. Halfway through the song Shaw waved him silent. SHAW’S STUDIO WAS JUST THE BASEMENT

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“Where’s your fire, boy?” he said. “I—” “Where’s the goddamn Willie Lee Reed I heard at my bowling alley?” Silver, by Willie Lee’s side, stroked his arm, whispered, “Come on, baby, dig deeper, you’ve got it.” Willie Lee thought, Maybe it’s the rinky-dink studio. Maybe it’s this town. Maybe it’s Rufus Shaw who don’t know his dick from a diddly-bo behind the controls. But he didn’t say any of this. He knew he was the problem. Yet he didn’t stop. The band kept going, and Willie Lee played with them, but his guitar—his joy, his devotion—was a hardship, alien to him. He played till his fingers were scraped bare, but he never felt the music at all. Shaw called for take 2, then 3, then 4, getting more and more frustrated as they went along. “Come on, kid,” he said, “I gotta see it. We gotta hear it.” Silver stood beside the short policy man. In the summer heat he was smelling something fierce. “We only got a week,” Shaw said to her. “Don’t I know it.” “What did you do to him?” Silver winced. This was what she’d been asking herself since Chicago. She kept thinking of those words of Mrs. Herron’s, that there was no overkill here. She wasn’t sure of it then, and knew better now. What else to call it? She’d thrown her potion at Willie Lee, got what she needed—and got way, way more, too. “I’ll do what I can,” she said. “A week,” Shaw repeated. “Actually, less. Place is opening in six days. That’s a fact.” Willie Lee choogled with the band, barely keeping up with them. “I know,” Silver said, tight-lipped. “All right, all right,” Shaw said finally, to all the band

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members. “Let’s wrap this. We’ll give it a go again tomorrow.” Back at her place Silver tucked Willie Lee into the narrow bed, then went and made herself a drink. She sat alone at the kitchen table, a cigarette smoldering before her. She only smoked when she was anxious, and she was that now. O.K., she’d done this to him. Her mixture must have been too strong. She’d tried everything she could to remedy the problem, but nothing worked. She just couldn’t fix him. He was like a broken machine, and she thought that if she could just find the bad part and replace it, then adjust the rest, she’d have him going again. But there was no way in. She wasn’t surprised Dr. Montague couldn’t find anything; he was the wrong kind of doctor. The kind she needed? Not in Gary. She knew a man in Chicago, off Maxwell Street, who could possibly help her, but he didn’t have a telephone, and Silver didn’t dare leave Willie Lee to go consult with him. So they were stuck. The future of the blues ruined in her bed. She felt her responsibility deeply, though, and it made the air around her cut sharp, like blades: Shaw believed the fate of the Four-Leaf was riding on Willie Lee, which meant it was riding on her. Well, maybe she’d find a way to save him. They did have six more days to go. Anything could happen in that amount of time, couldn’t it?

Part Two J Chapter 5

On the Way

O

N HER WAY TO GARY, Helena (Cheroot) Jones lit a thin panatela, leaned her thick, corpulent body back in the smoking car of the City of New Orleans, and blew out a lopsided ring, a sort of lariat snaking out from her pin-cushion-full lips. She was trying to relax, letting the rumble, rumble of the train’s wheels clacking briskly along the tracks lull her. But this was her third trip north in four months to speak at a funeral—somehow she’d become a professional eulogist, seemed like—and that put a lot on her mind. Down in Indianola, Mississippi, Cheroot (as everyone had come to call her since she’d lit up her first cigar at the age of nine) had made her living in all kinds of ways, though lately, since she was getting older, she’d set herself up a roadside tire-patching shop, where she had three of her nephews out there in the sun fixing blown tires while she sat under a pine tree and smoked. She liked to tell everyone that now she was “really re-tired,” and truth was, few things in life were more steady than blown tires. Business was good. But her real calling, it turned out, was spiritual; she was practiced at all kinds of occult matters, but her business lately was tending to the recently dead—another vocation never 159

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hurting for trade. She’d started speaking over the funeral of her best friend, Maisy Jackson, and her words were so easeful and moving, she began to be asked to deliver words anytime somebody in Indianola had passed. What made her work special was that while most everyone saw simply a lifeless corpse in a pine box, the eulogist saw a soul in dizzying, dazzling balance, where just one slip, a bad wind, a moment of inattention, the lack of the right kind of guidance, and . . . well, it was too horrible to contemplate. Cheroot would put herself in there right at that line where the living and the dead meet. That was her gift: She could see both worlds at once. And more: She could always find the fulcrum between spirit and its absence; the moment when the promise deserts us. Cheroot was all about spirit, fresh gyres of it, and used its vapors to waft souls to a better place. She also knew the power and magic of words—how they were the spirit’s messengers. She saw her mind as a big barrel just brimming with words, glittering like silver-flanked trout, and when she could float the right words over the dead, well, she might not bring ’em back to life . . . in history that only happened once . . . but she could make sure everybody there knew just what was at stake; what miracles had been gained and lost—and perhaps gained anew. Cheroot was on her way now to Gary, Indiana, to speak over a relation named Johnson Snooder, the brother of her half-sister Lillian in Detroit. Snooder had been a high school music teacher and by all accounts a credit to his community and his race. Lillian had written to Cheroot saying she couldn’t imagine any reason Johnson would actually need her help, but it couldn’t ever hurt now, could it? Could the eulogist come north again? Lillian had enclosed a couple of crisp Ben Franklins for expenses and also mentioned she was having some trouble with her daughter, Esmé. She didn’t say exactly what the problem was except that Esmé had gone to Chicago and wouldn’t return home. She’d fallen in with a

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blues crowd there, and Lillian was certain Helena would know just what that meant. Cheroot remembered Esmé well, a pert young thing, pretty in a fresh-flower way, and with a fine, fine voice when she joined in a hymn at one of the funerals Cheroot had lately spoken over. Esmé had studied music with Johnson Snooder and was definitely going to be at the funeral. Lillian added that she’d heard Esmé would be traveling to Gary with a white boy. That Lillian didn’t know anything about, but the idea of it had got her all worked up: “My Esmé, you know, she’s at an age, Helena. . . .” So if Cheroot—who was widely respected in the family for her abilities of persuasion and good sense—could look into this situation and talk to her, well, there’d be two birds in one hand. Two birds, two Bens . . . and the eulogist was on her way. She reached into the deep pockets she’d sewn into the pale-blue homemade smock that wrapped her large, near shapeless body, and started to pull out the paper-clipped pack of . . . what the hell was this? Look, a brown haloed burn mark on the clipped notes, right there in the center, a big black charred hole in the middle. Damn that cigar ash. This smoking, these flutelike cigars, this was Helena’s shame (and her not-so-secret glory). Each time she fired up one of those beauties, there were tongues that wagged, heads that shook, people’s eyes that got low down and snarly. That woman’s smokin’, Ma! Cee-gars! Well, how could she not revel in it? (She’d never admit it, but she loved that nickname Cheroot—she herself insisted everyone drop the final t; loved the tootie-frootie Frenchiness of it.) Still, least she could do was not be such a fool that she got burning ash in her pockets and scorched up all her damn notes. Burn up her own damn soul if she not be careful! Clackety-clack. She was feeling a little dozey, and . . . her cigar was still lit, tip red hot, ash teetering at the slender

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tube’s end. Damn! Next thing you know I’ll be burnin’ down the goddamn train! Instead of stubbing the panatela out, though, she took a long, contemplative puff. That was it, smoke to frame what she always true-saw: how everywhere devils and angels danced before us, tempting us and drawing us hither; and every moment upon us a burden of vigilance, caution, and respect. We had to always know the stakes, ’cause a life lived blind to ’em was the life of a fool. And even if Cheroot Jones couldn’t talk someone back from being dead, she could sure get down there and stamp out some righteous foolishness.

✴✴✴✴✴ ON HIS WAY TO GARY,

Vic Andruzzi kept a cigarette cocked up at a jaunty angle, a can of Pabst between his legs. He was trying to keep a cool head, not so easy in this early-summer heat wave booming up from the South. First off, he was worried that the boxes of records in the backseat of his blackand-white Cadillac would melt from the heat beating down and rising off the steaming asphalt. Every few minutes he’d take his hand off the wheel and reach back to make sure they weren’t softening. So far they were O.K., which was good, ’cause he had a plan for them. He’d heard of a Saturdayafternoon poker game down there; he had the address stuck up on his sunshade with a paper clip. His wallet was a little flat, and the discs were going to get him enough scratch to enjoy the game. Not that poker was the only reason he was here. No, after what he’d heard from Vokelman, Andruzzi had pushed a contact in Gary and found out that that Rufus Shaw was actually cutting wax on Willie Lee Reed—the fuckin’ kid still under contract to Viper!—and was going to headline him at a new club he was about to open. Just like that. Like Vic

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Andruzzi up in Chicago didn’t exist. Like he didn’t have a sweet Caddy could ride him down to his dump. Like he didn’t have family behind him. Like you could just up and steal one of his signed performers because it was only the blues and Negro music. Like a goddamn jigaboo could do this to him. Damn, it was hot. Andruzzi could see filmy heat devils swirl up above the cornfields along the road. He flipped his lit cigarette butt out the window, then popped the cap off another Pabst. He’d brought three six-packs with him, and there was only one full one left. Ah, the brew tasted great— almost too good. And the game with a bunch of Gary losers in front of him? Sweet! Still, discipline, discipline. (His wife, Miriam, had been buying him books on self-control, like he had some kind of problem? Hey, Self-Discipline was his middle name!) But, yeah, he had to keep focused. The important thing was the problem with Rufus Shaw and Willie Lee Reed. There was a true order to things, and he was heading to Gary now to set that order right. He didn’t know Gary well—why would he?—but how hard could it be to find Negroes? He decided to start off at that place he’d been before, Shaw’s Tru-Bowl Lanes, just over the line into the darky part of town. And damn if he didn’t call it. He pulled up front of the alley, set up a portable player on the hood of his Caddy, then dropped a needle on Tweeter Daniels, Black Keys Johnson, Big Mouth Archer, even that Willie Lee Reed cut, and damn if discs didn’t start flying out of the back of his Caddy. He couldn’t sell a one of ’em in Chicago, but right out here on the boiling sidewalks of Gary, Indiana, people were bunching up, listening hard, starting to dance, kicking up a carnival scene. He ripped open boxes, pulled out 45s, and sold ’em for sixty cents apiece. The coins clattered into his pockets. An hour later he had a red-hot $242, more than a good

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stake for the kind of action he expected to find in Gary. He was down to his few last discs when he packed up to try to find the game. He’d just packed away his record player when up pulled a long black Lincoln, and out stepped a short fat man dressed even in this heat in a fancy three-piece suit and cowboy boots. He hadn’t met Rufus Shaw before. Andruzzi had missed Shaw’s party because he’d had a game, but intuition told him this was the man. He got into his car, pulled his visor down, and looked out the window . . . and the short fat man was walking right up to his car. “Hey,” he said, “I heard you been sellin’ records here in front of my alley.” Andruzzi had a small .38 pistol he always carried with him in the glove compartment, and though he kept his smile beaming out the window, he reached over and carefully pulled it out and set it on the seat next to him. Then he gave this man his full attention. Shaw was dabbing his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. His eyes were large, though his pupils seemed unusually small. His wide nose was sucking in breaths noisily. He looked all hot and bothered, like he had a million worries. Andruzzi smiled inwardly, then said, “Just a little All-American commerce, my friend.” “Yeah, well, you’re in front of my place. Think you might want to clear your ‘commerce’ with me?” “I just pulled up, first spot I found. Customers seemed to like what I got. I sold a lot of records.” “So that’s what I’m saying,” Shaw said. “Maybe like you owe me a little rent.” Andruzzi winced. The nigger’s effrontery amazed him. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to get out of the car right now and have it out with Shaw. But—deep breath. He had to exercise that self-discipline he was so proud of. Tonight would be the time, when Shaw was parading out Willie Lee Reed, Andruzzi’s own damn property, at his new nightclub. The club

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would be the right place to make a statement about what was right in this world and what a nigger could get away with— and he wanted to make it in front of people who would notice. Besides, there was that game out there already drifting late into the afternoon. “Fuck you!” Andruzzi said, turning over his motor and popping the Cadillac into drive. As he pulled away from the irate, fist-waving man, he let out a long, cackling laugh. Oh, he thought, tonight is going to be sweet.

✴✴✴✴✴ of Josh’s T-Bird down in the stunning heat, downed one bottled Coca-Cola after another, and blasted the silver-dialed AM radio loud, even though they were on the way to a funeral, piping their voices up cheerfully to the Chiffons’ He’s So Fine, the Shirelles’ Foolish Little Girl, the Essex’s Easier Said Than Done, the Annas’ He’s My Boy, the Crystals’ Da Doo Ron Ron—Esmé soaring on the verses and Josh laughing through the doowoppy backgrounds. “You have a great voice,” Josh told her. “You ever think of singing?” “Have, yeah,” Esmé shouted into the wind. She reached over and lowered the volume. “I have a group in Detroit. We call ourselves the Darlingettes.” “Cute name. You girls good?” “You should hear us.” Josh smiled. “Maybe someday I will.” “Yeah, it was my uncle Johnson who got me going,” Esmé said, reminiscing. “We used to come down here for holidays. He was this music teacher, you know, and he always had great 78s around: Frankie Lymon, the Clovers, the Chantels, Shirley and Lee. I’d curl up and play ’em and sing along. He always encouraged me—more than my mom did.”

ESMÉ AND JOSH KEPT THE TOP

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“I know all about parents’ encouragement,” Josh said with a snort. “What?” Esmé called out. She hadn’t heard him in the wind and the music. Josh shook his head. “Nothing.” “Hey, I’m glad you’re going with me,” Esmé said. “Me, too.” “It’s fun—been fun staying with you, too.” After the inevitable blow-up with Sefronia after Heddy’s departure for Europe, Josh quickly took Esmé in, putting her in the extra bedroom Willie Lee had been in a couple weeks before. He’d found her very easy to get along with, and any anxiety she had about staying under the same roof with a boy never became an issue. “I’m glad.” He gave Esmé a smile. “Wish today was going to be fun.” “Nothing like a funeral to cheer you up, eh?” “Yeah.” Esmé was silent a moment, then she said, “Do you think we’ll find him?” “I don’t see why not.” They were talking about Willie Lee. Josh knew about Shaw’s club opening down there and that Willie Lee Reed would headline opening night, which turned out to be the same night as the funeral. Esmé was still thinking—all right, obsessing—about that boy, and she was boiling when she learned that he’d in effect been kidnapped to Gary by some slattern. “He’ll be at Rufus Shaw’s FourLeaf. I got the address.” “And that woman?” “With the silver stripe in her hair?” Esmé sighed. Everything she’d heard about the woman who had stolen Willie Lee from her—that’s how she saw it— spooked her. Especially the silver stripe. She saw it in her imagination as a vivid swatch of spun metal, gleaming out a strange magnetic power. Josh shrugged. “Essie, we’ll take it as it comes.”

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Esmé kept silent in her seat. She pulled her knees up to her chin. They drove for a few miles like that, then Josh reached over and put the radio back up. On came Little Peggy March’s recent hit, I Will Follow Him. Over and over the singer cried about how far she’d go to stay with her man. “Hey, you like this song?” Josh said. The background singers were crying, “Do-dit-dit, do-dit-dit, do-dit,” then the fifteen-year-old singer was belting out, “I love him, I love him, I love him / And where he goes I’ll follow, I’ll follow, I’ll follow. . . .” Josh lifted his hands off the wheel then waved two fingers on each hand around and around. He laughed. “Seems a little, um, obsessive to me.” Esmé didn’t answer. She simply dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and stared intently through the curved windshield.

✴✴✴✴✴ was speaking on the phone with Gary’s mayor. He was in his parish office, lined with his collection of old Bibles and crosses. His collar was tight around his neck though it was hot as Hades in his office even with three fans flowing. He had the handle tight in his hand. “But I don’t see why not,” D.K. said. “He’s got all the permits. Got all the goddamn t’s crossed and the i’s dotted.” “So?” “So it’s a legal business. Hard to justify breaking up a man’s legitimate business when most everything he does is illegal.” The mayor snorted. “But it’s the devil’s work!” “You really believe that, Reverend?” “I do, sir, yes.” “Well, you know I like to work with you when I can, Rev, THE REVEREND D.K. WILLIAMS

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but this one, I think we’re just gonna have to let it pass, you know.” “I’m not going to let it pass.” “You’re not planning anything I have to be worried about, are you?” the mayor said. “Oh, no, sir.” Williams had a deeply creased face and strong lines on his forehead that popped out when he was deep in thought. “Won’t us be doing anything that’s not legitimate—not legal.” “Rev?” “Thank you as always, mayor,” Williams said as he hung up.

✴✴✴✴✴ JOHNSON SNOODER WENT TO HIS JUSTS smooth as cream pie, and now Cheroot was enjoying a smoke outside the church in west Gary. Service had gone well, she thought, her words there right when she needed them, the audience leaning in, giving themselves over to her voice, even letting out the occasional “Tell it, sisters!”—in church! Yes, this Johnson Snooder went over easy; it was as if while Cheroot was speaking on him, she could trace his spirit moving through the aether on its journey to heaven: bright crystalline flurry, like a rocket trail. Praise the Lord! There was her niece Esmé walking toward her, sweet piece of cake herself, with a wide, natural smile and beautiful wavy hair. She had a white boy with her, name of Josh something, just like Esmé’s mom had said. Didn’t look too dire a situation, though; boy was keeping a respectable distance, and Esmé looked healthy and happy. “That was beautiful, auntie,” Esmé said when she came up. “Uncle Johnson must be feelin’ pretty good hearing all that—” “All things considered,” Cheroot said. She smiled. Esmé and the white boy laughed. “Well, yeah,” her niece said. “All things considered.”

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“So what’re you two doing now?” Cheroot said. She was wondering about the couple before her. She wasn’t picking up any kind of . . . charge there, which was a relief—didn’t want to upset Esmé’s mom, not that Cheroot would care. But there did seem to be something preoccupying her niece. “Heading right back to Chicago?” “Um, auntie, no, not quite.” “We’re going to a new club here, blues club,” Josh said. “Friend of ours from Chicago is playing. It’s opening night.” “Blues club, eh?” “And we were thinkin’, Auntie, maybe you’d like to come.” “Old heavy sack of bones like me?” “We just have this feeling,” Esmé said, “that you could help us. You see, we have ourselves a little mission here.” “Mission?” The eulogist looked straight on at her niece. She had a curious intensity, something life and death on her, and Cheroot’s curiosity was powerfully roused. “You’d better tell me more.”

✴✴✴✴✴ SILVER WAS BACK AT MRS. HERRON’S. She’d waited as long as she could and done everything possible, but the opening of Rufus’s club was in a few hours, and Silver was panicking. She insisted her sister stay with Willie Lee—babysit him so he couldn’t do anything too strange before his show tonight—then had driven her car over to 18th Avenue to the curio shop. There was the usual black window, the homemade drawings of roots and stones, the locked wooden door. She stood before it and let out a long, aggrieved sigh, then gave the standard knock, fresh in her mind: Rap . . . ten seconds . . . rap-rap . . . five seconds . . . rap-rap-rap-rap. The heavy door creaked back, and there the tall, elegant shop owner stood. She wore the same orange-and-black caf-

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tan as before. “Child,” she said, “come in.” Silver followed her back into the duskily lit shop. Mrs. Herron stood behind her glass counter, then leaned toward Silver and said, “Darlin’, you all right?” In truth Silver had been fretting fiercely the last few days. Shaw had kept after her about Willie Lee, asking each day how he was coming along, counting the days till the opening, reminding her—as if she needed reminding—that the kid was the headliner and the fate of the Four-Leaf was riding on his performance that night. “Things didn’t, well, work out the way I thought last time I was here,” she said. She shrugged. “It ain’t you.” She wasn’t here to blame Mrs. Herron; Silver knew she’d concocted the potion, done what she had to with Willie Lee, and now couldn’t get him back. She was here because she was desperate and needed help. “It’s my man. I got him—” an unexpected squeal of a hapless laugh “—and now I can’t do nothin’ with him.” Mrs. Herron gave a short but sagelike nod. “Tell me more.” When the whole tale was out there, the shop owner bent down below the counter for a moment and came up with a handful of objects. They were rooty—gnarly gray and stippled black in her pink palm. “I don’t promise nothin’, but you can try to give him these.” “What are they?” “Rattlesnake master, deer tongue, pickanettle—that’s the one that stands straight up.” Mrs. Herron put each object into a red-flannel sack and passed it to Silver. Silver nodded at each name, then dropped the sack into her bag. “O.K., I’ll do it.” “But, sugar,” Mrs. Herron said, “I think there might be something more goin’ on than just the powders and herbs.” Silver nodded at that, then said, “Yeah?” to keep her going. “Something with that boy himself.”

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“He is a strange one.” Silver let a small smile steal onto her face. “Honey, let me tell you an old woman’s secret,” Mrs. Herron said. She winked. “They all is.” Silver laughed. “But this one we’re talkin’ about, he have a name?” “Willie Lee Reed.” Mrs. Herron was silent a moment, pursing her brow. “Oh, yeah, I heard ’bout him. He’s that guitar man gonna open Mr. Shaw’s new club.” She gave out a low whistle. “So you involved in that.” Silver nodded, then held up the red-flannel sack. “This better work.” “Well, what I’m gettin’ at, darlin’, is that maybe you gotta do something more than just use the powders. You know, go right at him—” “But I’ve—” “I know, you did all your stuff ’fore you even came here. But your stuff—you know, you’re a beautiful woman, and striking with that silver—” Silver frowned, then said, “What’re you gettin’ at?” “Just that you might want to go deeper.” “Deeper—” “Into that boy. What I hear, boy like that’s gotta be special. Unusual. Play the guitar that good. You gotta go where the music is in him.” “I think I’ve—” “Sugar, you’s here. You’s here, and that says a damn lot. I’m just sayin’, you go back to that boy, you listen to him. Listen to him! You hear what song he’s truly singin’, maybe you can hear how to get him goin’ again.” Mrs. Herron glanced at an old wooden clock on a cabinet to her right. “Don’t think you got yourself much time, you know.” Silver nodded. “I know. Show’s in a few hours.” “Then you skeedaddle home, get that bag boilin’ up, but

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don’t forget—you listen to that boy, listen deep as you can, and what you hear, you respect. Whatever it be. Respect it!” Back at her Buick, Silver had to stop for a moment before she got into the driver’s seat. She felt funny, odd shivers all over. She was breathing quick, too. The heat resonating off the car’s metal skin was unceasing; billows of it blew up under her clothes and made her flush. For a second she was lightheaded and had to grab the car handle to steady herself. The handle seared her hand. It all passed, and she got in the car and drove home to Willie Lee. All the way she thought about the club opening and everything going on around it. It all left her with a very bad feeling.

J Chapter 6

Opening Night

W

HAT THEY GOT AGAINST ME?”

Rufus Shaw cried out to Jomper. He and his bodyguard were out in front of the Four-Leaf, and Shaw, bursting proud at his accomplishment, was dismayed by the action on the other side of the street. Across from the club was a line of gray-suited men in stiff fedoras and women in matronly dresses, seamed stockings, and church hats. They were carrying placards that read DRIVE EVIL FROM GARY and BLUES IS THE DEVIL’S MUSIC as they shouted out, “No more sin! No more sin in Gary! No . . . more . . . sin!” “This place is great,” Shaw said. And it was. This was no dumpy South Side Chicago hole in the wall, this was a builtup-from-the-bottom (well, it was an old furniture store Shaw had remodeled) palace of the blues. Look at the sign. It was six feet high, ten feet long, in glowing green neon, with the words FOUR-LEAF curved along the edge of that luckiest of clovers. And beneath it was already a long line of customers waiting to get inside. But Shaw mainly saw the stolid line across the street. Damn that Reverend D.K. Williams! Shaw turned to Jomper and said, “Am I evil, Jomp? Am I a pur-veeeey-yor of sin?” Blassy in his sharkskin suit just smiled and shrugged. The protesters had also brought the police, and there were clutches of white cops lounging about conspicuously,

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which was hardly what you wanted for opening night of a nightclub right off lower Broadway. Still, Shaw tried to hold to his larger vision, which told him that being a big sensation was just what he wanted. With one other big worry: That damn boy Willie Lee Reed had to come through. The goddamn kid wasn’t even here yet, though he would be going on in little over an hour. No sign of Silver either. She didn’t have a telephone, and there was no way to contact them. No way to know what the hell was going on. Still, couldn’t take it away from him: The joint looked great. The kid’s name was emblazoned right below the glowing green FOUR-LEAF, on a white sign Shaw had special made—with real printing, none of this low-rent hand-drawn stuff. No, his club was classy. And he was pleased how dressed-up his patrons looked streaming in. Even in the heat, which had already made him drench his embroidered handkerchief, they were dressed to the nines. Here were women in spiffy red-silk dresses, wild organdy skirts, strapless gowns. There were men in suits cut sharp as diamonds. Damn, this was going to be the biggest night Negro Gary had seen in ages! This was one big slap in the Reverend D.K. Williams’s face. One huge feather in Rufus Shaw’s cowboy hat. This was everyone ready to cut it . . . if that damn kid showed up and played like he was supposed to.

✴✴✴✴✴ Josh’s T-Bird, Esmé and Josh were startled to see all the commotion. Pickets? Cops? BLUES IS THE DEVIL’S MUSIC? What was going on? They’d found the place easily; couldn’t miss the fliers nailed onto lampposts and the sides of wood shacks, pasted up on railroad crossing signs; they even found one skittering down a street in a loose breeze: AS THEY PULLED UP IN

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GRAND OPENING NIGHT THE FOUR-LEAF FINALLY A SUPERIOR ESTABLISHMENT FOR THE BLUES IN GARY FEATURING WILLIE LEE REED, THE FUTURE OF THE BLUES

Now they were here, it looked like all hell was busting out. “What do you think?” Esmé said as Josh parked the T-Bird. “I don’t know what to think.” “All this, it’s not about Willie Lee, is it?” They were walking toward the club. Before the Rev’s commotion, Shaw had slipped a few bucks the right way at City Hall and had the sidewalk in front of his place fixed; it was smooth and white as a sandy beach. Josh shook his head. “I can’t see it.” Esmé frowned. “I’m worried about him.” “I know.” Josh reached out and patted Esmé’s shoulder. She was wearing a light-cotton dress in a shade of yellow that showed off the milk cocoa of her skin. She had on her petite white gloves again; she’d worn them to the funeral and now just felt more comfortable in them. “But don’t worry, you look great.” “I wasn’t saying that,” Esmé said, though she smiled. She always enjoyed Josh’s compliments, though, and was pleased he looked so smooth himself, in sleek black slacks with a sharp pleat, a black silk shirt, and tasseled loafers, his fine features sporting the tan he’d picked up a few days back on an outing at the lake. They took their places at the end of a line of patrons waiting to get in. There were fifteen people in front of them, and even though this was Shaw’s “high-class joint,” there were guards at the door frisking people, so the line moved slowly. A few minutes later they were in. Josh’s eyes went wide.

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He’d never seen a blues club like this—so big you could call it cavernous; with deep-green velvet wall hangings, brass rails, and burgundy-colored banquettes . . . not a rattly, knifescarred table in sight. The whole place said money. And everything was so new. He and Esmé took seats on a crispycrackly Naugahyde banquette along one wall. The table before them shone. When they sat down they found a surprise: On their table, every table, was a wire basket swelling with fresh oranges. This was Shaw’s lagniappe to his openingnight patrons. Then a high-legged, fishnet-stockinged woman slid up, taking drink orders. Esmé, her eyes dancing as she looked around the grand club, said in her most Miss Pennyish voice and with a wink of complicity to the waitress, “I’ll have a Gibson, dear.” Josh simply ordered a draft. The only thing you could say against the place was that it was hot; steaming hot, even worse than outside. By the time their drinks came, Esmé was fanning herself. “Yeah, I know,” Josh said. He took his beer bottle and pressed its cool, dewy glass to his forehead. “My aunt’s not here, right?” Esmé said, taking the cool bottle from her friend and holding it up to her own forehead. The dew moistened the tips of her gloves. “I can’t see her.” Josh let his gaze roam around the club. It was filling up remarkably. There wasn’t any live music yet, though classic B.B. King and Heddy Days played on a bright-as-flames jukebox in a corner. As the banquettes and tables filled there was an excited crackle in the air. Who knew, maybe Gary was the new home of the blues. “She did say she’d be coming a little late.” “That’s what I figure.” Esmé handed Josh back his beer and sipped her Gibson. “You think Willie Lee’s here yet?” Josh gave his head a half shake, no way to know, then said, “How do you think we should play it?” He reached over and picked one of the oranges from the wire basket and began to peel it. A fine citrus scent rose up in the humid air.

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“We save him,” Esmé said matter-of-factly. Her gaze was front and center on the wide, elevated stage, where band members were starting to set up the drums and amplifiers. “Yeah, and how do we do that?” “It’s like the blues,” Esmé said, snapping her fingers. “Improvise, white boy.” “Thanks.” “No, I’m just feelin’ good all of a sudden. Got a good feeling.” Esmé settled back, sipped her onion-garnished gin and vermouth. “Glad to hear it.” Josh set down the orange he’d been holding in his hand. “Oh, come on, I was just kidding.” She reached over and took back his beer bottle, rolled it along her unlined forehead. “Only I just wish it wasn’t so damn hot.” She fanned herself again. “Heat like this makes everything so . . . crazy.”

✴✴✴✴✴ “HEY, HEY, JOHNNIE WASHINGTON.” Rufus Shaw held his hand right up tight to his stomach, and the tall man in front of him reached all the way out and shook it. The gesture was clear: I’m honored to shake your hand. I’ll come to you. Shaw smiled to himself, though he kept his face appropriately taciturn. “Johnnie, how you like the place?” “Very impressive, Mr. Shaw.” Johnnie was an alderman from the Patch. He had a big, shiny black face and white teeth. “A real contribution to the community.” “See, that’s just what I was saying.” Shaw had built a special banquette for himself and his entourage. It was to the left of the stage and up, able to look down at the whole club; the perfect place for patrons to come pay court. He turned to his tablemates, his bodyguard, Jomper, a couple assistants from the policy center, and Silver, who had finally shown up with Willie Lee Reed. “It is a real contribution. Place where peo-

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ple to go, feel proud about themselves, enjoy their music. Don’t know why ol’ D.K. has such a stick up his ass about it.” Everyone at the table laughed but Silver. Shaw turned to her and bore in with a fierce gaze. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Silver said, “You know I think the place is a good move, Rufus.” She tried to focus on Shaw but looked distracted. “You know that.” “Hey, darlin’, you O.K.?” “Sure, I’m fine.” “It’s that fuckin’ kid, ain’t it?” “He’s going to be fine, Rufus. Don’t worry.” “Yeah, well, you know—” “Stop worrying.” Silver sighed, though she herself was still concerned. She’d gone right home, boiled up Mrs. Herron’s powders, dressed it with her own oils, and took the concoction to Willie Lee. What’s that? he’d asked from the bed she found him in. Just drink it. He’d turned up his nose. It’s good for you. Saying that certainly didn’t help. Here, I’ll mix it with a Coke. You know how you like Coca-Cola. Was it she who had made him such a child? Had she done that to him? Will you drink it then? Finally, he’d emptied the glass. More work, and she’d gotten him dressed, then into the car. She kept watching Willie Lee to see if the concoction was working, but so far she couldn’t say it was doing any good. Well, tonight he was just going to have to play. That’s what Rufus wanted, and that’s what Rufus would get. Then the thought caught her: But after tonight? The only answer was an unsettled vision of keeping on with Willie Lee, but exactly how she wasn’t sure.

✴✴✴✴✴ his Caddy over the rough streets of south-of-the-tracks Gary, he was trying to keep his cigaAS VIC ANDRUZZI DROVE

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rette up at that jaunty, FDR angle, but it was getting harder to lift his chin high. His poker game had been, well, not so lucrative. In fact, the $242 he’d gotten selling discs out of his trunk was down to . . . $19.56. This was after three hours of seven-card stud with a bunch of former steelworkers smoking fat cigars, who blithely took hand after hand. Hell, two of the guys were in fuckin’ wheelchairs—he’d been taken by a gang of crips! When Andruzzi was down a hundred bucks he’d started thinking of Rufus Shaw—the fuckin’ effrontery!—and seeing the promoter’s face leering like a black devil on the cards he held; and when he was down to under a hundred, he was damn certain that Shaw was responsible for his losses. The coon had stolen his singer, damnit, and why else was Andruzzi in godforsaken Gary anyway? The one thing you could say about these Gary crips was that they drank well; there was a bottle of pretty good mash whiskey on the green-felt table, and when they’d murdered that, another one magically appeared. Andruzzi was way too smart to play poker intoxicated, but then it was so damn hot and a grown man has his thirst. Put it this way: He was pretty sure he left the table with $19.56, though when he counted his change in the Caddy, he came up with $17.23. Of course with the game over, there was no reason not to drink, and after the game he’d gone and dropped five bucks, or was it seven, on a couple more whiskeys—maybe more than a couple. He was driving extra careful now, not that there was anything shaky with him but because he was in Niggertown and the potholes were deep enough to swallow a tank. He was lost. Half the streets didn’t even have street signs down here, not that Andruzzi had a map . . . well, he did have a map, but he couldn’t quite focus on it. Too much . . . sweat in his eyes. He was fuckin’ drenched. Hot as it got summers in Chicago, it was nothing like this fuckin’ armpit. Look, could that be Shaw’s club? Jeezus! Andruzzi had expected some dump like the room off the bowling alley, but

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this was a huge, freestanding building on a wide street, with a substantial neon sign, all green and red, out front in the shape of a piece of clover grass, the words FOUR-LEAF curled along it in fluted iridescence. Hell, there were small windows on the white stucco facade shaped like clovers. Jeez, where’d the money come to set up this place? He gonna make a go of such a fancy-dan club in fuckin’ Gary? As Andruzzi pulled his black-and-white Caddy up to the curb he was burning with anger. Here was somebody with the . . . there was that word again, the fuckin’ effrontery . . . to put together a joint with more style than they had in Chicago even. Like he was some tristate big shot. And doing it all on the back of Andruzzi’s own fuckin’ discovery. He saw the big sign on the front of the club: GRAND OPENING NIGHT FEATURING: WILLIE LEE REED THE FUTURE OF THE BLUES

Sitting there on the wide boulevard, Andruzzi saw other things going on, too. A line of pickets across the street, shouting out something about sin and waving placards. What is this, some kind of fuckin’ revival meeting? Jigaboos dancin’ for Jesus? Or was it a race riot? Jeezus, Gary. And, look . . . cops. Andruzzi quickly brightened: There were white faces down the street, the first he’d seen south of the train tracks. All those coons all over the place, they could really get to you. It was bad enough he had to hold his tongue all the time he was working with the music guys like Sweet Home—making his living, damn his wife’s fuckin’ relatives—but now that he was away from his home turf and had been, well, enjoying Gary’s favorite malt, any compunctions to hide his true feelings were washed away. Except for the cops it was really dark down here. Least in Chicago where his store was they had the Jews; they wasn’t much

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better, but at least they wasn’t all a different fuckin’ color. “Hey, off’cer, what’s goin’ on?” Andruzzi had pulled up next to the clutch of cops, and a slight, fine-nosed officer, hat tipped back over a brown crew cut, was next to his window. The cop brightened; looked half-bemused but pleasantly surprised to see a civilian white face down here. Andruzzi winked at him. “Some nigger activity,” the cop said. “They gonna have themselves a riot?” The cop waited a second, then shook his head. “Doubt it. Got church folk over there, and most of the action’s inside the building.” “Lot of people in there?” “I don’t know what they’re doing, but, yeah, burrhead who runs the place filled it up tight.” “It’s a blues club, I understand.” “Some kind of jungle music, yeah.” “You know anything about who’s behind it?” “Policy guy name of Shaw.” The cop scratched his nose. “I don’t usually work the Patch, but what I hear, he’s some big cheese down here. City Hall usually lets him be, but now that the churches are goin’ at him, well, we gotta be down here, too.” He shrugged. “He a problem?” A wink. “Burrhead with money and juice, you call that a problem?” Andruzzi winked back. When he spoke, his words came out slurred. “Well, youknowmyfriend, mightn’t be suchaproblemmuch—” The cop held up a hand, Careful what you say. Then he lifted his eyebrow, gave Andruzzi a smile. Andruzzi was fired up by his new idea. “Youneverneverknow.” He shifted back into drive, then sucked down a deep breath and gave his head a shake to try to clear it. “Hey, off’cer, thanks.”

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✴✴✴✴✴ “THAT GUY OVER THERE,” Josh said, pointing toward the table on the landing to their right, raised above the stage, “that’s Rufus Shaw, guy who owns the club.” “That’s the man who kidnapped Willie Lee, right?” “Along with her.” Josh gestured with his eyebrows, and Esmé leaned forward. So there she was. That woman, Silver. Yeah, she could see it: that wild stripe cutting through her hair. Esmé looked at her closely. She had beauty, with her high cheekbones and perfect makeup, and she was dressed to the nines. Hell, her sleek sheath dress was probably worth five of Esmé’s. But it was the silver stripe that caught her. There was something otherworldly about it, Esmé couldn’t put her finger on it, but the way the shimmery almost-white erupted from the profound black, it was not just an aberration of her hair color but more like a message—a glimpse of something unknowable startlingly visible right there upon her. Esmé was all prepared to hate this woman who had seduced away the object of her crush, but to be spooked by her—scared a little— she didn’t expect that at all. She heard herself draw in a long breath, then Josh said, “I know, Essie, just don’t sell yourself short, O.K.?” She turned a smile on him, but it was a cautious one, preoccupied. She hoped he was right.

✴✴✴✴✴ HE KNEW WHAT THEY EXPECTED OF HIM,

Silver and the roly-poly Mr. Shaw, and he knew it was best for himself, at this moment, to show up at the new club, the Four-Leaf, and play. That’s what he did, he played the blues. Even with the fire in his head. And the chill through the rest of his body. Nothing felt right. Willie Lee was deep into a brand-new chair in the warm-

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up room Shaw had built off the stage, first practice place Willie Lee had ever seen in a club, his guitar in his hands, lightly fingering the neck. His hands scampered like gamboling squirrels over the fretboard. As long as he didn’t think, they weren’t moving so bad. But he was thinking, and with it came bad feeling, and he couldn’t shake it. Silver came backstage. “How you doin’, baby?” He wasn’t sure he should be honest with her, but still he had to be. “I guess I’m O.K.,” he said lightly. “You got more of that Coca-Cola I gave you?” Silver had made him drink a dark, brackish liquid that smelled like the worst kind of gutter muck, said it would make him better—and it did buck him up some, got him here to the club. “Finished that an hour ago.” She nodded, then said, “How’s your forehead?” She laid the back of her hand on him, enveloping him in her vibrant flowery scent and the heat that always rose off her upper arms. Then she smiled. “You seem solid to me.” “I think I’ll be all right.” Did she hear it, there was so little conviction in his voice? She gave him a bright look that said, I sure hope so. “You’re goin’ on in a few more minutes. Band’s already out there warming everybody up.” She leaned in close, took his hand. “Rufus got an incredible house, packed to the rooftop.” A quick kiss to his cheek, her lips soft and wonderful as ever. “Darlin’, you’re gonna kill ’em.” He prayed that was so. On his way to the stage his stomach buckled. The churning pain came from the same place the whole confusion was coming from, in him but not wholly of him. He’d never felt anything quite like this before. As he walked down the whitelit hallway toward the stage, he went all wobbly, sloshy inside. Stage fright? Couldn’t be. He’d never had that. He turned to Silver, whispered, “Give me a minute,” and to her look of concern, just turned and dashed back the way

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he’d come, all the way to the rear of the club. There was an emergency exit, and he pushed through and stood there, hands on his stomach, his head spinning dizzily. There were stacks of broken wooden produce boxes, and his feet slid on smears of rotten lettuce, carrot peels, and cucumbers. The nighttime heat pressed down like a hot iron, and a fetid, clutching smell of putrefaction rose up. He felt his head sway, his stomach clench like arm-and-hammer fists were twisting it. Finally he couldn’t help himself anymore. He let it all out, heaving up a dark, gagging liquid onto the alley’s cracked asphalt. Back in the club he strode to the stage as if nothing had happened, but in his stomach it felt like wild birds were cawing and scratching at each other. Rufus Shaw was in front of the microphone, ready to introduce Willie Lee. The club was full. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Shaw said into the crystal-clear p.a., “welcome, welcome to my new establishment, Gary’s first true blues club—a club I hope will be as great as this great city—the Four-Leaf.” Quick, snappy applause. “I been a lucky man, you know, and now it be time to give some of that luck back. That’s why we call it the Four-Leaf. Luck— and pride. Place for us to take pride in our great music. Place for you to come to seven nights a week and hear great sounds, have a great time, just get down with it.” “We’re gettin’ down!” somebody cried. “Go, Rufus!” “Hey, hey, that’s the spirit. Now I know we got us a little consternation across the street. Some people think the blues ain’t the church, like we can’t have both. They’re makin’ a ruckus out there, but you know what? We’re gonna make us more of a ruckus in here. We gonna show ’em, right?” Loud clapping and hoots. “O.K., O.K., great. Now I wanna tell you what we got goin’ tonight. We got us nothin’ less than the damn future of

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the blues.” Smiles in the audience, a couple chuckles. “No, no, this is straight up. You know, blues been with us now for years and years, and sometimes we kind of take ’em for granted. Sometimes we think we done seen it all with the blues, that it be daddy’s music. Well, I’m here to say the blues, it’s got a future. And its name is Willie . . . Lee . . . Reed!” Silver was next to him and gave him a gentle push. The band started slip-sliding a greasy boogie, and as Willie Lee took the stage, a spotlight brighter than any he’d ever been under hit him. Willie Lee cupped a hand over his eyes and tried to look out into the crowd, but it was all just a bleachedwhite blur. It was like looking into a fate so hot he couldn’t make anything out. Finally, he saw Silver right up front. “Go, baby!” she cried. He waited till the band came around to the top of a twelve bar, then hit a chord, a simple one, and let it ring out. The amplifiers were new and loud, and the chord chimed through the club. He listened closely to it, and—how could this be?—Willie Lee heard it as out of tune. He could never remember playing his guitar when it wasn’t perfectly tuned. He’d never had to think about it, just twisted the tuning pegs and he’d be in perfect harmony with himself. But this chord was not . . . in tune. Funny, he’d tuned up as he always did, while walking to the stage. Maybe he was just hearing it funny. He played another chord. No, it was definitely wrong. He looked out into the audience and saw the same fiery blur. Then like dark coals in the midst of the blankness he read one of the signs Shaw had posted in the back of the room: WILLIE LEE REED: THE FUTURE OF THE BLUES. And out of tune. He played the chord note by note and couldn’t tell which strings were off; they all sounded wrong. He turned a peg on the high B string. No, that sounded worse. The G—worse still. The high E, wobbly, discordant . . . what was happening to him?

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The bass player stepped toward Willie Lee and said, “Kid, you all right?” Willie Lee nodded. But things weren’t right at all. He was worrying that when he’d hit the stage his guitar had been in tune, he’d just heard it wrong. But now it was hopelessly unharmonious, and the more he fiddled with the strings, each note blaring through the amplifier, the worse he made things. The crowd noticed. “Come on, play!” somebody called out. Another voice: “This is the goddamn future of the blues?” At their table, Esmé leaned in to Josh and said, “What’s wrong with him?” Josh shook his head. “I don’t know.” The band stopped. The bass player went to Willie Lee again. “It don’t matter,” the backup man whispered. “Let’s get going.” Willie Lee was looking at his guitar like it was a snake that had just bit him. He heard the boogie behind him not as music but as noise—an insanely rattling loud clamor. He let his guitar drop on the strap, just hanging against his chest, and put both his hands over his ears. Silver, still in front of the stage, was worried sick. From his perch Rufus was glaring knives at her, but what really got her was that she knew Willie Lee was in real trouble. She had to do something, and climbed up on the stage. This close, he didn’t smell so good. She leaned in to him anyway and said, “What’s goin’ on, baby? Can you play? You gonna get it together? Should I take you out of here?” She spoke with urgency and care. Willie Lee hardly heard her. He was thinking that this was just what he’d brought on himself. He’d believed he could have both the Blistering Thing and his music. He’d hoped that his True Voice would return when he stepped onto the stage. His hopes were all ashes now. Esmé said to Josh, “What’s she doing to him?”

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“I don’t know. He doesn’t—that’s not like how he was last time I saw him.” “He looks so . . . lost.” “I know.” “What’re we gonna do?” Esmé whispered, loud as she had to. “We gotta get him out of here.” “But how?”

✴✴✴✴✴ already playing as Andruzzi got to the Four-Leaf’s entrance. He paid his admission, but then there was a bouncer frisking people. “Sir, could you raise your hands?” the large black man said. “Why?” Andruzzi said. “Have to check you out. Club policy.” “Check . . . me out?” “Everybody, sir. It’s club policy.” Andruzzi stepped close to the guard and said half under his breath, “You put your pickaninny handsonme, I’m closingthisplacedown.” “You’re threatening—” Fiery indignation. “Those cops—” Andruzzi gave a jerk back with his head. He was sloppy enough that his head fell to the side and it took him a second to right it. “Tha’s all I’mgonnasay. Just letmethefuck in.”

THERE WAS LIVE MUSIC

✴✴✴✴✴ ON THE STAGE WILLIE LEE was frozen still. Finally, he looked plaintively at Silver. “Help me,” he whispered softly, the words—actually, they were soft in his own head but as he spoke them they came out in a desperate bark. Silver took Willie Lee’s arm, leaned in, and began whis-

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pering to him, “It’s all right. Don’t worry. It’s all right, darling.” Vic Andruzzi from the back of the club picked up on Rufus Shaw right away. Look at him, up at that table, lording it over everyone. Andruzzi moved through the club carefully, dropping a hand on the back of a chair when he needed to keep himself righted. Something was going on on the stage. The kid was there, but he wasn’t playing, and that whore with the silver stripe was standing next to him. All eyes in the club were focused there; everyone’s but Andruzzi’s, who kept his gaze on Shaw. Josh, catching Andruzzi in the corner of his eye, tapped Esmé’s bare shoulder. “That’s Vic Andruzzi, the guy who signed Willie Lee. Put My Friend, the Blues out.” “What’s he doing here?” Josh gave a deep frown. “I don’t know.” When Andruzzi was half a dozen feet from Shaw he dropped his hand into his pants pocket. Just that gesture made him list to the right; he wobbled and grabbed at a table, tilting it and almost upending the lagniappe bowl of oranges. Still off-balance, he dropped his hand on the shoulder of an older man in a crumpled felt hat. “Hey!” the man said. “Who are—” Andruzzi looked down for a second, then threw an elbow in the old man’s face. His head flew back. Next to him a younger guy stood and said, “Hey, hey! What was that? What’d you do to my pops?” The commotion drew attention. At his table Shaw saw Andruzzi. He flicked a glance toward his bodyguard, Jomper, who stood up and moved back from the large round table. Andruzzi was coming toward Shaw’s table, and Shaw stood up to greet him. He held out his right hand and said softly, “We meet again. I’m Rufus Shaw. And you’re Vic Andruzzi, right? From Viper Records? Tell me, how many records you sell in front of my place today?”

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“Shaw!” Andruzzi said loudly. It wasn’t clear if he’d heard any of Shaw’s careful, mollifying words. His head was lolling from side to side. His eyes were glassy. “I’m right here.” Another glance to Jomper, who was gliding over next to Andruzzi. “We have a show going on here.” A look toward the stage, where Silver was still with Willie Lee. The kid was nodding now, and he put the fingers of his left hand into a chord shape on the neck and played a few chiming notes that rang like fine crystal through the sound system. “My boy here is about to finally start his show.” “Your boy!” This was a loud, half-slurred cry from Andruzzi. The label owner swung out a fist, slow like a bear’s paw, in Shaw’s direction, but it didn’t connect. “You stole him from me.” He’d shouted this, and though music was coming from the stage, his voice was loud enough to draw more attention. “Now I think you should just quiet down,” Shaw said deliberately. “Let the show get going. We got enough troubles right up on the stage—” But Andruzzi was having nothing of it. “You thievin’ coon!” he yelled. This was loud enough to stop Willie Lee’s tentative efforts on the stage. He and Silver were looking toward Shaw’s table. “All right.” Shaw still spoke softly. His jaw went tight. He took a step forward till he was right in Andruzzi’s face. “Now, what are you sayin’ to me?” “I’m sayin’ you stole my singer.” “You called me a— “Yeah, a thievin’ coon!” Andruzzi fumbled in his pocket and brought out his snub-nose .38. He cupped it in his palm, but wielded it so that Shaw clearly saw it. “You fuckin’ thievin’ nigger!” There was a flicker in Shaw’s eyes, then a quick motion forward of his bodyguard’s right arm. Jomper had a stiletto,

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and he clicked the blade out as his hand swept forward. He hit Andruzzi in the small of his back. The record man’s eyes flew wide; he let out a little yelp. Jomper, who knew knives, jolted it up and in, with a twist. Andruzzi kept standing a moment longer, then his legs buckled and he grabbed at Shaw’s table, tilting it wildly. The bowl of oranges overturned, and the fruit went rolling over the floor. Then he, too, fell. The pistol in his hand slipped out and clattered against the tile. Jomper took a napkin from the table and reached down to pick it up. Everyone in the club had been watching. Shouts and alarums flew up everywhere. “Oh, my God!” Esmé cried. “Oh, my—Josh? Did you see that?” Her hand went to her mouth; her cheeks bulged in and out as if she were fighting being sick. “Good God!” Josh had seen more than a few stabbings in the clubs he frequented in Chicago and was not as taken aback as his friend was. Still, he worried for Esmé. He also knew just what to do. “Come on,” he said, “we gotta get out of here.” Esmé looked in shock, and he added, “Right this second.” They weren’t the only patrons with that idea, and they had to push shoulder to shoulder toward the main door. “What about Willie Lee?” Esmé said on the way. “He’ll be getting out of here, too. We’ll get him somehow.” Their feet were stepped on, knees cracked into their shins. There was just a whiff of panic but controlled enough that the crowd could inch forward toward the door. With a squeeze and then what felt like a pop Esmé and Josh were pushed out of the Four-Leaf. The neon lights buzzed and sprayed their vivid colors down on the sidewalk, which filled quickly with clubgoers. Down the street the cops had noticed how the sidewalk had suddenly filled up and were moving in. Inside, the club was nearly empty. Shaw was thinking fast. He knew Jomper’s knife technique and figured Andruzzi was

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slipping away. There was going to be hell to pay for this, even though Andruzzi pulled a piece on him in his own club and called him those furious words. Even though Jomper had so smartly and carefully secured the gun, no doubt prints intact. It wasn’t that he didn’t have witnesses, just that almost all of them were black witnesses, and the truth of it was that Andruzzi was white, and. . . . Then Shaw thought of all the cops just down the street. Outside in the steamy night, sirens howled, cop-car blue lights twirled, slicing like icy blades up and down the crowded boulevard. Josh and Esmé were in the midst of the chaos, both looking around wildly. Finally, Esmé cried, “Look, I see him. There he is!” It was Willie Lee. He was with Silver, and they were next to a fancy Buick, whose chrome portholes on the hood gleamed under a far-off streetlight. A door swung open, and Silver pushed Willie Lee and his guitar into the passenger seat. “Willie Lee!” Josh called out. The Buick was a good fifty yards from them. Dozens of shaken people milled about. Could the kid hear them? “Willie Lee!” “They’re getting away,” Esmé said. “Where’s our car?” “It’s—over there, I think.” He pointed in the opposite direction of Silver’s Buick. “Can you get it? I’ll keep my eyes on them.” Josh ran down the street like a football player dodging defenders, but he didn’t see his T-Bird. Could he be that turned around? He wasn’t sure. He saw car after car but none was his. “Maybe it’s in the other direction,” he told Esmé when he ran back to her. She pointed down the road and said, “Look, she’s driving off with him.” Esmé started running toward Silver’s Buick. “Josh, where’s your car?” “Hey, Essie, wait.” Josh called to her. He’d seen something coming toward him. “Isn’t that your—”

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Esmé stopped, then recognized her aunt driving down the street toward them. She waved her arms and cried, “Hey, Auntie!” Cheroot had no idea why the street in this generally barren part of town was full of people and cop cars were shrieking all around, but she took it all in stride. Shit happens. And . . . there was her niece and that white boy she was with. “What’s going on?” she said out of the window of the plain-vanilla Chevy she’d borrowed from Johnson Snooder’s widow, the good departed no longer needing it. “Aunt Helena, we need your help.” “Sure. What is it?” “There’s been a knifing—” “Not—” “No, not our friend Willie Lee. But . . . he’s with that skunk woman, and they’re getting away from here.” “Where?” “That Buick,” Josh said, pointing at the car that was moving as fast as it could through the swarming congestion clogging the street. “Get in,” Cheroot commanded. “You can—” “Don’t worry,” Cheroot said. They jumped in with her, and she punched the accelerator, jumping the car forward. “Don’t you worry yourselves none at all.”

J Chapter 7

In the Patch

I

N THE CHEVY,

Esmé and Josh filled Cheroot in on what they knew, though it wasn’t much. “But he just looked terrible, up there on the stage,” Esmé said. “Just really lost.” “Was he sick?” Cheroot said through the stogie she kept in her lips. “I don’t know.” Esmé’s voice rose. She was a kind, sympathetic soul, and the sight of this brilliant boy so bedraggled had shaken her. “That woman, Silver, she’s got something to do with it, I just know it.” “I was there that trip when Willie Lee met her,” Josh said. He was in the backseat, leaning over the center of the naugahyde front. “In the car on the way back to Chicago. She seemed to have this . . . unusual power over everyone.” Esmé shook her head vigorously. “I’m sick of hearing about that—” “Shhhh!” Cheroot lifted a thick finger to her full lips. “This that skunk woman, right? You were telling me about her hair, she has a—” “She’s got a stripe, a wide, in-your-face silver stripe— that’s where her name comes from,” Josh said. “It is like a skunk stripe, a bright thing.” Cheroot was silent. The Buick was half a block ahead of them, on a one-way street, and they were having no trouble

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following it. There were craterlike potholes everywhere in the Patch, and as Silver weaved to avoid them, Cheroot registered her caution and sailed smoothly around the same obstacles. “Auntie, does that worry you?” “The silver stripe?” Cheroot noisily sucked in a breath. Her breathing hadn’t been that good lately, her chest tight, air wheezing in and out. Maybe all those years of smokes. She tasted the one between her teeth now: but worth it. “It might mean some things,” she finally said. “Back home, well, I’ve heard talk about—” More whistling breaths. “Let’s just say it might mean some things.” “Look, they’re pulling over,” Josh said. It was Silver’s sister’s shanty, and Cheroot slowed as the Buick turned into a driveway that was nothing more than double line of dirt cleared of the spotty grass and cast-off bottles and other debris lining the front yard. The car disappeared around the back. “Looks like a lot of apartments.” Cheroot slowed, drove past, then guided them to a spot down two houses from the wooden edifice, same side of the street. They took in the broken shingles on the roof, the cracked facing, tilted wooden stairway, the doors on the open landings facing the street, more than one creased with a pale blaze that looked like somebody had taken an ax to it. “How we gonna know which one they’re going to?” Esmé seconded the concern, and Josh was preparing to sneak around back to see where Silver was headed, but a moment later they walked into sight. Silver had her arm around Willie Lee, who was leaning on her. His gait was unsteady. He barely held on to the neck of his guitar, and the burgundy body dragged behind him, at times bouncing off the ground. It looked fairly clear that Silver was supporting him. It was the way his guitar dragged through the weeds that registered with Esmé. “What has she done to him?” she cried. “Damn!”

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“O.K., look,” Josh said. “They’re going into that place on the second floor. Should we just go get him?” “Are you sure he wants to come with you?” Cheroot asked. “Certain?” “Of course,” Esmé said. “Why wouldn’t he?” “Josh?” “I don’t know,” he said more honestly. “We don’t know what’s been going on with him. What power she has over him. . . .” “Better we can get him alone,” Cheroot said, breathing out smoke. “Under the circumstances.” “So what do we do?” Esmé was turned in her seat so she faced her aunt but also looked past her to the apartment building. There were a group of five men sitting on a porch underneath a yellow light passing a bottle back and forth. Even though it was after ten, kids in shorts and striped shirts played leapfrog in the shaggy yard. “I say we see if we can get him alone.” Cheroot settled back and pulled a long, thin panatela from her pocket. She flicked a chrome lighter and fired it up. Thick gray-white smoke filled the Chevy. “I think we’s going to have to do some talking to your Willie Lee, and I’d rather it be just us.” Another puff. Esmé looked impatient beside her. “So we wait, at least for a little while.” She glanced at the two young people, then tapped her breast pocket. “Hey, either of you ’preciate a good smoke?”

✴✴✴✴✴ HE WAS BACK IN THE DAMN BED. Looked worse than ever. The show—what a mess. When she’d first seen him take the Four-Leaf’s stage, she’d had such hopes. He looked as she remembered him: large, commanding, cocky even. She’d sighed with relief: That new potion from Mrs. Herron had to be working. But then when it was time for Willie Lee to play. . . .

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Silver sat in a broken-down chair in the small central room in her sister’s apartment, feet crossed before her, smoking a Tareyton. She rarely smoked, but she had to now. She was puffing too hard, and clouds of the acrid tobacco billowed around her, though she hardly noticed. She let the cigarette kiss her lips, drew on it, let the smoke out her nostrils, then another swift kiss; from the corner of her eye she saw the blood-red sliver of lipstick on the stick’s filter as she pulled the cigarette toward her, a reminder of her glamour and her force. She worried about what was going on back at the club. She’d seen Jomper stab that loud, obnoxious white man, with Shaw standing right there. Thank God she could get her and Willie Lee out safely. But what was going on back there? A white man lying bleeding? Could Shaw skate around this one? Puff, puff, puff. But what she really worried about was the boy in the other room. Damn, it was her fault, wasn’t it? Her powders, her roots, her spells. She thought of what Mrs. Herron had told her that afternoon: Go right at him and listen to him. But hadn’t she been doing that all along? What else could she do? It ate at her that he was back in the bed, so lost, so damn destroyed. Should she give up on him? She thought on that a minute, then shook her head. No, she couldn’t. For better or worse, he’d gotten to her. She thought of what he’d said those first few days: They were soul partners. That sounded so crazy, but if it were even a tiny bit true, then why couldn’t she find a way to bring him back to full life? The door cracked open behind her, literally; the front door to her sister’s crummy rooms was so out of alignment it always grabbed the door frame, and when somebody pushed through it, it tugged off more of the thick paint, which fell in odd squares and triangles to the floor. Silver, so deep into her own thoughts, jumped. Who could this? . . . Oh, it was Margaret Joy.

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“You’re back early,” her sister said. Her bigness was more than just her size. She walked big, with heavy footfalls, and spoke bigger, her voice booming out. “So how’d it go?” “Went all right.” “Then why you here so early? And your pretty boy, he here, too?” Margaret Joy walked down the hall and saw Willie Lee in bed. “Yep.” “It was—” “What happen, he didn’t play?” “He, um, he got up there, and— “And he didn’t play.” Margaret Joy stared into the extra bedroom at the flat-on-his-back Willie Lee. “It was me, I’d just throw him out, Betty Ann.” This got Silver’s hackles up. “You ever had a man, you’d never throw him out.” She spoke sharply, then lit another cigarette. “I have a man, I allllways throw him out,” Margaret Joy said. She dropped a hand onto her thick hips. “Squeeze my men all up like toothpaste, then spit ’em down the sink.” She gave a little kick with her foot. “In your dreams.” “Yeah, well, I’m not the one stuck on some guy so spooked he spends all day in bed.” “I’m not stuck on him.” “Right.” Margaret Joy swept past her sister to the kitchen, then came out a moment later with a fat, juicy peach. “Hmnnn, this is good.” “I’m not stuck on him.” “Then what’s he doing here?” “I’m—we’re—” “I know, he’s the damn genius of the blues, though I guess he’s got a little too much, um . . . blues in him right now, and you’re ‘nursing him back to health.’ Yeah, right. Some nurse you are. I bet you’re the one gave him the sickness to begin with.”

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“Not on your life!” Silver barked loudly, her volume up because this was so close to her own thoughts. “Save it for Saint Peter, sweetie.” Margaret Joy stretched out her arms, scratched her neck. “I’m goin’ out, get me some malt. You wanna come?” Silver shook her head. What her sister had just said had pushed her into herself. All kinds of winged thoughts began streaking through her head. “You just go, I’ll stay here, keep my eye on Willie Lee.” “Sure you don’t want a beer? You look like you could use one.” Silver shook her head. She had to think this over. Was she— “O.K., I’ll be down at Craney’s you change your mind.” With her sister gone, Silver went back to her furious thoughts. Am I stuck on him? Impossible. Love. . . . She shook her head swiftly. No, she couldn’t love him, couldn’t love any man. She knew that. That was what came with the silver stripe in her hair. With it she’d changed, had to let certain things go, and that was all right for everything she’d gained—the way she’d stopped being Betty Ann and become Silver. No longer anyone’s victim, she had force in her fingers that coursed her whole body. She had purpose and dark secrets, and she was altogether inflamed with the very idea of her new self. Much too inspirited ever to— But if she could . . . love him? Was that what Mrs. Herron meant by listen to him—to love him? Would that make any difference? Puff, puff, puff. And not a mean, crude love like her sister’s, but something more . . . true to her own self. She tipped her chair back and looked into the room where Willie Lee lay silent, eyes open but for everything else looking asleep or drugged. He was so beautiful, his fine ashcolored skin, spiky white teeth, his eyes with their pale, dreamy magic, snake-fast when she’d met him, now so . . .

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cloudy. It was the cloudiness that surrounded him that worried her heart. Behind the clouds where was he? He spoke his funny words from that odd book she’d made him leave in Chicago. But where actually was he? And why did she want to be there with him so much? Puff, puff, puff. And, damn, why couldn’t she just fuckin’ fix him right now? She leaned back in the chair and blew smoke furiously at the cracked ceiling. She was suddenly very thirsty, and wished she’d told her sister to bring her back a quart of malt. Maybe something stronger. Craney’s was a package store a few blocks away, where you could buy a bottle and sit around the wobbly enameled tables and rickety chairs and drink and get down with whoever else was there; and a lot of the neighborhood, ’specially on a Saturday night, would be there. And since word in the Patch traveled so fast, she might hear more about what was going on with Rufus Shaw. “Hey, Willie Lee, you want to go to Craney’s, get a drink with me?” No answer. “Willie Lee!” Silver stood up. “Willie Lee, you all right?” No answer. He wasn’t asleep, she could tell; he was just . . . gone. She sighed hugely, then shrugged and muttered under her breath, “Oh, Jesus.” She shook her head, lit another cigarette. “O.K., I’m gonna head down there, meet Margaret Joy. You get yourself up, you just come along, you hear?” Still no answer. The door scraped, more of the cheap paint crumbled to the floor, then Silver was gone and the apartment was as quiet as it ever got.

✴✴✴✴✴ HE WAS UP IN A TALL TOWER,

all alone—it was like the guard tower in Grafenwöhr, but so much higher—and all he could see from up there were clouds and endless blue sky. The air was thin and he heard himself gasping for breath,

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which was odd, because just as he was in this tower, he knew where he really was, back in the bed in Silver’s apartment. He’d been out playing, but something terrible had happened—he couldn’t remember exactly what; he saw himself on the stage, heard his guitar ringing out, but the notes were all jumbled, mangled, and then there was a blurred commotion in front of him—was that blood?—and Silver had dragged him off. Was he hallucinating? The fever was back, and his forehead felt skillet-hot. Whatever was in him that kept him cut off from himself was still with him. But up here he felt safe. The tower was made of stone and radiated the heat that rose off of him. Up in the tower atop its battlements was the one place he’d found to escape. It felt safe here, but it was lonely. He had spent much of his life alone, but he’d never been as alone as he was now. This was so high above the clouds he couldn’t hear or see anything else; and nobody could reach him. It was up there that he was waiting to hear his True Voice again. To be himself again. To get back his music. That was all he wanted. Though he’d forsaken his copy of The True Soul in Chicago, each day more of its words came back to his memory. The black print burned coal-red before his eyes. The book said clearly: “Life without the True Voice is a life more alone than you have ever known.” And: “There is no pain we know as humans greater than to be cut off from our True Purpose.” In a way Willie Lee liked where he was. There was something clean and untroubled about being in this tower. It was . . . snug. The Blistering Thing—the fire in his head, in his soul—that was now simply dim embers lit so far below him they could no longer touch him. He prayed to believe he was beyond it all. When the noise came at the door of the apartment he barely heard it. It sounded to him like rats rustling among

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the debris at the foot of the tower, their little feet scratching among all the confusion he’d climbed above. Like rats, they wouldn’t let up. Now there was pounding. Someone was beating on the door, and there were voices, though he couldn’t make them out. The True Soul spoke to this, too. “When you are perfectly alone and in pain it is only natural for you to have hallucinations. The hallucinations may be false signals you’re sending to yourself, or they might be your True Purpose speaking once again to you. Be very careful. If it is all in your head, close your eyes. But if it is the True Spirit, you must let it in.” The pounding on the door kept on. It was too loud and insistent to be in his head. It also couldn’t be Silver or her sister, they would have keys. Was it Rufus Shaw? Or one of Margaret Joy’s casuals? Then he heard his name, faint through the wooden door. “Willie Lee, Willie Lee.” That was his name. He didn’t recognize the voices—there were at least two of them, a man and a woman—and they kept calling his name. Was it his True Spirit? He didn’t understand how these loud voices could be his True Voice. But he didn’t think they were false either. Being alone was so perfectly blissful. Go away, he cried, but a second later realized he hadn’t said a word, it had all been in his head. He tried again: Go awaaaaay. “Willie Lee!” he heard. “It’s Josh and Esmé. Let us in.” He didn’t immediately recognize the two names, but he did realize they were real sounds, real words—and his true name. More from the book: “If you ever believe you are in Perfect Bliss, the rule of thumb is that you are in Perfect Pain. Perfect Bliss is beyond the scope of anyone reading this work. “Furthermore, if you are in Perfect Pain, you will be fortu-

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nate if the world comes to you and beats and beats until you let it in. Fortunate if someone loves you enough to come for you. If they club and batter the walls around you until they crack.” “Wil-lieeeee Leeeeeeee!” A louder pounding on the door: beat, club, batter. His own voice surprised him. He was sure he was speaking now, there was a resonance to the words that told him they weren’t simply stuck inside his head. “Come in,” he said. Was this loud enough? Could they hear him? He had the worry that he was still only crying out in his own head, far up in the tower, far from the world. He summoned all his strength and tried again. “Come . . . on . . . in.” Then he collapsed back, drained, onto Silver’s bed.

✴✴✴✴✴ FINALLY, AFTER KNOCKING and knocking, Josh kicked at the door and was surprised it flew open. They pushed into the dingy set of rooms, Josh first, then Esmé and Cheroot. They couldn’t see anyone at first, just a room of sparse heavy, low-slung wooden furniture that must’ve broken backs to get up the stairs, and a worn iron lamp on a crookneck arm. Gary’s steel-making stench was stronger in this room than outside; smoky and acridly metallic, it landed right on the tongue and made you keep scraping it with your teeth. As she looked for Willie Lee, Esmé was also trying to get an idea of this woman who had taken him. She glanced into the one bathroom and saw a small fortune in makeup scattered higgledy-piggledy around the sink, and flimsy, charcoal-colored stockings hung over the towel rack. Back in the living room nothing stood out except for the big pinecased RCA radio taking up one whole wall—clearly the pride of the home. That Silver looked to love music didn’t make Esmé feel any better.

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Josh, prowling through the warren of rooms, called out, “I found him.” Esmé followed her aunt into a room that had little in it but a wood-framed bed with no backboard, a couple cheap slat-back chairs, and a tattered woven rug. Willie Lee was in the bed, and as Esmé looked down at him, she was caught by an odd picture on the wall behind the bed: a portrait of a black Jesus. With his crown of thorns he hung on the cross, head lolling to the side, before a bruised black-and-blue sky. What was strange was that the picture was hung upsidedown. She saw Cheroot also look at the picture and frown. But there was Willie Lee! Esmé swept to the side of the bed. Up this close, she could see how forsaken Willie Lee looked, even more so than at the Four-Leaf. His face, before sharp, looked vague; it was like somebody had taken a drawing of him and smudged the lines. Just sort of . . . hazy. And anxious: There was a slight twitch to his right hand, no, there, it was his left, too. His wonderful moony eyes looked distant. She tried to hold them once she, her aunt, and Josh were in the room, but his gaze kept slipping to the side, like when she stared at her mother’s favorite Pekinese back in Detroit—the dog just couldn’t look anyone straight on. Esmé placed the back of her hand against his forehead: Pssssht! She jumped back as if she’d bumped into a hot stove. “Cheroot, Josh, he’s got a huge fever.” Cheroot came over and put her pudgy hand where Esmé’s had been. She kept it there a long minute, then shook her head. “It’s odd,” she said with a concerned frown. “It’s hot, you’re right, but it don’t feel like a regular fever to me.” Another shake of her heavy head. “I don’t think he’s really sick.” Esmé and Josh both winced. “Then what is it?” “It’s something else,” Cheroot said. She stood back and looked at Willie Lee. He was wearing a pair of yellow-striped pajamas, obviously not his own because they were too short

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for him. His pale-bottomed feet and bony ankles stuck way out. Cheroot saw he was clearly aware of the people in the room, but he was choosing not to react—not a good sign. She reached inside her cloth handbag, rooted around, then took out a long, pearl-tipped hat pin. In one swift movement she lifted Willie Lee’s hand and jabbed him under his fingernail. “Auntie, what—” Esmé cried, but Cheroot shushed her. She was looking hard at Willie Lee. There, the boy’s eyes had sparked, a better sign. But he hadn’t flinched; his hand just hung there. Another poke with the needle. There was still no flinching in his hand or any other part of him, but Cheroot kept her gaze on the young boy’s eyes. That would tell. And there, below the milky dimness was a faint flicker of rageful fury. “O.K., O.K.,” she mumbled to herself. Then: “One more thing.” She reached again into her motley bag and pulled out a shiny silver Mercury dime. “What’s that for?” Josh asked. The dime caught the overhead light and winked. Cheroot didn’t answer, just reached over with the dime in her hand and said to Willie Lee, “Come on, son, open your mouth.” But Willie Lee didn’t. So with her left hand Cheroot leaned in and pinched the dimples on his cheeks hard; a moment later his jaw popped open. She quick stuck the silver dime under his tongue. “Keep it there a minute,” she commanded, and the young man didn’t argue. When she pulled the dime out it was black—the pure black of a burnt match, not smudged as if it were just silver tarnish but a chalky, matte absence of color. Cheroot held the black dime in her hand so they all could see. “Jesus!” Esmé hissed. “What’s that mean?” Josh said. Esmé rolled her eyes at him. “No, no,” he said, “I don’t believe in that stuff.”

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“You gonna believe what you believe, or you going to believe your eyes?” And now Josh said it, too: “Jeez!” Cheroot stood back, emboldened. “Can we get him out of here?” Josh said. “It’s a tricky thing,” Cheroot said. “We don’t want to force him if we can help it.” She took a few steps back, looked like she was thinking. “I got to do some things.” “Willie Lee,” Esmé said, taking her aunt’s place close to the kid. She took his right hand in hers. “You remember me? From Chicago, the 6-Eye? I’m Heddy Days’ daughter Esmé. We’re here to help you. This is Josh Green, you remember him, too, right?” Willie Lee turned his head halfway toward Josh, who gave him a quick smile. “And this is my aunt Helena. She calls herself Cheroot, ’cause she likes a good smoke.” Esmé’s eyes danced. She looked closely at Willie Lee, hoping to get a smile out of him. But . . . nothing. “Cheroot wants to talk to you. Is that O.K.?” Willie Lee’s gaze moved from her niece to Cheroot’s own face. The eulogist took this as another hopeful sign, though she had no illusions what she’d have to do would be easy. The blackened dime had spoken loudly. She sat down beside him on the bed, looked up close and full into his eyes. What did she see now? A bountiful expanse of blue sky and boundless space. She took the kid’s hand and said, “Willie Lee, where are you?” No answer. “Willie Lee, I can see you. Now talk to me.” Still nothing. “Auntie!” Esmé cried. Cheroot touched her niece on the shoulder: It’s all right. Then she spoke to Willie Lee. “You’re with friends here.” No response. Cheroot sighed, then pursed up the side of her mouth like she’d just tasted something sourer than

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lemon. Hmnnnn. A moment later she took the blackened dime and grasped it with her fingernails, then moved it back and forth before Willie Lee’s eyes. She was patient, and there . . . a flicker in his pupil. Cheroot kept the dime sweeping back and forth, like an old-fashioned mesmerizer, and slowly he began to follow the motion steadily. Esmé brightened. Cheroot winked at her; kept the dime moving from side to side. Then her aunt began to speak in long, drawn-out vowels—aaahs and ooooohs and ums—syllables not immediately intelligible to Esmé, but vibrating around her with a kind of deep, chthonic sense nonetheless. Her aunt’s tones were pitched far lower than her usually low voice, rumbling like trucks on the street, animals distant over the horizon; and as she painted the earthy, fecund sounds around the twinkling dime, Esmé found herself getting lulled, drawn in. She didn’t understand how this could free Willie Lee, but she prayed that it would. A minute later Willie Lee gave his head a single swift shake. “Hey,” Cheroot said. The kid blinked, looked around him. His hands gripped the sheet on the bed, twisted the cotton up between his fingers. He looked as if he were holding on for dear life. “It’s all right. You know Josh, Esmé. I’m her aunt. We’re here to help you—” “I’ve been—” “It’s all right, son. I want to talk to you a little. How do you feel?” Willie Lee gave his head another vivid shake. “I was weak.” He disentangled his hand from the sheet and tried to lift an arm; couldn’t. “Still weak.” “How does it feel, the weakness?” “Like. . . .” His eyes spun. “Like I was burning up—” Cheroot nodded. “Burning up,” she repeated. “Why?” “Because of the—” Willie Lee faltered.

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“Because of what?” Cheroot insisted. A startled look in the kid’s eyes. He was looking around him as if he was unsure exactly where he was. “I—I can’t say.” “Was it the woman—with the silver hair?” Willie Lee winced. He looked as if he wanted out of there right then, but that he also knew he had to stay. “It was . . . temptation.” “From the woman?” A long pause, then Willie Lee said simply, “Yes.” “Tell me this, Willie Lee. Did she get you to—did you ever drink anything that tasted funny?” Willie Lee blinked. He looked like he was racking his memory. “Funny?” he said. “Anything dark, bitter? Like root beer, but really bad tasting?” His eyes remained cloudy. Finally, he said, “Maybe—in my Coke. Maybe just my Coke. I can’t remember.” “That’s all right,” Cheroot said. “Just go on. So you went with the . . . temptation?” “I fought it, I tried, but I just . . . got . . . lost.” Willie Lee’s voice leapt in tone and pain. He looked as if he were going to burst into tears. Esmé felt her heart swell. “She tempted me and touched me. I went with her, and I lost my True Voice—” “Your True Voice?” Cheroot interrupted, her own voice rising. The kid’s eyes went cagey. “No, it’s all right, son. I know all ’bout them True Voices. You’re talkin’ that book The True Soul, right?” It took a second, but the kid’s jaw dropped. “I know all ’bout that True Voice.” Willie Lee’s eyes were wide. He spoke with sudden urgency. “How d’you know?” Cheroot let her smile broaden. “Are you beginning to trust me?”

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Hesitation. “Just a little bit?” Willie Lee’s wide eyes spun a moment. His brow was tight, his lips pursed. It was clear he was looking at Cheroot in a whole new way. She’d just popped that rabbit out of a hat, and what kind of trick was going to come out next? “You don’t have to say a word.” Cheroot stood up from the slat-back chair and stretched. “O.K., let’s make it right.” “Auntie?” From Esmé’s tone it was clear she didn’t know what they were talking about. “Oh, darlin’,” Cheroot turned to her, enjoying himself. “I can tell you ’bout The True Soul later. All you gotta know is I know them True Voices. Even when I’m with a deceased, I hear it.” She turned back to Willie Lee. “I can get ’em speakin’ through me.” “Through your hands?” Willie Lee sounded truly curious. “That’s one way. There are others.” “And what does it say?” Willie Lee was leaning forward now, his eyes afire. “It’s been so long. What do you hear?” Cheroot went over and set his hands on Willie Lee’s shoulders. The kid’s eyes closed, and she leaned in close so that his near-panting breaths pillowed against her wide ear. The eulogist was silent for a long, tense minute, then she said softly, “Son, it sounds just . . . like . . . you.” This answer spooked Willie Lee. “But,” he said softly. “But I can’t hear it at all.” “I can give it to you,” Cheroot said softly. “You just have to come—” “I want it back!” Willie Lee burst out, a cry deep from his heart. Esmé’s own heart bit with empathy. “Then come with us.” Cheroot gestured to Josh to go find some clothes for Willie Lee. “Are you ready to leave here now?” “But—”

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“You’re with friends. Whatever that woman did, well, I got ways to work on that.” Willie Lee still looked as if he was about to cry. The way he held his head, it was as if it were going to explode—that sore, that tentative. “Where do you want to take—?” “Back to Chicago,” Esmé said. “Away from—” Cheroot put a finger to her lips and stopped her niece. “Back to your True Voice,” she said firmly. Willie Lee still looked abashed, but he also was no longer resisting. Josh had found the kid’s clothes hanging in an open closet, shmooshed in at the far end by Silver’s wardrobe, and he took a shirt and pants and the bright, brand-new show jacket Rufus Shaw had bought him. Esmé leaned in to help Willie Lee up. She took the pants from Josh, and not standing on any stupid modesty, she whisked off his pajamas and started pulling them on. Josh had the kid’s arms over his shoulders and they were halfway to the door when Silver and Margaret Joy came home. The two sisters stopped just inside the door, puzzled for a second, then clearly outraged. “Who are you?” Margaret Joy cried. “What are you—” Esmé flew toward the fat woman with visceral anger. “We’re taking Willie Lee to Chicago.” “You’re trespassing in my house!” Margaret Joy shouted. She moved herself right in front of Esmé and Willie Lee. “Like robbers!” Silver hung back. She had a cool, focused look on her face, and for all this huge flustering woman was blowing up in front of the four of them, Esmé kept her eyes on the quiet other woman. So this was Silver up close. She was gorgeous, with style to burn. And that silver stripe in her hair—Esmé had seen it from a distance at the Four-Leaf, but that didn’t prepare her for its luminous, otherworldly glow. It really was as if some supernal brush had drawn down across Silver’s head. She thought of the silver dime turning black under

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Willie Lee’s tongue and connected it immediately to the way the silver and black worked in the woman’s hair. Yet there was nothing out of proportion to the coloring; indeed, it looked so perfect on this woman that Esmé easily imagined her mother offering it up in her Detroit beauty parlors: Come on in, ladies, get the stripe / That’s all the hype / Kick that man right out of his socks / By lettin’ out yo’ inner fox. . . . But, no, Silver wasn’t a joke. For all the fat woman’s fulminations, Esmé knew Silver was the real problem. “And you’re kidnapping—and worse,” Josh stepped up and said. “What I hear, you stole this boy—stole him from his good sense—and we’re here to get him back.” “Willie Lee?” This was Silver, and her voice was soft, so low and gentle that everyone against their judgment leaned forward to hear it. Like that, she pulled the attention of the room to her. “Willie Lee, what do you want to do?” As if her words were lovely musical notes everyone watched them float across the room; then everyone turned to the guitar player, who stood there, eyes wide but not saying a word. “Willie Lee, this is about you—” Silver punched out the final word. “No, it’s about you!” Esmé cried, not able to hold herself in any longer. She couldn’t say she wasn’t afraid of this cool, ungodly-striped woman, but she felt so for Willie Lee, she knew she had to go right at her. “About what you did to him. This ain’t the Willie Lee Reed I met in Chicago. This is just a ruin of him. You and your hoodoo, you did it!” “Willie Lee,” Silver repeated, soft, firm, seemingly inevitable. She fully ignored Esmé. Esmé in frustration fluttered her hands before Silver. “I’m not going to let you talk to him. This is so unfair. Auntie! Tell her. Tell her what we know she did. How she messed with him!” Cheroot was hanging back also, taking the measure of Silver. The eulogist, too, saw the beautifully formed woman

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but finally couldn’t take her eyes off the brilliant silver stripe. It was even more bold and vivid than she’d imagined. It confirmed everything she suspected. Out came a noisy sigh. “We’ll all just ask Willie Lee,” Silver said, full of confidence. “That’s it.” Everyone’s gazes turned again to the guitar player. His mouth was twitching, his eyes spinning, but no words came out of him. Cheroot stepped up next to him, took his hand, then said gently, “Son, what about your True Voice?” “I—” he said slowly, a long exhalation. “I—” “Son?” “I . . . want it.” His voice was tight, strained, but it was clear. “But you don’t have it now,” Cheroot said, stepping toward him. She said this more for Silver’s benefit than Willie Lee’s. “You lost it, son.” “I told you that,” he said. “That’s true.” Cheroot folded her thick arms before her capacious chest. “Now, how’re you going to get it back?” Willie Lee looked from Cheroot to Esmé to Margaret Joy and finally to Silver. The muscles on his neck corded and strained. Even through his black skin his face reddened. “It was the Blistering Thing,” he blurted out. This stopped them all. “The . . . Blistering Thing?” Not only Cheroot but Esmé and Josh leaned into this phrase. It wasn’t at all what they expected to hear. Nobody quite knew what it meant. Willie Lee, spooked, stopped speaking. “What do you mean, son?” Willie Lee held fire. “The Blistering Thing—was that what she had you drink?” Willie Lee shook his head, then said softly, “I wanted it so bad.” He turned toward Silver. “She—she made me want it . . . so bad.” All eyes on Silver. Cheroot continued to be gentle with Willie Lee. “What did she do?”

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“Tempted me. Twisted me. Made me want the Blis—” Willie Lee’s words sputtered, then he regrouped. “Made me want her.” “She tricked you,” Esmé insisted. “I never tricked no one.” Silver stepped forward till she was on the other side of Willie Lee from Cheroot. “I just give the boy what he wanted—what all boys want. What he still wants. Right, Willie Lee?” Willie Lee looked at Silver, and there was such pain and longing in his eyes it made Esmé wince. She looked to her aunt. Was she up to this? “But your True Voice—” the eulogist started to say. Silver moved closer to Willie Lee. “Willie Lee, you know it, I’m your True Voice.” She enunciated each word carefully— too carefully. “You speak through me, don’t you, darling?” Willie Lee looked to Silver, then back at Cheroot. “Son, don’t believe that. You have only one True Voice, and you know just what it is.” Willie Lee’s eyes flickered toward Silver, but Cheroot kept talking. “Your True Voice, son, it’s the music. That’s all it’s ever been—the music inside you. Isn’t that what you’ve lost?” Willie Lee hung fire a moment, then whispered, “My guitar, tonight, it was so out of tune—” “But I can hear it,” Cheroot interrupted. “We can hear it. We know you still have the music.” Now Willie Lee looked truly torn. “That’s what we’re here for, son. To get the music out of you. No matter what she did to you.” Willie Lee’s eyes widened. Silver moved forward, almost whispering: “No, no, Willie Lee, listen to me. I am the music, Willie Lee.” Willie Lee looked at her, and in his eyes, though the confusion remained, there was a trace of light. He looked to Cheroot and Esmé, then back to Silver. He finally gave his head a wide, vigorous shake.

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“Willie Lee!” But he kept shaking his head. “I can’t—.” Shake, shake. “Not . . . now.” Willie Lee threw a desperate look at the massive Cheroot next to him. That broke it. Josh reached out to Willie Lee, put an arm under the guitarist’s arms, bore him up. Cheroot moved to take his other arm, then spoke swiftly, “Son, we know you’re all confused, all bundled up with this mess inside, and that’s all we’re here for, to straighten you out, give you back your music. But you got to come with us. You can’t stay on like this.” A sharp look at Silver. “But you have to decide. Trust me, whatever she’s done to you, whatever you think, you’re free of it. I know that. You know it, too.” “Willie Lee,” Esmé said, touching him also. “It’ll be fine. Come with us.” Silver was standing there, her fingers now in her hair, moving gently through the silver stripe, combing it out, waiting for it to inspire her. She was feeling oddly weak, almost sick, and she didn’t know why. She wanted this man, wanted him still, and it was breaking her heart to see these three people trying to steal him from her. She summoned her powers, but they weren’t there. Had they fought off her spells on the boy? Just by talking to him? Or done something to change it before she arrived? She thought of what she could do now, and knew that all she really had were her words—her powers of persuasion. Given stillness and being alone with Willie Lee, she could have called on the ancient and uncanny assistance, but right here and now she could only do what she herself could do. Words came to her, but they were the same words that hadn’t worked before: I am your True Voice. I am your music. They hadn’t worked before. Were they lies? As she looked into Willie Lee’s still lost eyes she just didn’t know. Willie Lee surprised them all with a voice definite and commanding. “Let’s go,” he said.

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“You’re—?” This was Esmé. “Yes, I can do it now. Go with you.” All eyes on Silver. She kept fingering her silver stripe. Was this it, how it played out? If she could no longer exert herself over him, he was simply free? She felt swollen with hesitation. “Willie Lee, I—” she started to say, but there was no longer conviction in her voice. She did love him, in her way; his promise, his grace. And she hadn’t wanted to ruin him, just own him—for Rufus, for herself. Maybe that was where she’d gone wrong: She could never own him. To truly own him would make her. . . . But no, no, she was not evil, not the devil. She would never, ever be that. Everyone in the room knew without fully understanding that all had changed. Josh started toward the door and was pleased to see Willie Lee following him. Then Josh saw the kid’s guitar leaning against the bed and asked Willie Lee if he wanted it. Willie Lee paused a moment, caught for just a second, then gave a clear nod. Josh smiled and grabbed the ax’s neck. “You’re gonna let this happen?” Margaret Joy cried. Silver stood there, spoke softly. “There’s nothing . . . really. . . .” She shook her head. It took only a moment for everyone to get out the door. Josh led the way down the rickety stairs, followed by Willie Lee, Esmé, then Cheroot. In the borrowed Chevy, Josh took the front passenger seat, and Esmé made room for Willie Lee in the backseat. It was as if it had taken all his energy to break free from Silver then make his way to the car. When he sat down his head lolled back, his eyes closed. “Willie Lee, you’re going to be fine now,” Esmé said gently. “Everything’s going to be all right.” There was no answer. The guitar player was fast asleep.

Part Three J Chapter 8

Maurice James

T

HE GIG WAS in Indianapolis, and the lanky, highcoiffed backup guitarist tugged on the jacket dressed in translucent sequins that caught the light like shiny fish scales, his tailored tux pants, the black shoes buffed so bright he could see the club’s orange, yellow, and blue overhead lights glow on their tips. He tuned his guitar while barely listening to it; he was so good he could just feel his way into tune. A story his bandmates in the Little Richard band liked to tell: They were choogling through Tutti Frutti when the guitar solo came up. Jimmy, or Maurice James, as he was calling himself lately, heard his B string suddenly drop a quarter tone flat. Without missing a note of the solo he reached over and twisted the string up to pitch. This jazzed him so much that he beckoned to the band to let him take the solo around again, which tripped up Little Richard as he went to shout into the mike, which meant Jimmy was fined half a week’s pay. Jimmy had been on the road the last couple years, since he’d left the army, and he was a first-call chitlin’ circuit player . . . and that was all he was. Now he was playing behind Little Richard, a gig that had sounded pretty good to him— he’d loved the wild man’s roof-rattling New Orleans hits back in the ’50s, Rip It Up, Ready Teddy, Oh My Soul; had got215

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ten his chops playing to ’em—but times had changed, Richard hadn’t had a hit in over five years, and the job turned out to be playing the old man’s hits note by note, night after grinding night. Jimmy and the rest of the band rebelled when they could, kicking the music up and out, spraying wild boogie into a suddenly aroused audience . . . and then Richard would turn around scowling as only he could, then fine their ass half a week’s pay. That man was crazy. One night Jimmy, feeling the showman bug rise up in him (as it had been doing constantly lately), wore a fine-sheen, ruffled purple shirt onto the stage, and after the show Richard called a meeting. Jimmy was just standing there innocent when Richard got up in his face and began shrieking, “You, Maurice James, I want you to know I am Little Richard! Little Richard the King—the King of rock and rhythm. I am the only one allowed to be pretty.” Then he reached over and ripped the shirt off Jimmy’s back . . . and fined his ass another half a week’s pay. Damn, the way it was working out, if he ever wanted to leave the band, he’d be owing the boss so much he couldn’t. He laughed to himself, then caught a glance from his pal Black Arthur. What’s so funny? I’ll tell you after the gig. All right. By the way, my man, your hair’s looking pretty sweet tonight. Another laugh from Jimmy. He had a mile-high conk that he knew made Richard crazy, but since that was the look these days, there was nothing the boss could do about it. On the road, Jimmy kept his conk high with Sterno and a hot comb. It was his pride and joy—that and his guitar playing. Not like anyone here tonight in Indianapolis would get it, even if Richard ever did let him break out. Lately, Jimmy was getting his own crazy ideas, the way his guitar could sound, a new way he could play it. Like wild notes jungle raw out his amp. Like getting down on his knees and holding his ax like it was a prayerbook. Like making sounds nobody had ever heard before.

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He’d been hearing talk of a fella up in Chicago been doing some of this. Kid named Willie Lee something. They were calling him the future of the blues. Getting a rep on the South Side and in Gary, too. Done some army time, just like Jimmy had. Liked to put on a show. Played notes that . . . nobody had ever heard. In the last week stories had been filtering down: Some sort of hoodoo connection, too, like the boy had made it to the crossroads (even if not exactly the one the hellhoundstalked Robert Johnson had found). Something about a woman with a skunk stripe, and a hoodoo preacher from Mississippi. A bloody murder in a new blues club in Gary, and the fella back in Chicago, not playing better after he’d been hoodoo’d up but worse. Jimmy didn’t know how much to trust of what he heard, but that line kept gnawing at him: the future of the blues. It rubbed him all wrong. Couldn’t be some spooked-up boy in Chicago. He, Maurice James, was the goddamn future of the blues. Or would be if he ever got out from behind this paintedup, high-heeled, yawping pansy. Jimmy looked down, saw again the show lights dancing in the shine of his boots. Then the drummer gave him the count, the bass thumped down, Jimmy jumped on the first chord, the horns blew bright, and Little Richard came out wiggling and pouting and shrieking and sucking up every bit of show in the house. Just get through it, Jimmy told himself. Play the chords. Step up, step back, step up, step back . . . all in line with the bass player and the horns. Let the crazy man scream crazy. Do the job—just be the good, solid backup man. Wrap up Indianapolis. Tomorrow night . . . tomorrow night we’re hitting Chicago.

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Cheroot, Esmé, and Josh started in on Willie Lee, and he responded right away. Cheroot took a State Street hotel room and moved the kid into the room next to her. The basic plan was simple: Keep the boy quiet, safe, away from any malign influences. They fed him solid food, let him sleep as much as he wanted, made sure sunlight poured in his window, then talked to him easy, no pressure, just let him slowly come back to himself. They worried about Silver’s hexing, and one morning Cheroot went home with Josh to use his stove. On the way she picked up a couple pounds of beef tongue and some beef gall and boiled them until they turned to a condensed brown-red broth. She mixed this with honey and started Willie Lee on it. The prescription was nine drops three times a day for nine days. The kid pretty much just lay there for five days, but then he noticed his guitar, and after that he asked for it and delighted in running his hand up and down the neck. Esmé was curious about The True Soul. Cheroot explained that it was a small book of pseudo-religious philosophy published in 1912, before World War I, put together by this cabal of former preachers from Kansas City. The preachers were both black and white, a fact concealed by putting the book out under the name A.K. Grayson. People liked the book, Cheroot said, but then it lost its influence. What was in it? Well, it said everyone had this inner voice, a voice with truth greater than any organized religion or politics. Cheroot didn’t disagree; we should trust our instincts above all. But The True Soul could also lead to a sick fascination with yourself and getting cut off from everyone else around you. “That sounds like Willie Lee,” Esmé said. She blushed and added, “But what did he mean about that . . . Blistering Thing?” “Sex,” Cheroot said. She had sized up her niece and was impressed. No wasting words with her.

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“He’s afraid of . . . that?” “Confused, I’d say.” “Why?” Esmé was frowning. Cheroot shook her head. “Could be any of a thousand things. I see some trouble in his past, looks like he had a hard childhood. But what I see now, the boy’s got this huge, what’s the word, unconnection with himself. With his true fires. He be feelin’ somethin’ one way and it do somethin’ else to him.” “It was that woman,” Esmé said. “Silver.” “I don’t think it was just that,” Cheroot said. They were in Cheroot’s hotel room, the older woman offering up a bottle of fine whiskey. Cheroot was puffing on a cigar as big as a rolled-up newspaper. “Think he’s got a load of troubles in him. But he can make ’em work for him, too. That’s where the music comes in.” “Makes sense,” Josh said. “And least he’s playing his ax again.” “And that’s good. That’s the best thing for him, get him back on that. That’s the true Blistering Thing for him.” “Oh, Auntie, it just breaks my heart,” Esmé said softly. Josh reached over and gently touched her shoulder. “You like him, don’t you?” Cheroot said gently. Esmé didn’t answer for a long while. She took a sip of whiskey. Cheroot filled the room with a blast of smoke. “I don’t know what I think,” Esmé finally admitted. “What are you saying?” Josh could see the ash on Cheroot’s smoke hovering precariously; he downed his whiskey and pushed the glass over. Cheroot nodded thanks. An ash fell into the glass, hissing out in the bottom coating of liquid. “I don’t really know him.” Esmé turned to her friend. “There—there’s a spark, no denying. But he seems like a powerful piece of work. I need to see him more, after he’s got himself pulled back together.” Esmé blushed again. “I’m just bein’ honest with you.”

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“It’s all right, sweet,” Cheroot said. “That’s our job: Get him right.” Esmé smiled with half-closed eyes. “Just get him right.”

✴✴✴✴✴ BY THE END OF THE WEEK Willie Lee said he was ready to

put on his guitar and see how it felt in front of a live band. That was all Josh needed to hear, and he set to work. He tried to get a few club owners to let Willie Lee into their clubs during the day, but they didn’t want to get up that early. Finally, he asked around among friends and came up with a cavernous auditorium at a grade school unused for the summer. His contact was a tall, wiry janitor with a caterpillar mustache named Jimmy Lee Vicks, nicknamed Slick. Slick Vicks had been a blues singer a decade earlier when he was in his 30s, working around town and even cutting a few sides with the lower-rung labels like J.O.B., Chance, and even some of Vic Andruzzi’s earliest stuff on Viper. He’d married, stuck with his wife, had four kids, and taken the janitor job. Slick still played a wedding now and then but left the rest of the scene to the greats like Heddy Days or the youthful up-andcomers. “I heard ’bout this kid of yours,” Slick said after Josh approached him. “He was causin’ all kind of talk a while back. Went up against Heddy Days in a cut, almost took him—” Josh nodded. “I was there.” “Then he just disappeared, right?” “Had a little trouble,” Josh admitted. “Got too close to, well, to the stuff you oughta only be singing about.” “Hoo-eeee!” Slick cracked a wide smile. “Don’t I know ’bout that. My wife, Ella Mae, she was all over me ’bout those things, cleaned me up so much I didn’t have nothin’ more to put in a song. Not one thing!”

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“That’s too bad, I guess,” Josh said, feeling commiseration of some sort was necessary. But Slick would have nothing of it: “No, I ain’t complainin’. I’m full of joy. This thing here is just fine, got my four fine girls, my fine Ella Mae—got me a life I don’t need to sing the blues. We should all be so lucky, my friend. That Willie Lee Reed, he should be so lucky.” A couple mornings later Josh got Willie Lee’s regular players, Sticks McGee on drums, Thumper Jones on bass, and Tiny Lester on harp, and set them up on the wooden stage. Esmé came with him. (Cheroot had other business that day.) Slick stood with his broom in the back. Then Willie Lee came out. He walked with what looked like determination to the stage, plugged in his no-name guitar, nodded to the musicians, even canted up his chin in a semblance of the old Willie Lee’s on-top-of-the-world way. Then he crashed his pick hand down over the strings. The resulting chord was so loud yet intriguingly discordant the whole room jumped. Feedback leapt out of the amp. “You plan that, Willie Lee?” Josh called up from his seat in the front row of the auditorium. Willie Lee didn’t answer him, just crashed out the E-thirteenth chord again. But as the morning wore on it was clear the kid was shaky, nowhere near as direct, forceful, and in command as he’d been only a few months before. He looked tired, a little pale. His guitar hung around his neck as heavy as an iron weight. Esmé climbed the seven stairs to the stage. “You O.K.?” “How’d it sound?” Willie Lee said back. “Sounded O.K.” “Just . . . O.K.?” “First day back, after you made us jump with that chord, I’d say it sounded just fine.” “Just . . . fine?” “Willie Lee, what do you want me to say?”

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Willie Lee held the young girl’s gaze for a moment, then looked away. He suddenly looked sixty years old. “Willie Lee?” she said. “You all right?” “I’m good, darlin’,” he said. Then with huge effort he leaned back his head and crowed, “I’m the goddamn motherjumpin’ best!” There it was, dancing in his eyes, the old braggadocio. It startled Esmé, disarmed her. She didn’t believe it, and, looking closer, she saw it was forced, almost hysterical. “Willie Lee, you did fine—for now,” she said with quick finality. She reached out and took his arm. “Josh’s got this place set up for you all week, and your guys are gonna be here. Let’s come back tomorrow.” And for all her alarm at Willie Lee’s flash of false cockiness, she was more worried by the way the suddenly wavering boy grasped her arm and held on tightly as she navigated them down the stairs. The next morning Willie Lee wouldn’t get out of bed. Cheroot called Josh and Esmé from the hotel lobby and told them the boy needed more work. When they showed up they found Cheroot sitting next to Willie Lee on the wood-frame bed. The boy’s pajama top was open, and the eulogist was rubbing oil onto his chest and talking to him softly. Willie Lee’s bare skin glistened. “How is he?” Esmé asked. She’d felt a quick shudder when she walked into the room; Willie Lee in bedclothes looked so much like he had at Silver’s place in Gary. “Coming along nicely,” Cheroot said. “We’re talkin’ about that True Voice—’bout what you hear and what you want to listen to.” “What do you mean?” Josh said. “He’s lookin’ for that True Voice, good, but he’s grabbin’ at it. I’m tellin’ him it might be smarter to wait.” “And?”

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“I want to play,” Willie Lee said. He propped himself up in the bed. “I just want to get out there and play.” Josh nodded. “That’s good, isn’t it?” “Of course it’s good.” “But?” “Well, we got us a ways to go. Still, I think he’s gonna be feelin’ better tomorrow.” Josh nodded, muttered that he hoped so. Esmé stood right next to her aunt, looking down at Willie Lee’s bare chest. He had nice, defined muscles and the smoothest skin; almost girl smooth. She almost reached out to touch him but instead just sighed. Then she asked, “What’s that oil, auntie?” “High-John the Conqueror. Back home, it’s the most powerful oil. A good restorative.” Cheroot winked. “Almost strong ’nuf to raise the dead.” “Hey, I ain’t near dead,” Willie Lee said. All eyes were on him: Was he joking? “Hey, come on, way you all lookin’ at me. Don’t go gettin’ your hopes up like that.” Then he smiled. After a long moment Cheroot, Esmé, and Josh smiled with him. The day in bed must have done him good because the next morning when Willie Lee took the stage, he was all firecrackers and spit. He’d insisted on wearing a gold shirt with a wide, exaggerated collar and buttons that gleamed, and in the car driving over he fingered his guitar and twitched in the front seat. Josh and Esmé met them at the school, and as the kid strode wide-legged, world-bestriding up to the stage, Cheroot said, “I think he had himself a good sleep.” Soon as the band started playing Willie Lee began jumping around like the old days, flinging his guitar into the air, spinning riffs with it at his feet, playing behind his back, with his teeth . . . all just like that first night at the 6-Eye. The

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small audience of Esmé, Josh, and Cheroot hooted and applauded. “Go, boy, go!” Esmé cried, clapping her hands. “Hey,” Josh called to the stage at the end of the number, “where’s that comin’ from?” Willie Lee smiled and said, “Hey, who’s the best?” He danced his fingers up the fretboard, sent out a flurry of wild notes. “You are!” Esmé called out. “Just like that?” Josh said with a touch of doubt. “Hey, I’m feelin’ good—feelin’ great!” Clatter of feet, another blast of guitar notes. Josh shook his head. He’d seen the kid looking more himself each day, playing more solidly, but, damn, he’d been back in bed the day before. “It’s just a good night’s sleep?” “Or the old lady’s John the Konkeroo oil on my chest? Who knows? Only thing is, man, it’s me makin’ my music.” That sounded good to Josh, who settled back to enjoy the rehearsal. Halfway into the first song Slick Vicks came up and took the seat next to Josh. “What do you think?” the white boy asked. “This what he usually do?” “When I first saw him, yeah.” Josh looked at the tall former player next to him. “What’re you gettin’ at?” “Oh, nothing.” But Josh heard something. He added, “It’s damn sure better than what we been seeing.” Slick kept his hooded eyes on the young boy armswinging and guitar-kissing and caterwauling up a storm. The ebullience lasted the rest of the day. Willie Lee kept cutting up on the stage, showing off, but it was the same flash he’d done since he’d come to Chicago, and the effect wore off quick on his small audience. Josh felt it most, thinking, Maybe he should just settle down and crank out some solid blues.

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Before the final number Slick leaned over and said, “You know the boy best, ask him where it’s taking him?” “Where what is?” Slick was firm: “Just ask him.” “Willie Lee,” Josh called up to the stage where Willie Lee stood, sweat dripping down his forehead and staining his gold shirt. “Willie Lee, hey, Slick here wants to know where’s it taking you?” “Where what’s takin’ me?” Josh looked to Slick, who said, “All that fool’s prancin’ and leapin’ around.” “Hey, that’s my music, man.” Willie Lee cupped a hand over his eyes to look down into the audience. “That that broom pusher askin’ me that?” “You ever think about just . . . playin’?” “That’s what I’m doin’!” Slick nodded, his jaw tight. “O.K., suit yourself.” The words might have gotten to Willie Lee, though, because the next day on the school stage he was more subdued. The gold shirt was gone, and he was wearing a floppy cloth hat that half-covered his face. Only Josh and Slick Vicks were in the audience this morning—Cheroot was off looking into a ticket back down South, and Esmé was “needing her beauty sleep”—and after Sticks’s downbeat, he played facing away from his audience of two. “You all right?” Josh called out after the first couple songs. Willie Lee played all the notes, but without moving, without dancing or flourishing his guitar at all. No response. Louder, “Willie Lee, tell me, man, you O.K.?” The kid looked down, his hat covering his eyes. “Yeah,” he finally said. Then he focused on Slick and added, “Hey, man, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.” He lowered his head in a gesture of respect for the older man. “You know?” Slick held his gaze tight and let more than a minute go by before he said, “’Tain’t nothin’, boy. You just play, you hear?”

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Josh told Esmé about Willie Lee at dinner that night. Things were going well between them; they shared Josh’s apartment with an easy camaraderie, and for both the time was feeling like a very pleasant lark. “I don’t think that a quiet Willie Lee’s such a bad thing,” Esmé said that night. “As long as he doesn’t slide back to being a zombie.” She lifted her eyebrows, dropped her chin, let her hands flutter in front of her like a kid playing ghosts, and started floating around Josh’s kitchen as if possessed. “I don’t know which Willie Lee we want,” Josh said, watching her with amusement. That’s the way it was with Esmé; sometimes pure spirit would erupt in her. “The kid so loud and full of himself he makes your ears hurt, or this subdued guy.” “Whichever one we get, I guess.” Esmé was still arms out, eyes glassy, live-deading it around the kitchen. She kept laughing. “Hey, come on,” Josh said, laughing, too. “Cut it out.” Esmé came giggling back to the table. “Long as he doesn’t get more of those weird ideas.” And she started in making whoo-ooo sci-fi noises. Josh shook his head. “How come you’re feelin’ so good?” “I don’t know,” the young girl said. “I just am.” “Anything to do with—” “Who?” But it was all over her face. “You know.” He tried not to smirk but did anyway. “Anything goin’ on?” Esmé sighed. “Not really, Josh.” A wince, though not a painful one. “But, you know, a girl can keep hopin’, can’t she?” A couple days later Sweet Home Arthur, resplendent in his white Borsalino, showed up. He knew Slick Vicks from the early days and stood in the back of the auditorium with him and Josh as Willie Lee set up. “I hear he’s coming along,” Sweet Home said. Josh, careful, said, “I think you’ll hear for yourself soon enough.”

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A look at Slick. “And?” “Kid’s learning, I can say that.” “Best you can say since he blew into Chicago is ‘Kid’s been learning.’ ” “He’s still got it,” Josh said brightly, consciously talking Willie Lee up. “You’ll see.” “O.K., let’s go.” The band, with Sweet Home in the auditorium, was waiting respectfully on the stage. At the flick of Josh’s pointer finger, Sticks McGee whapped his snare, pounded his kick, and they were off. “Have you ever had the feelin’,” Willie Lee started singing in a sweet, plaintive voice, “your whole world go upside down?” Up went Josh’s ears. This was a new voice for Willie Lee, higher, warmer, and with the immediate effect of bringing you into his question, which he repeated. Have you ... evvv-errrrr had the feeeeee-linnnnn’, oh, that your whooooole worrrrrrrllld go upside down? As far as Josh knew, this was more air music, the first song Willie Lee had created since the disaster in Gary. He found himself inching forward on the fold-down auditorium seat. That’s the priiii-hiiiii-iiiiiice you pay when the deeeeevilllllll woman come stalkin’ round. Scorching guitar attack, then the second verse: You know your eyes start tremblin’, and your heart it beats so fast Your eyes, they’re tremblin’ somethin’ awful, and your heart is going fast That woman is cryin’ for your soul, there ain’t no turnin’ back.

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Josh noticed Sweet Home watching with great attention. The song was just pouring out of Willie Lee; looked effortless. Third verse: Where you’re headed, it’s a long, long climb Where that woman’s put you, it’s a long, long, loooong climb To get back you gotta know it’s gonna take some time Gonna take you some loooooong kind of time. Willie Lee rang the song out with a slow, burning guitar solo, no flurry of notes, just ringing tones piling up one on another till the song’s pathos burst over the room. Josh, stunned by the song, nonetheless knew it wasn’t the old Willie Lee at all. Almost defensively, he said to Sweet Home, “Each time you turn around, it’s a new Willie Lee Reed.” The big man took his time letting a single nod dip his white Borsalino. “It’s good, but it’s a little quiet, don’t you think?” Josh said. The record producer held fire still. His features were a huge poker face. Finally, he said, “Might be a good thing.” He looked up at the stage, where Willie Lee was starting into another new blues with the chorus, “I been to hell and back.” The kid was going over and over the lyric, “I been to hell, been to hellllll, been to helllllll . . . and back,” fiddling with attack and intonation on each note, trying to get it just right. “He’s looking for something.” “I’m glad you think that.” “Oh, I do, I do.” The big man nodded, his hat cutting large dips in the summery air. “I’m very encouraged, son. Why don’t we get him out in a club soon, see how he does.” “You really think he’s ready?” “Ask him. If he says he is, he is.” When Sweet Home left and Willie Lee came down from

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the stage, he took the question in stride. “When you thinkin’?” the kid said. “Soon as you want.” “You can get me in?” This was something unspoken so far between them, what exactly Josh’s role was. Fortunately it was summer and he had no classes at Northwestern, which made it easy, since Josh more and more couldn’t imagine going back in the fall. In his heart he was hoping he could be Willie Lee’s manager when the kid got on his feet. This would be a leap for him from toting around his tape recorder, but he felt more and more confident he could do it. “I’ll get something by tonight.” So here they were at Greenie’s Place, way out Madison on the West Side. It was just a Tuesday night, and when he, Esmé, and the kid showed up, there were only half a dozen so people there, most already in their cups. Willie Lee was booked after a piker named Hose Grayson, who played such lame blues that Willie Lee said out loud, “He’ll even make me look good.” Josh couldn’t tell if the kid was joking or not. “Hey, where’s that Willie Lee Reed confidence?” he said. “Yeah, right,” was all he got back. It was a short, fast, devastating set. Willie Lee simply stood there fronting the usual group, Thumper, Sticks, and Tiny Lester, and pounded out the blues. No leaping, no grandstanding—cool fire razor sharp into the empty club. Confidence? The kid played with angels on his shoulders and a bottom sound ringing up from deep in hell. At the end of his set he played My Best Friend, the Blues with quiet fury. The words had changed, too. Willie Lee ended: They say I got bats in my belfry and my soul in a stew Bats flying all round the belfry, my soul in a prickly stew But I know all I got in this world be my best friend, the blues

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When the set was over, and the small, desultory crowd looked up from their drinks and rattled their hands together, Willie Lee didn’t wait for anything, he just put his guitar on his back, gave Josh and Esmé a glance, and led them out to Josh’s T-Bird. “I want to play a cut,” the kid said, his tone flat and determined. “You sure?” “Yes.” There was fire in the Willie Lee’s eyes. Josh nodded. He looked to Esmé, who gestured, Why not? “Then let me see what I can do.” Two nights later they were at the Lincoln Lounge, first cutting session of the week, but they found nobody but pikers; the kind of guys who spent all day dreaming the blues in a Swift Meats abattoir then toted their blown-tube Airline amp and Tedesco guitar to any club that’d have ’em, then nodded through blues slow enough for their grandmothers to shake to. Willie Lee worked his way through these guys on sheer technique; he could play more notes, and make more notes matter, than anyone else there. Turned out some people who remembered him were there. Their cries rose up: “That’s Willie Lee Reed. My man.” And “Cut it loose, cut . . . it . . . loose.” And “Showtime! It’s Willie Lee Showwww-tiiiiiime!” The shouts, coming as if out of a past way behind, startled the kid for a moment, then brought a smile to his face. He lifted his guitar over his head and held it in a victory flourish that brought more cheers. Then he settled down and played straight-ahead blues, nothing too flashy, but nothing of brilliance. Josh and Esmé were at the front table, and throughout his performance he looked down at them. Esmé seemed to be enjoying herself, but Josh

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wasn’t giving anything away. He couldn’t feel anything of the depths Willie Lee had been looking into at Greenie’s. Later Josh said, “Who am I to tell you ’bout playing from your soul, but, you know, I can see it. You blew past those guys, but they were putzes—still looking for the notes. So, hey, you know the notes. But you also know there’s worlds more to it.” Willie Lee flushed with anger at the criticism. He started to talk back, but Josh wouldn’t listen. The white boy’s eyes, still kind, said, Think about it. Willie Lee did. The white boy was kind of . . . right. He was dazzled and upbeat by how good it felt to be out there, head-to-head, but it was true: The notes weren’t speaking through him fully. He was playing with his fingers, not his spine; talkin’, but not through his True Voice. “Let’s go tomorrow night. Where’s the cut at—the 6-Eye?” “You ready for that?” Willie Lee took in a deep breath. His eyes for a moment looked spooked. “Your father,” he said slowly, turning to Esmé, “he’s still in Europe, right?” Esmé nodded. “Then I think we can give it a try.”

✴✴✴✴✴ JIMMY, STANDING UNDER

a rattling El train, was thinking about the last time he’d been in Chicago. One of the high points of his life. He’d met a lifelong hero: Heddy Days. He’d bought all the Heddy Days records on Poker he could find while growing up in Seattle, had locked the door to his small bedroom and played the discs over and over to learn the master’s notes, and then stared deep into the black-andwhite photo on the cover, Heddy Days’ heavy-lidded eyes, his strong chin, and tried to fit his own countenance to exactly that: a presence of daring, certainty, virtuosity, and

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command right there on his own thirteen-year-old face. Heddy Days was simply the best way Jimmy could see to be a man. Then he met the master. It was six months back, the last time the band was in town, and after their show at the Mocambo, Jimmy had taxied to a club called the 6-Eye. It was a Friday night, and there was a cutting session going on. Jimmy stood in the back, but he hadn’t brought his guitar, and, finally, he was too shy to join in. But after Heddy had outlasted all comers and was enjoying a quart beer at a table with his bandmates, Jimmy had screwed up every iota of his courage and walked up to the table. “Sit down, son,” Heddy had graciously said. “What’s your name?” “I’m called Maurice James,” Jimmy had said, and he swore he’d seen a flicker of recognition in the great man’s eyes; that he must’ve heard some kind of rumor about this Maurice James out there backing up Little Richard and the others. Heddy didn’t do anything other than offer the young man a seat, though. It was thrillingly accepted. This close to Heddy, Jimmy’s shyness kicked in and he simply sat there, silent, sipping the beer Heddy’s drummer had poured for him. There were a couple wide-eyed, longhaired white boys at the table, and Heddy was expounding for them. Jimmy simply listened to the great man talk. “It’s the beat,” Heddy said. “People got funny ideas about the blues. Think it’s sadness. Think it’s feeling end of the world. Nothing like that. Words . . . words, they count—and I thank my friend Sweet Home Arthur for some of the best of ’em—but the thing, the thing it all comes down to is the beat.” Nods around the table. Jimmy kept silent. “And it ain’t that the beat be straightforward. That’s what they got on that TV, with Lawrence Welk. No, the thing with the beat, you understand, it’s gotta be . . . fractured. Gotta be broken up into its own pieces then put back togeth-

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er its own way.” Heddy’s way of speaking was slow, considered, rumbling from deep within him. “Now take That’s Who I Am. That song all that fractured beat. The way the beat gets broken up, and then you hear it before it comes, it’s like an echo—echo that ring, ring, rings in your soul.” Heddy pursed his wide brow. “That’s the key, my friends: Knowing what the audience is gonna hear and knowing what you gonna play, and then moving right into the middle there, ’tween the two.” Heddy leaned back, his face wide and bright as a full moon. “You boys understand?” Slow nods. “You do, huh?” Heddy raised an eyebrow. More slow, slow nods—but nothing clear on their faces. The master leaned back. That was all he was going to say on the subject. He shrugged, then turned to one of the white boys and said, “So, Paul, how’s that new band of yours comin’?” Over the next months Jimmy kept thinking about what Heddy had said. The master was right, of course: It was ultimately all the beat. But then he thought, That’s the way the blues has always been. But what if there’s more possible to the music that Heddy Days ain’t able to get to? What if there’s something new to be found, colors, tones, new energy? What if there are new words: poems, word spritzes, elastic whanging syllables as wild as the notes I’m whirling off my guitar? And the sounds . . . what if I can find me some sounds Heddy ain’t heard—maybe nobody ever heard— sounds I just know I can recognize when I find them? He’d been weighing these thoughts ever since that night with Heddy, and as deeply moved as he was to have sat at the master’s side, he was more emboldened to take things in his own direction. He was the future of the blues. And there was no chance in hell Little Richard would ever let him be that.

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Jimmy had heard through the grapevine that there was going to be another cut this Friday night at the 6-Eye, and that Heddy Days was still over in Europe on a tour, which was just as well. Jimmy didn’t want to go up against Heddy Days. The man he wanted, and who was said to be recovered and on his way to the 6-Eye that very evening, was that other damn future of the blues: Willie Lee Whatshisname. As he pushed down 48th Street, James Marshall Hendrix lifted up his red Stratocaster and gave its well-worn body a full-lipped kiss.

✴✴✴✴✴ EVEN WITH HEDDY DAYS out of town it was going to be a big

cut. The cream of everyone in town was there: Billy Boy Baker, Slow Hand Jackson, the big-beat boy Catfish Broulée up from New Orleans, sporting a rag over his head, and Talkin’ Gus Slide, with the long scar down the side of his face—basically, everybody good who wasn’t with Heddy Days on the American Folk Tour in Europe. There was also one other guy, young, muscled, whom none of them had seen before; a handsome man with a tall shock of processed black hair above a tall forehead, and a serious-looking red Fender Stratocaster folded in his large hands. The only judge was that order-loving ex-seaman, the owner, Quick. (With Heddy not there, the usual judges, Grumbling Washington, Baby Stevenson, and Pirate Jackson, hadn’t bothered to show up.) Josh and Esmé stood with Willie Lee outside the club, the red glow of Quick’s eyeball sign playing over their faces. Both were a little nervous for the guitar player, but Willie Lee looked unconcerned. He stood there, breathing slow into his hands, digging deep into his concentration, then blew into the joint like royalty. Some of the older guys like Billy Boy and Slow Hand paid notice, saying “Hello” to him and asking him if he was there for the cut. “You old men, you can back out now,” Willie Lee called

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out, but with enough good humor that nobody burned him on it. Billy Boy Baker led the night off, too old for the cut but warming everyone up with a string of instrumentals tending toward the old jump blues. After a few tunes he ceded the stage to Slow Hand Jackson, a man with a long face and longer eyes—sleepy, smoky bedroom eyes—who was quickly joined by Raccoon Black, with his signature eye shadow looping his eyes, and the two men sent riffs at each other till the crowd’s applause made it clear that Slow Hand was more than holding his own. Down went Raccoon Black; up came Talkin’ Gus Slide, who played with a length of brass pipe he’d cut from his day job as a plumber. Talkin’ Gus could make that pipe talk, notes rising and falling like a keening woman over a fresh-dug grave; in his Spanish tuning he whinged off Robert Johnson–like demitones high up the neck. But Slow Hand was eponymous, too, and his feather touch and seductive, filigreed bends held the audience, and through their applause kept him up in front of them. “Good job, men,” called Quick through the p.a. by the bar. “Let’s hear it again, ladies and gentlemen, for your favorite so far tonight, Mr. Slow Hand . . . Jackson!” Wellearned applause rang out, Josh and Esmé, too, giving him his due. From the other side of the table Willie Lee clapped half-heartedly, but he had his eyes elsewhere in the audience. “Next up, friends, a newcomer to the 6-Eye. Young man been out on tour with that N’awlins shouter, Mr. Little Richard—you know, the Tutti Frutti man—” a chuckle from Quick “—but he tells me he’s all . . . guitarslinger. Welcome to the stage our next Cut Man, Mr. Maurice James.” This was the object of Willie Lee’s interest, this kid, hardly older than he was, and tall, thin, sharply dressed as a musician on the road should be, but clearly and painfully shy. James ignored the smattering of applause that welcomed him

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to the stage. The way he shambled up there, he looked distinctly uncomfortable in his skin. He bore his blood-red Stratocaster before him like a shield and lance; and only looked at ease when he’d strapped it to his chest. After giving the audience a furtive smile, he took the far corner of the stage. What everyone at their table saw right off was that this Maurice James had fingers as long as Willie Lee’s. And something else like Willie Lee: He held your eyes. Everyone in the 6-Eye found themselves leaning a little closer to the stage, their breaths stilled with curiosity, fascination. Slow Hand started off in a loping slow blues, throwing his whole body into it, languid and smooth, and sultry enough to get a few ladies up front to shimmy in their seats and whisper to the stage, “Hmm, hmnnn, Mr. Slow Hand, you got it. You go with it, baby. . . .” Slow Hand, looking pleased with himself, smiled toward his challenger. Maurice James’s Stratocaster was strung normally, but curiously he was playing it backward—lefthanded. That registered with Willie Lee, too. When Slow Hand played his last note, a high E hanging up the neck, James reached out and grabbed the same note, vibratoed it slowly, then boomed a riff on the low E and A strings even as he held, then adumbrated the first note. Willie Lee leaned farther forward: Like that this tall kid was sounding like two guitars at once. James kept that up for a minute or so, then powerchunked some mid-fretboard chords and with a graceful nod of his guitar neck, beckoned Slow Hand back to the game. The older man played the best he could, put his heart into it, but it was old stuff. His straight-ahead playing sounded thin and weak next to the challenger’s. When he turned the session over to Maurice James again, the newcomer blistered off a flurry of notes high up the neck, wild notes, not every one spot on, but daunting nonetheless.

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Josh leaned over to Esmé and whispered, “Look at that, he’s got a lot of Willie Lee in him.” Esmé nodded. Her eyes asked, Is Willie Lee better? “The way this guy’s smoking Slow Hand,” Josh said, “we’re gonna find out.” As Slow Hand walked off the stage, Quick from his booth said, “Looks like we got us a new champion up there.” His gaze swept the club. “We got anybody else out there got the brass to go up against him?” Long pause. Shuffle, shuffle in the crowd. People were turning and staring toward Willie Lee, then back at the stage, where Maurice James, a sly smile on his face, still hung back from the spotlight. “You see any . . . contenders out there?” Quick went on. “Any . . . old friends? Anybody we ain’t . . . seen in a while?” “Hey, how ’bout Willie Lee Reed?” Esmé called out. Josh laughed. Next to them, the kid himself was simply focused on the stage, not moving yet. “Yeah, yeah, Willie Lee Reed,” more of the audience picked up. “Come on, Willie Lee!” “Well, ain’t that a co-inky-dink,” Quick said. “That’s just the boy, um, man I got down here on this sheet of paper.” Quick had no such sheet, but he mimed peering at one nonetheless. “Says here, Willie Lee Reed. That boy be back in the room?” Willie Lee stayed seated. Josh leaned over and whispered, “Now’s the time, killer.” The boy didn’t move. “Willie Lee?” The kid was staring at the stage, but he was focused inside himself. Good-hearted cheers were ringing out around him, but he didn’t seem to notice them. Esmé poked Willie Lee. Nothing. “Come on,” Josh said, nervous that Willie Lee might be chickening out on them. “Everybody’s with you, man.” Willie Lee kept his eyes tight on the stage, and everyone in the club kept their eyes tight on him. It looked like he

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wasn’t going to get up there. A long, nervous sigh ran through the room, but halfway through it, the kid stood up. Relief! “Willie Lee Reed,” Quick boomed through the p.a., “good to see you, son. We missed you. Tell me, where you been?” The kid looked startled to be addressed. Held his dead focus on the high-conked Maurice James. “Willie Lee, where you been? Been at that White House saying hello to my friend Miss Jacqueline?” A laugh from the crowd. “Oh, me,” Willie Lee finally said. Josh could almost read the kid’s thoughts: Like that song he’d been trying out with Sweet Home at the schoolhouse, To Hell and Back. But what Willie Lee said was a mumbled, “Um, here and there.” “All right, all right. It’s the Here and There Kid! You goin’ up on the stage, son?” That was the question, and the audience held its breath again. Willie Lee just stood there, his no-name ax at his side. Then a visible shudder ran through him, and he started to make his way forward. Loud applause from the friendly crowd. “Good, good,” Quick said. “The Here and There Kid up against Mr. Tutti Frutti Sideman.” A loud guffaw. “Go to it, you two.” Jimmy watched Willie Lee take the stage with the same wariness that the challenger watched him. Both men had a regal quality about them. It was curious, but they even looked a little alike, though Willie Lee’s chin stuck out farther and his eyes were more like a sleeping snake’s; and Maurice James seemed so much shyer, though his processed hair flew higher over his forehead. It was clear right away that they were masters of their instrument; indeed, innovators. What was fascinating was how closely they seemed to understand each other. The two men started out with a slow blues, no words,

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simply a bass-drum groove and both guitars lifting off over it. On the stage each man stayed away from the center, not hugging the sides; just giving each other room. They both played with heads tipped back, chins lifted, eyes hooded— concentration so deep they seemed to be slipping further into their own worlds. Maurice James ground out a slow vamp, fingers teasing notes, then slammed his B string up in a step-and-a-half bend and let it down so easy you could hear every microtone; Willie Lee was right there miming it, then answering it in his own intricate way. James cocked an ear on the kid, his mouth moving into a moue at the occasional startling note; then he’d step in, hit that same note, hit it again, then take the riff off in a whole other direction. It was no longer the regular kind of cutting session, you play a twelve-bar, then I play it, then you again—these two were trading solos at virtually the same time. And each matching the other: bet, raise, counter bet, raise, counter bet, and all in the same piece of music, Maurice James’s notes leading into Willie Lee’s, leading back to James, then to Willie Lee—around and around, each turn increasing the intensity and invention. It was impossible to tell who was getting the better of the other. Josh kept his gaze tight on his young friend. He knew instinctively that this was just the test Willie Lee needed, a strong player coming right at him, no time to worry it, just kick him back on his instincts and see how he flew. He was doing great. Each thrust Maurice James threw down, Willie Lee parried; then the challenger thrust freshly back. The notes they played glinted long and sharp and bright under the stage lights. The audience was hushed, listening intently to this battle fought solely on musical terms—fought, so far, to a dead heat. Then Willie Lee made his move. He played off Maurice

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James’s syncopated riffs as perfectly as before, but his guitar flew up in his hands and pirouetted over his head. Flash! Notes spiraled out as magically as they had, but now he was playing with the guitar behind his back. James took a step away, regarding this. It was his turn to take over the galloping tune, but he demurred. Willie Lee played on. He’d lowered his guitar now and was fingering it from between his spread-apart legs. He stood like a TV cowboy sauntering into a bar. The neck stuck way out between his legs, and he kept swaying it back and forth, just like it was a . . . garden hose. Yeah, the kid was watering his lawn, making a hundred scintillating notes bloom. At this innovative flash you couldn’t say that Maurice James was stunned, yet he did have a look of concern. Had he seen anything like this before? Josh wondered. This kid’s playing with Little Richard, he must know showmanship. But Richard played the piano. Willie Lee was astonishing everyone on his guitar. The audience started coming around. That’s it, that’s it, Josh was thinking, keep the music going, don’t give an inch there, then blow the crowd out with your flashy playing. And that was just what the kid did. Fingered brilliant notes and shot ’em out with fiery explosions. And kept going. Four, five minutes longer than he should have, spraying a thick burst of notes at Maurice James whenever he looked like he was ready to jump in, throwing the guitar behind his back again, up in the air, then pulling back and running the neck. Willie Lee was . . . crazy! Although it sounded like he was only playing the one guitar, the way it looked—well, how many were there? Look, there’s one in the air, one on the ground, one halfway out toward the lake. Willie Lee was spinning and twirling his ax like an Arabian swordsman, all glinting blades and sliced-up silvery air. Then the dervishing halted. Willie Lee caught his guitar

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at his chest, stepped back, raised his left eyebrow, then gestured with the neck to Maurice James with all the nonchalance in the world: O.K., I’m done. Your turn, Bud. James looked unflustered. He took his time. Stepped forward to the lip of the stage, letting the band choogle behind him but not playing a note, just looking into the crowd, holding their eyes, letting everyone get a good look at him. Yes, he, like Willie Lee, was beautiful, with a thick though nicely sculpted nose, heavy, soulful lips, and brown eyes that held cool, deep knowledge. Time for him to play. He held his red Stratocaster steady before him, but his fingers were all the way up the neck and yet somehow down by the nut at the same time. He wasn’t moving in any way fancy, but suddenly the club swarmed with notes—thick and sharp as a nest of riled-up honey bees. Damn! If Willie Lee had looked like he was playing a mess of guitars, he only sounded like he was playing one. If before Maurice James had sounded like two guitarists at once, now he sounded closer to three. James wasn’t moving, no flash, just standing in one spot playing. It was beautiful, powerful, soul-enraptured music, but the audience, dazzled by Willie Lee, had stopped paying his challenger much attention. James threw his body into each run of notes, pushing them further and faster with his shoulders, his hips . . . with everything he had. But his purely sonic show couldn’t capture the crowd, and it was clear he was beginning to know it. He held a distracted look for a moment; and a second later one of great intensity. O.K., you could see him say to himself, if this kid can play the flash, why can’t I? He raised his guitar and started to bring it over his head, but he was oddly tentative. His fingers slipped, and a squirl of buzzing feedback leapt from his amp. The audience, unused to such loud, unpleasant noise, flinched. James tried to look unconcerned, but nerves were on him

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now. He manipulated his Stratocaster behind his head, just like Willie Lee had. His right hand fretted well enough, but he couldn’t get his left hand over the right strings, and . . . more feedback blared through the amp. It was a long, keening cry, almost human. Up went his ears—he looked fascinated by the sounds he was discovering—and like that he bent into the buzzing, rasping noise, trying to make it work for him. But it was feedback nonetheless, and out of the 6-Eye audience rose a couple of hearty boos. James was clearly shaken. Willie Lee stood back, tamping a rhythm on his guitar, staying out of James’s way, graciously trying to help his competitor, but it was too late. “Willie Lee Reed!” a voice cried out. “Give the cut to Willie Lee!” “Willie Lee! Willie Lee!” The kid hung back. James glared at him. It was Willie Lee’s turn to solo again, and he played a few quick riffs then backed off. No, it was clear that he’d already won, why should he continue? The crowd was saying he’d outplayed James; certainly had outflashed him. But James wasn’t letting the cut end. As Willie Lee stood there, he moved to the lip of the stage and took off on his red Strat. He fired a furious paroxysm of notes, screeches and scrawls, undercut by that weirdly seductive feedback—notes as bombs, notes calling up the end of the world—then in huge frustration, he lifted his guitar high and swung it down at the wooden stage floor. The first time Maurice James crashed his Strat against the floor more feedback exploded, and a beelike buzzing swelled out of the amplifier. He didn’t look angry though; what was odd was how devotional he appeared. James lifted the guitar again, and as if it were a genuine, wood-chopping ax, he swung it again against the stage, this time cracking the body off from the neck. The beelike buzzing grew louder; so did the boos from the crowd.

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When the buzzing got so loud people were covering their ears, Quick came over from behind the bar and flicked off the switch behind James’s amp. The small red light flickered out. Like that Maurice James left the stage, leaving his bustedup Stratocaster dead on the platform, then walked straight through the club and out into the night. When Willie Lee came back to their table, Esmé leapt up and threw her arms around him, giving him a kiss. The kid looked surprised, even a little distracted. “Brilliant,” Josh said, patting him on the back after Esmé had let him go. “Good job!” Willie Lee fixed his white friend with his gaze. He looked subtly disappointed. “Did you hear him?” he said in little more than a whisper. “He was good.” Josh shrugged. “You were better.” “But did you hear him?” “Yeah?” “He was playing like three men out there. Then that feedback—did you hear his feedback?” The kid shook his head in disbelief. “But you held him—you held him musically.” “I . . . don’t . . . know.” Willie Lee brought his hands together before him, palms flat. “I don’t think people really heard what he was doing. But I did.” “We all heard him,” Josh said, all encouragement. “We heard you take him.” Willie Lee shook his head. “And that feedback—” The kid was mostly talking to himself now. “What if he got a handle on it?” “Just noise.” Josh shook his head. “But what if he . . . he gets it? What if he makes it music?” Josh didn’t have any answer. The feedback had sounded like incoherent buzzing to him. “You did great,” Esmé said into the silence. “I think you’re all the way back.”

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Willie Lee smiled at her. But then he said softly, mostly to himself: “No, no, I still got me an awful lot to learn.”

J Chapter 9

Sunday Supper

W

HEN SWEET HOME ARTHUR heard the news about Shaw and Andruzzi, he knew it was the end of Viper Records. He shook his head: Just like that fool to lay his racist shit on the wrong guy. Word out of Gary was that Shaw had been arrested as an accessory, and since his bodyguard was up for murder. . . . Black man knifing a white guy, even with a gun pulled on him, self-defense? Not in that town. He might not be able to skate; though nobody was underestimating the pull of the policyman. Meanwhile, the political establishment in Gary had closed down Shaw’s new blues club as well as his whole numbers racket; a shame but no sweat to Sweet Home. But Vic Andruzzi, that was another story. The label owner was off on his long journey to . . . a better place? His just desserts? Sweet Home smiled. He’d lay money on St. Peter’s taking a good, long look at the manifold sinner and well-known cheap screw and turning his thumb in just the same direction Sweet Home himself would. Andruzzi’s death did mean Sweet Home was out of a job, though. Miriam Andruzzi made that clear a few days after the stabbing when Sweet Home went back to the Viper Records office. Sweet Home had the notion that he’d take a look at Andruzzi’s books, maybe find a little money owed some of his artists like Black Keys Johnson and Big Mouth Archer, who were tagging along with him. But when the

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three men walked in, the short, red-headed Gatling gun just fired away: “You, you boys, out of here! This music garbage killed my husband is over.” “But Mrs. A,” Sweet Home said, “you let me look at the books, maybe I can find us a way to carry on.” “What books? I already sold this godforsaken shithole. Next week it’s gonna be a dry cleaners. Now skee-datt!” Harder for the other men, Keys and Mouth, to lose one of the few blues labels left in town, but Sweet Home was less worried for himself; just meant he had to go out job-hunting. Not for the first time, of course, and, really, the record producer was thinking, not that bad a time at all. Indeed, Miriam Andruzzi’s pulling the plug on Viper Records made certain things simpler that had been, um, previously discussed. Sweet Home, a man of pride, wouldn’t easily have anything further to do with that piker Abe Vokelman, but his son, J.V., well, he seemed to see things differently. Seemed to have the understanding it was Sweet Home Arthur who’d been the soul of Poker Records, finding acts, writing songs, and producing cuts. Seemed to be the kind of guy who understood proper boundaries, not like his father. Sweet Home still told the story about when Abe flew into a Heddy Days session, weird wings of tufted gray hair sprouting from his head, his mouth moving a million miles a minute, crying out in his crazy accent, “Meshuganah! This is fuckin’ meshuganah! Beat’s all wrong, all wrong. Get rid of that motherfuckin’ drummer. Got no soul, no soul!” Then the boss yanked poor old Oil Drum Baxter up from his kit, righted the bass drum, and started pounding on it with his bare fists, like he was some primitive around a blazing fire warding off lurking sabertooths, thump, thump, thump—while Heddy and Sweet Home and Odom Stanley rolled eyes at each other. As if Abe Vokelman would know soul if it were a fly landing on his red nose!

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But with the boy, there was respect. J.V. had no problem listening to the older black man, asking his advice. Sure, J.V. wanted to sell records, but no more than Sweet Home did. So they both knew they needed something new. Music with depth and fire. Music that rocked even as it respected the old greats. Most of all, music that pointed toward a new way to go. Sweet Home had told him his idea, but what pleased him was that J.V. had the same one: the new kid in town, Willie Lee Reed. J.V. had slipped in the back one night when Willie Lee was playing at Greenie’s a few days before and had come away impressed. “He might not be the goddamn future of the blues,” the boy had said, “but he’s sure a fresh breath. And he sure as hell’s got the fire.” “He got the fire,” Sweet Home agreed. “And Andruzzi has him sewn up?” Sweet Home lifted an eyebrow. “Well, for now.” J.V. had nodded quietly. “Listen, Mr. Arthur, let’s not say anything about it right away. Certainly not to my father—” Sweet Home cranked his heavy eyebrow higher. “I know you guys ain’t speaking, so we don’t have anything to worry about there. Just keep your eye on the kid, make sure he keeps comin’ along, then when the time’s right—” Well, Andruzzi dead and gone made the time . . . about as right as it was going to get. And Willie Lee himself, he seemed to be comin’ along better after whatever the hell that mess-up was he went through in Gary. The white boy was working good with him; Sweet Home was impressed. Seemed to love the kid. And Heddy’s daughter down from Detroit in there too? Got them a strong team, no small thing in a game as lonely as the blues. So what was bugging Sweet Home? He tightened his brow, blew a long stream of air from his mouth. Well, there was this worry ’bout Willie Lee, whether he really under-

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stood the bottom-truth about the blues. The older man kept having this conversation with the kid in his head, where Sweet Home would ask the question, Where do the blues come from? And the kid would go on about his damn voices. In his mind Sweet Home would pull his head back and say, Son, you might hear something in you, and that might or might not be a good thing, but do you really believe that’s the blues? The blues, the blues is out there. Out would go the big man’s hand. It’s what the world do with you, and what you do with it. Understand? In his head the kid stayed silent. The blues, Sweet Home would go on, they’re always talkin’ at you. What they say, son, is that the world’s got good things in it, and it’s got bad things in it. But the blues, what they say is the world’s got more bad things in it than good. Any fool can see that, right? But what the blues also say is—and this is the key thing, son—is that we can always do something ’bout it. Would the kid get that, would he know that? Son, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout your . . . voices, they be true or otherdamnwise. What I know, son, is this: What a man is, is what he does with what the world does to him. You got that? World comin’ at you, world beating on you, world playing the trickster, showin’ you one damn thing when it’s really ’nother. World killin’ your record. World droppin’ witchy skunk women on you. World throwin’ one mess or two messes or five messes your way, what you gonna do? What would the kid say? Sweet Home knew there was only one right answer: Fight it. Fight the world. Fight it to your last breath. Damn right! You take what you have to, but you fight what you can. Ain’t nothin’ in there ’bout voices at all. Blues itself, it’s got one big voice. Listen to it: Blues is strength. You got that, son? Blues . . . is . . . strength. That’s all I got to tell to you. Sweet Home stood there wiping his brow, this conversation so passionate in his head. Was the kid getting strong?

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Was he learning? Was he gonna be ’nuf of a goddamn man to play the blues the way they demanded?

✴✴✴✴✴ Esmé that her father would be home in a week, he didn’t know how Willie Lee would react. They hadn’t talked about Heddy Days at all since before the 6-Eye cut a week back. Was the kid up to facing Heddy? That was the huge question. At the daily rehearsals everything seemed to be going well; the kid meant what he said about having a lot to learn, and he was applying himself with new vigor. They buckled down in the mornings at the grade school auditorium, Willie Lee insisting they get together earlier and stay longer. Josh realized he wasn’t there any longer to guide the kid or offer any specific advice. He knew Willie Lee just needed somebody in the room with him, an audience, gentle appreciation, a friend, because the kid was teaching himself now, reaching in and pulling out ideas of what he had to do—then doing it. Willie Lee was changing his look, too. For one thing, he’d started wearing glasses—elegant wire rims that perched on his nose like those he’d seen on a striking young black in a book, a historical figure from the last century, Willie Lee couldn’t remember his name. The kid had gone out and found himself a pair. He also bought himself old-fashioned shirts with high collars and a fine pair of Italian pointed-toe boots. For Josh’s part, he’d made Willie Lee throw away the nasty braided-twine guitar strap and had given him a wide leather one with his initials, WL, embossed on it. What Josh didn’t see was the way Willie Lee still spent hours looking at himself in the mirror, searching, searching, though not always sure what he was looking for. His confidence passed behind his eyes like wind-tipped clouds. His WHEN JOSH HEARD FROM

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True Voice—well, a voice—was speaking in him, but it came quietly, a thin runnel instead of the swift stream he broadcast to the world. The voice said softly, earnestly, “Steady, steady, steady.” Steady was good enough for now, and it was Willie Lee’s faith that each day he grew stronger. Rare was the flash showboating of the 6-Eye cut. Josh’s and the broom pusher’s earlier words had been taken to heart. The guitar stayed in front of Willie Lee, just above his waist, and the greatest bravado was the way he kept his chin cocked up high. The lift to his chin said, Come on at me, I’m ready for you, yeah, yeah, I can take you. But the kid’s eyes often fell shut, his face impassive, and then the uplifted chin could be taken as a vision of quiet worship: voices falling on the reverent soul rather than arising from inside him. Josh didn’t know this, though; Willie Lee wasn’t letting him in much. The kid was also surprisingly distant from Esmé. As far as Josh could tell, what he saw as an obvious mutual buzz and attraction still hadn’t been consummated: Esmé was naturally demure; for Willie Lee’s part, well, it was probably all he’d been through with Silver, plus the devotion and discipline he was showing to each day’s work. Either that, Josh thought, or worlds within worlds of mystery. Though Esmé was still living in Josh’s extra room, she didn’t accompany him to rehearsals much anymore, and Willie Lee wasn’t asking about her—yet Josh could always read in Esmé’s eyes that she was wondering if he had mentioned her at all that day. Good thing she never asked out loud, because the answer hadn’t changed. Still, Willie Lee was becoming a different man. He worked, and then he worked harder. He’d go over a song so many times even the indefatigable Sticks McGee would be grimacing as he pounded his skins. Thumper Johnson was reduced to playing root notes to keep the bottom solid, but he was clearly exhausted. But the kid stayed fresh. That tilt

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of his chin led him on, a prow sailing into murky waters only he knew. On and on he’d go, listening to whatever only he could hear, but clearly getting results. This was basic blues, and not pretty, at least not immediately, but the longer they kept at it, the more solid it felt: unshakable stone foundation, firm floor, well-cut corners, and well-braced walls; and as day by day Willie Lee built the music higher and higher, crystal windows and wonderful filigree appeared as his notes soared into the high and whimsical air.

✴✴✴✴✴ ALL THAT WORK! Josh figured Willie Lee needed a break, and a fortuitous letter from his mother let him know what to do. The letter had thrown him. It said simply that his father wanted to have a talk with him and that he should be there Sunday at four for the traditional weekly supper—the one he’d been missing for months. Josh figured he knew what that meant: Somehow they’d heard he was no longer attending Northwestern. Did they also know about the blues clubs and Willie Lee Reed? Josh didn’t know how, but he decided that if his father was planning to ask him about his new vocation, he wasn’t going to hide anything. When Josh told Esmé about his plan, her eyes widened. “Are you crazy?” “Probably, yeah.” “No, Josh, I mean it. You want to start a war?” “It won’t be like that. My mom’s quite nice, actually. Did I tell you she used to be an actress when she was young? She was in choruses on Broadway. She met my father on a visit back home, and next thing she knew she was married and the mother of three.” “I’m sure she’s great, but I know what you’ve told me about your father. He won’t even sell cars to Negroes, right?”

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Josh’s father’s name was Paul, and he owned Paul Ford, which sold cars on the North Side. Josh had loved him and looked up to him when he was a boy, but something had changed when he was twelve. His father had started to be disappointed in him. It wasn’t anything huge, it was just a daily litany of “Can’t you do anything right?” and “Marion, what is with this son of yours? No, no, boy, it goes like this!” “No, he’s happy to sell to blacks,” Josh said. “What’d you tell me? Something, what was it? Oh, yeah, how when you were a kid and he said—this is it, right?—he’d say, ‘You want to make real money these days, you have to sell to coloreds. But you can’t do it on your regular lot. You have to send them to a place they’ll feel more comfortable at.’ He said that, right?” “Then he said,” Josh added, deepening his voice, “ ‘You know, regular people won’t take a test drive in a car they think a colored’s been in. Simple fact of business.’ ” “Well!” Esmé went. She was fuming. “But Esmé, he was selling to blacks.” “So he’s some kind of, um, liberal.” “They did vote for Stevenson, at least once, and Kennedy, too.” “And they’re gonna throw open their arms, your mother and your father, and welcome me.” “Yep. Willie Lee, too.” “You want to bring Willie Lee?” “Sure do. It’s going to be a great day.” “Oh, yeah, a great day. I don’t know, Josh. Think you might be using me?” “I’d never do anything like that to you,” Josh said, and he meant it. “I just think I’d be happier if you were with me. If it messes up my parents, well, that’s their problem.” “But am I going to be comfortable?” “That’s why Willie Lee’ll come. It’ll be the three of us.”

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Esmé sighed loudly. “I wouldn’t mind seeing your house—it’s pretty nice, right?” “Pretty nice.” “O.K.,” she said, “if Willie Lee will go, I’ll go.” “Great.” The guitar player was all for it. “Always wanted to see how the other half be livin’.” He gave Josh an amused squint through his new glasses. “It’s not quite a half,” Josh said. “More like half a percent, if that.” “All the better. Need some experience round those rich, successful folk.” There was the kid’s lifted chin, meaning only cocky. “For when I am.” “Yeah, and when’s that going to be?” Josh kidded. Willie Lee’s eyes funneled down tight, and he said in a light voice that seemed to be kidding back, “When I knock off the big man. That’s what you’re waitin’ for, right, Mr. Manager?” Josh looked close into the guitar player’s eyes to see how much he meant it, but what he read wasn’t clear. On Sunday about 3:30 the three of them were in Josh’s copper T-Bird, Esmé up front dressed beautifully in a pale green voile afternoon dress and white gloves, Willie Lee in his new serious-student getup in the back. Josh had on his good-son madras shirt, khakis, and penny loafers. He easily negotiated the tree-lined streets of the close-in northern suburbs. The houses kept getting larger and larger. Esmé had her face to the glass. “I didn’t think—” “What?” “They’re pretty rich, eh?” “People like their Fords, just like I do.” A laugh as he patted the steering wheel of his T-Bird. This was the car his father had given him free off his lot when he turned sixteen, and Josh hated to admit how much he loved it. “My dad makes out.”

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“Willie Lee,” Esmé said, turning in the bucket seat, “you’re right, this is going to be an experience.” The Green house was two stories high, with three steeply canted roofs of Ludowici tile and heavy, extruding stone facework. A roof-high conifer stood out front, like the perfect Christmas tree. (Their first year in Glencoe the Greens had hung it with white and blue Hanukkah lights, but a year later at the holidays it was adorned with the more common multicolored array.) The lawn was immaculate, the shrubs perfect. Although Josh strode toward the back door (nobody actually entered by the front, ever), his two friends were stuck on the curb, eyes wide, taking it all in. He stopped and looked back, smiling as he beckoned them forward. To Josh’s amazement there was barely a ripple on his mother’s face when he walked in with his two black friends. Esmé proffered her white-gloved hand, Willie Lee gave a polite if shy nod, and his mother said, “Welcome, dear, it’s so nice to see you. And your friends are—” His father was a different story. He’d been out on the side lawn working in his garden, and when he came in and saw his son with Esmé and Willie Lee, his jaw muscles tightened and his hand stayed by his side. “Dad, this is Esmé Hunter and Willie Lee Reed. They’re friends of mine from the city.” His father still didn’t extend a hand. “Not from . . . school?” “Uh, no, Dad, not from school.” “Well, son—” that hawklike glare that he remembered from years back, a focused look that carried disapproval, misunderstanding, even disdain “—at least you’re here. We need to have a talk.” “Mother said that, yeah.” “Well, let’s all have our meal first. Marion, what is it? That gooey pink fish again you always want me to like?” Josh glanced at Esmé and Willie Lee, but it was clear

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both were on their best behavior. It occurred to him that they were probably amazed they hadn’t been pitched out on the street. Instead, his mother brought them into the sitting room, then left them, saying she’d better go check on supper, but that she’d send up some refreshments. “Josh, get your guests settled, then come on down to see me.” To Esmé and Willie Lee she added, “I hope you don’t mind, I’d just like to catch up with my son.” “That’d be fine, Mrs. Green,” Esmé said sweetly. “We’ll be happy here.” Josh was on his way toward the door when the Greens’ maid came in with fresh glasses of ginger ale. As soon as she saw Josh, she set the tray down. Josh leapt toward her and gave her a hug, crying, “Maisy, how are you?” Maisy was a pretty woman in her late thirties with a high forehead and large, expressive eyes. She looked joyful to see Josh and hugged him back enthusiastically. “I’m fine, just fine.” Josh stepped back. “Hey, let me introduce my friends. This is Esmé Hunter, and this here is Willie Lee Reed. This is Maisy Jenkins.” Maisy’s eyes widened at the sight of the guitar player. She crinkled her brow, then said, “That name’s familiar—” “Willie Lee’s a blues singer, causing a bit of a stir, we like to think, back in town.” Josh turned to his friends. “It was Maisy here who first got me into the blues. Used to have me sometimes on Sundays when she went home to the South Side for church. Remember?” The large-eyed woman nodded. “We’d go hear the preacher in that storefront, then you’d take me for the best meal I’d ever eat, and then—then you took me round the corner to see the Sly Fox or Elmore James. Just this little boy clutching her hand tight, sort of hiding in the back, his eyes growing rounder and rounder. You know, I have her to thank for everything.” “I’ve heard some about you,” Maisy said, clearly

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impressed by Willie Lee’s presence. “Hear you’re the hot new thing.” “Well,” Willie Lee said. “Yeah, well, I be trying.” “Hear you went up against Heddy Days.” Esmé stepped forward, thinking Josh would introduce her as her father’s daughter, but before either of them could say anything, up went Willie Lee’s ears, and he said, “What’d you hear ’bout that?” “That was a while back, right? Hmnnn, let me think. Oh, yeah, I heard you gave the old man a fright.” “Really?” Willie Lee said, looking pleased, though Esmé tried to hide a frown. “A fright, huh?” “That’s what I heard.” Maisy looked close at Willie Lee. “Not much since.” Willie Lee looked like he was thinking, looking for something inside him; but a moment later his feet started dancing in that jangly puppet-shuffle he fell into when excited. “Well, there’s some talk maybe I’ll go up against him again.” “You think you’re ready?” Josh said. “Really ready?” Willie Lee turned to Josh. “Well, the man ain’t even in the country. Not much I can do now, is there?” But his Italian shoes kept tattooing the fine rug. When Willie Lee turned back to Maisy, he was winking and smiling, though she was near twenty years older than him. “Still, pretty lady, what do you think?” Maisy cocked a dubious eyeball at the kid’s obvious flirting. “I think you gotta do what you gotta do,” she finally said. “Well,” Willie Lee said, reaching a hand out to Josh’s shoulder, “me and my main man, here, we’re doing what we can.” Josh smiled, then looked over at Esmé’s impassive face. “Josh?” Maisy exclaimed, turning to her former charge. “What’re you—” “Oh, I got lots to tell you, dear. Lots. But I think I better go check in with Mom a little more. Keep our guests happy, O.K.?”

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Josh found his mother in the kitchen downstairs, with their Polish cook, Johanna. They were peering into a large poacher bubbling away on the stove. “Oh, there you are,” Mrs. Green said. “Johanna, that looks good. Give it a few more minutes.” She put down a spoon she was holding. “Josh, here, come with me.” She beckoned her son to a sunroom off the kitchen, and as soon as the door swung back shut, she burst out in a loud guffaw. “Did you see that? See your father? I thought he was going to have a heart attack.” “Mom?” “They seem nice, dear,” Marion Green said, recovering. “Well, the girl does. Is she your—” “Not really,” Josh said quickly. “We’re just friends.” “The boy looks a little . . . rough.” “Well, he didn’t grow up in Glencoe.” “Where is he from?” “Detroit. Both of them are.” “Are they a couple?” “I’m not sure. I think we’re all just friends—so far.” His mother smiled. “Well, I just want you to know that their being here’s fine with me.” “I’m not here asking anything about that,” Josh said. “You’re not?” “No. I just thought they’d like to come.” “That’s just how your father sees it.” His mother laughed, then raised her eyebrow. “And it’s not directed a little at . . . me? Because I’m always after you to bring home a girl?” “Um—” The reason why he never did that was one revelation Josh was not prepared to make. His mother laughed again. “It’s O.K., I probably deserve it. And if she were your girlfriend, well, I want you to know I’d do my best to be understanding.” “I know, Mom.”

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“I mean it. And I wouldn’t be that surprised, you know. You always were close to Maisy.” “Thanks, Mom.” “But your father. . . .” “Is another story.” Josh smiled. “Did you really think he’d have a heart attack?” “We should be so lucky.” Then Marion Green threw her hand to her chest. “Lord, smite me. I don’t believe I said that.” Josh leaned over and gave his mother a kiss on her forehead. “Someday,” he said, “I’ll tell you all about my life, I will. I promise.” His mother raised a wide eyebrow, but she was clearly too savvy to say anything more now. Dinner wasn’t half bad. The gooey pink fish was salmon, surrounded by boiled red potatoes and snap peas, and it was all perfectly prepared by Johanna. Though Willie Lee picked at the fish for a few minutes, finally even he dug in and ate as heartily as everyone else. Afterward, Paul Green asked his son to step upstairs to his den. The chairs were heavy and burgundy-leather covered; there was a bag of golf clubs in a corner, beneath a mounted fox he had shot. Josh, for all his life, had only bad associations with this room: It’s where his father had taken him to be spanked with his wide leather belt; it was where, later, his father had fumbled through a birds-and-bees talk (mumbling at one point, “Why did this go so much better with Charles?”). “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” Paul Green said. He was standing, though he’d gestured insistently enough to get Josh into one of the weighty chairs. Josh looked up at his father, his neck twisting as the older man paced around the room. “I want to know what’s going on with you.” “What do you mean?” Josh was as nervous as he’d expected. “I understand you’re not going back to college.”

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“I haven’t—” Josh heard himself about to hem and haw, and then fib; he caught himself. “Yes, sir, that’s right.” His father stopped. Josh could’ve counted slowly to five as he spun around. “Ah, and why not?” “I’m—I just—well, I’m interested in other things at the moment.” “What, Negroes?” Josh glared up at his father. Amazing how pejorative that word sounded coming out of his mouth. “Yes.” “Yes?” “Dad, I know you’re not going to understand, but I’m totally enthralled with black music.” “En-thralled?” As in, What kind of sissy word is that? “The absolutely right word.” Josh stood up, went over to the oak table in the center of the room, and set himself against its sharp edge. “Not that you’d understand.” His father walked right up to him then. Josh could smell vividly the cigars he liked to smoke, all over his clothes, his breath. “The question is just that, What do I understand? And the answer is: Not my second son.” Josh felt his voice shake as he said, “Have you ever?” A long pause. “Well, I certainly don’t now. Throwing away a good education, that we’re paying for. To do what? Consort with Negroes. To bring Negroes into this house.” A hawk glare from his father. “Don’t think I or your mother, don’t think we don’t know just what you’re up to. And don’t think for a minute we don’t care.” “I know you care.” “About you.” “About how things with me . . . look.” Josh’s hands were flitting from side to side as he stared his father down. This was suddenly one of the hardest things he’d ever done. “Son—and hear me, I still call you that. Son, you’re very

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young. There’s a whole world out there—a world that is watching everything you . . . everything I do. You’re shielded, protected. You don’t understand the thin line I have to walk—that I’ve always had to walk.” What was this? Some pain in his father’s voice? Hurt? Something he was revealing? “What—what do you mean?” “Being Jewish,” his father said. “You think in Chicago that makes things easy?” “I—I don’t—” “You’re right, you don’t. Marion and I have done everything in our power to shield you. From when you and Charles and Maggie were kids. We had to fight for everything, to get you into the right swimming class, the right dancing class, even the right schools. We didn’t want you discriminated against—” Josh started to hold up a hand “—yes, that’s the right word, discriminated. “You think Jews in this town just up and sell Fords? You think they can just open up dealerships that cater to the whole spectrum of our society? The whole spectrum?” “I know you sell cars to black people.” “And to guys from Skokie who might’ve been over there fighting the Nazis, but now that they’re back home, wouldn’t mind seeing a few more Jews get what’s coming to them. Then there’s the guys who really control the cars—you think they like dealing with somebody who’s . . . different? Do you ever think about them?” “Who?” “Everyone who’s been against me.” Josh began to see a whole picture where before he hadn’t seen anything. What he remembered were nights when his father would come home from his job—he was starting up a string of repair shops then—with a gray, defeated mien; then there would be loud arguments followed by deathlike silences from his parents’ bedroom. He didn’t understand those nights then, and couldn’t now, but he remembered them.

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“I don’t know what to say,” he finally said. “I don’t know what you can say either,” Paul Green said. “I’m sorry.” “That doesn’t do much.” Josh sighed. His hands, he noticed, had stopped flittering about. His father drew himself up, putting the mask back on his face. Then he said, “What I’ve decided—and when you go assessing blame, it’s just my decision—is that I’m going to treat you like an adult. I’m going to give you a choice, son.” His father paused, but Josh didn’t say a word. He knew what the choice would be, and he was preparing himself to make it. “You can either have college, or you can have . . . this enthrallment of yours.” Now the pause rose and swelled into the whole room. Josh felt it pressing against his whole body as if it were a big, rough balloon just getting bigger and bigger. “Well?” “What would you do, Dad?” This wasn’t a stalling tactic, Josh had already made his decision; but he was curious. “I’d do what was smart.” “And that would be?” His father sighed. He looked right at his son, then said, “What I learned in the war. I’d do what I had to.” Josh reached out and shook his father’s hand. “Thanks,” he said. His father looked puzzled. “Then, you are going back to Northwestern?” “Nope.” Mr. Green took a step back. “I’m not going to support you, then. I mean it.” “I know.” To his consternation, Josh yawned. He didn’t want to, but the air just came out, involuntarily and spookily. He quickly stifled it. “I’ll be all right, I will.”

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“You’ve made up your mind? Just like that?” His father was cracking his knuckles, something he did when he was less than in command. “You know how important it is to have a good education—” “Dad, I know.” Josh didn’t have a clue how he’d pay for the rent on his sweet North Side pad, or keep gas in his T-Bird, not to mention pay insurance on it, or even put food on his plate. He was aswim with curious emotions: a lightheadedness, leaving him wooshy in his legs, from baldly standing up to his father; and yet a low but vivid joy at what felt like genuine respect coming from him. He looked his father straight in the eyes. “I think I’d better go.” Now his father blinked. “Right away? Johanna’s made a peach pie.” Josh didn’t speak for a moment, just regarded his father. He must be close to fifty, the son thought. That seemed impossibly old to him. He didn’t exactly see frailty but rather a man who’d stood under all kinds of weather. A sudden worry over what weather he was conjuring up for himself hit Josh, and he worried if day in, day out he could actually keep being this strong. “I think I’d better just go now, yes. I’m sorry.” “No, son, I’m sorry.” And there, that look in his father’s eyes, it wasn’t his own pain, it was the pain of the world that Josh saw; and yet also that he meant what he said: Josh saw more than a simple measure of pity. “I’ll be fine, Dad.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “You know, I meant it when I said thanks.” His father smiled. This might be as close as we’ve ever been, Josh thought. He was in jeopardy of losing his apartment, his whole life, and yet as he left his father’s once foreboding office he was charged up.

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✴✴✴✴✴ SOMETHING BIG HAD HAPPENED between Esmé and Willie Lee while Josh was talking to his father, and he found Esmé leaning up against his T-Bird alone. “He’s—” Josh started to say. “Not coming,” Esmé went, eyes downcast, abashed and embarrassed. “What happened?” “I’m—I’m not quite sure—” “What, did he just walk away?” Esmé sighed, long and loud—unladylike. She held her chin out to Josh, curiously like Willie Lee when he was full of himself. But Esmé was anything but that. “Can we just go home?” “You’re sure he’s not—” Josh shook his head. “I don’t want to just leave him out here—” “That boy can take care of himself, I’m certain.” Josh looked at her for a moment. Her brow bowed crestfallen, her wide, lovely eyes misty. “You’re sure?” “Josh, come on, let’s get in your damn car.” As Josh drove the two of them back to Chicago, he kept checking the side of the road to look for Willie Lee. It was a good fifteen miles back to his place, and he was trying to think how the kid could do it. Call a taxi? Josh didn’t know if he had enough money on him. Hitchhike? But nobody stuck out his thumb in Glencoe, certainly not black kids. Take the bus? There was a bus, but it was mainly a commuter line and ran infrequently on Sundays. Walk? Josh shook his head; couldn’t imagine it. But what else was there? He kept searching the side of the road till it was clear they wouldn’t find him. For her part Esmé kept herself folded up, steaming silently in the passenger seat. “You ready to talk?” Josh finally said when they were closer to town.

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She gave her head a sharp shake. Farther along he tried a new tactic. “Want to do something later?” He tried to smile sweetly at her. “Hit a club or something?” She kept staring furiously out the window. Finally she said softly, “I don’t think so.” “Essie, come on.” Josh took his hands off the wheel a second and threw them up in exasperation. “You gotta talk to me. Come on!” She slowly unfolded her arms from where they sat tight bound across her chest. Josh waited, but she still didn’t speak. “So what happened?” “Nothin’.” Ah, better: She speaks. Josh looked over at her. The tight, pressure-cooker tension inside her was building to a head. She shifted in her seat, her green dress bunching up around her, wrinkling in an obvious who-gives-a-damn way. Her lips cut tighter and tighter. She reached out and tugged off her white gloves, then balled them up and tossed them against the curved windshield. Josh knew her well enough to know that he didn’t have to say anything further, it would all come out soon. “He’s—he’s such a—” Esmé was taking in air in sudden big gulps. “He’s so . . . pig-headed!” “What happened?” “Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit!” She beat her fists against the T-Bird’s vinyl dash. “Essie?” “Oh, Josh, I—I think I made a damn fool of myself.” Josh kept silent, certain she was ready to let it all out. “Well,” she said, breathless and rushed, “you went off with your father, and we were having a pleasant ol’ talk with your mother, and then she said that she thought we made a sweet couple—” Josh raised an eyebrow at this “—and that

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there was this really nice park a block away, and maybe we’d like to take a walk down by it.” “You do make a sweet couple.” Esmé spun on her friend then, glaring. “Oh, yeah!” Josh drove along. “Hey, O.K. So what happened?” “We took the walk.” “And?” Esmé lowered her eyes, then raised them, turning a plaintive, near tearful face at Josh. “I kissed him.” “You—” “It’d been comin’ on for so long, I just couldn’t stand it anymore. You could feel it, hell, your mother could feel it—” “But Willie Lee—” “He wasn’t feelin’ it. Or maybe he was, I thought for a second it was there when my lips were on his, but then it wasn’t. He didn’t say anything, just pulled away from me and started walkin’ off by himself. What was I supposed to do?” Esmé waved her hands in front of her as if she were swatting away little bugs. “Chase after him?” “You did, didn’t you?” “Well, I went after that boy, thinking, I just kissed you, you just kissed me back, and now you’re . . . walking away? I mean, think of all I had to put up with. That silver-striped whore, and then Willie Lee falling apart, and now all this . . . dedication—” “What was it?” “He wasn’t gonna talk to me. Oh, no. Mr. Silent! He walked along the path over this little hill, and I stayed where I was just fuming, and then when I finally went to catch up with him, I found him . . . found him on his knees.” “On his—” “Yeah, just there, bowed down. That threw me. I came up slow to him and reached down and put my hand on his neck. He barely moved. We were like that for the longest time.” “What did he—”

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“It wasn’t easy getting Mr. Keep-it-to-myself to say anything. Finally he said, ‘I haven’t been in the woods much, since Germany. I forgot how quiet it is.’ ” “His voices?” Esmé rolled her eyes. “I guess. He was hearing something. It was—it was actually quite touching, you know. I mean, I like it that Willie Lee’s got this quiet, deep spirit side. That’s seriously important with me, you know. I actually wanted to—” “To kiss him again.” “At the . . . least.” Josh was silent then, and Esmé, too. He was taking surface streets back and was stopped at a red light. The T-Bird rumbled around them. “Did he say anything else?” Esmé sighed. “Getting him to talk was like pulling a sliver out of your finger. Like digging in there and just trying to root it out.” Esmé grimaced. “But, yeah, finally I got him to say something more about us. I got down there next to him, in the leaves and stuff; just sat there right next to him. I was quiet with him. And I felt it, Josh, felt that forest, too—felt that spirit. It was wonderful there, so still, the tall black branches swaying above us, the sunlight high over the trees, like somebody was fingerpainting it in, whispers of birds, and the breeze . . . the breeze just like it was tickling me. I felt it too! And . . . it was great. It made me. . . . I . . . I . . . I mean, I just—” “You kissed him again.” Esmé spun to face Josh straight on, dress even more tangled around her. “I couldn’t help myself. If I want something, I go after it.” “And?” “He kept pulling away. I was thinking, Nothing wrong with me—what is this? It was making me a little crazy. And then he said, ‘But you’re his daughter.’ ”

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Josh’s eyebrows went up. “Really? He—” “Yeah, like, You’re Heddy Days’ daughter and I can’t have anything to do with you.” Esmé exhaled in a whistle. “Can you believe it?” “I can, actually.” “I don’t know.” Esmé shook her head. “Man I only saw once in my life before now, and here’s this boy, we’re steamin’ all round each other, and he’s talkin’ about my father?” Josh let the word hang there, and a moment later Esmé sighed, then said, “But, yeah, I was thinking, I guess that could throw him. He’s a funny one, that Willie Lee Reed.” She held out her open arms. “One of the reasons I guess I fell for him.” “Of course you tried to tell him it didn’t matter.” She nodded, then said, “And the damn thing is, it really didn’t.” Josh pursed his brow, waited. But she’d gone silent again. He knew now he simply had to wait her out. But it felt as if she’d never speak. They were through Evanston, nearing the North Side now, heading down Sheridan Road. “Essie?” he finally said. She shook her head. “We’re almost home. Think you’re going to be hungry tonight? After that meal my folks served?” She started to say, “I think I’ll be fine,” when she choked up. Her breaths came fast, rough. Josh glanced over and saw tears now in her raw eyes. “You’ll feel better if you—” “I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m such a damn fool!” She reached out and touched Josh’s arm. “It really wasn’t my father. Oh, sure, Willie Lee wants him and all—that’s his main focus, no question. But . . . but it was also about her—” “Her?” Josh felt his heart nearly miss a beat. “You mean that woman in—”

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Esmé gave one sharp nod. “Silver.” “Jesus! How do you—” “He said it. We were both there, both still kneeling in the leaves, and I was trying to explain to him how whatever was going on with my father shouldn’t matter with him and me, when he looked right at me, the most shaken look on his face, and in a voice . . . it was pretty terrible, Josh . . . he just said, ‘Esmé, I miss her.’ He looked around, at all the beautiful trees, this magic park we were in, and said, ‘More than ever.’ ” “Oh, Essie—” Esmé took a moment to stanch her tears, reaching to the dashboard and taking one of her gloves to dab around her eyes. When she spoke, her tone was more of sorrow than fury. “I lost it, Josh. I fuckin’ lost it. I slapped him. Hard as I could. After all we’d—” She let the word hang. “So you left him there?” Esmé gave a reluctant nod. “He wasn’t going to come with me. I knew that. He wanted to be there in that forest, alone. He had . . . had some reason to be there.” She shook her head again. “Some Willie Lee Reed kind of reason. There was no question about that.” “I’m sorry,” Josh said. He reached out and put his hand on Esmé’s arm. “I didn’t—” “It’s all right,” she said after a minute. “I’ll get over it. He’s just a guy, right?” Josh had turned down their block and found a parking spot. Into the empty space in the car he said, “I hope he gets back O.K.” Esmé gathered up her white gloves and let herself out of the car. “Yeah, me, too,” she said, almost wistfully. They were climbing the stairs to Josh’s apartment. There it was: Her chin was up again. “But he will. I’m not losing any damn sleep over that.”

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With a large paycheck in his pocket and loads of new friends and serious newfound glory in France and Germany and Denmark and . . . and he was tired. Though only in his late forties, Heddy had been playing since he was twelve, when he found he would do anything to get off the tractor and out of the fields of Panther Burn, Mississippi. He’d been the best player in northern Mississippi when he was seventeen; and when he moved to Chicago in 1947, it hadn’t taken long to conquer that town, too. He became King of the Blues, as all the Poker Records ads proclaimed in the big print at the bottom, and—more to the point—he’d remained King of the Blues. The European tour had taken it out of him, though— funny food, and he hadn’t slept well, even though everywhere he went his fans rhapsodized over him. He needed a little time before he went back into the clubs. A few days padding around his house on 54th Street in his pajamas, a few quiet dinners out with Sefronia, long walks and talks with his daughter Esmé (he’d been dismayed to hear she’d moved out, but now that he was home, she’d come back), and a couple visits to the other ladies who kept him going, and he began to get his taste for the game back. It wasn’t the music he’d needed a break from; he still picked his guitar a couple EDDY DAYS WAS BACK!

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hours a day. It was the kids. The cutting time. The constant coming at him by these full-of-themselves, barracudateethed boys who saw him only as the King of the Blues and said to themselves over and over till they believed it more than they believed the names of their mothers: He ain’t nothin’; that man’s old; he can be took—took easy. Whippersnappers! He could just see their grinning teeth. Out there gunnin’ for him. Just the thought of it could make Heddy reel with a mix of fury and enervation. Truth was, he was getting old, and this had to be what it was like: slowing down, feeling crowded, reaching inside for the old surge that always came and finding . . . well, more of a solid stream than the firehose that had been there before. A long sigh. Still, Heddy couldn’t imagine not wearing his crown. He was in his favorite chair, feet up on the ottoman with the golden guitars woven into the wool covering woven by a fan, and he was fingering his favorite Stratocaster, though it wasn’t plugged in. Up went his short, plump fingers along the neck. He bent the B string up a whole interval, then more; felt the vibrato singing off the solid wood. Smiled to himself. O.K., he whispered to himself. You boys—you comin’ after me? Think you got the snap, the goods? Think you know everything—think you got the . . . mojo? Hey, hey! You better be ready, boy. Got me a few tricks, too, oh, ’deed I do. More than that, got me a whole life behind me. No way you got that. And, boy, that’s what’s gonna stop you. What you don’t know and can’t even imagine. . . . He distractedly fingered a run of double-stops, then slow-bent the B string. ’Cuz that’s what it all comes down to, my son: It ain’t the blues in your fingers, it’s the blues in your soul—in your life. Oh, I see, I see. You’re no fool, you see this world of hurt and you been there and you gonna bring all of it to the bandstand and throw it at me. And maybe you got troubles I can’t

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even imagine; I ain’t saying I’ve had the hardest life ever lived. No way. But what I do know is that there’s even more to the blues than that. More than just your troubles or mine. No, in one way blues ain’t even about troubles at all. Blues be . . . a higher calling. Blues be the way we all carry the whole world in our fingers. Blues be everything you saw, for sure, but it’s also gotta be everything you never saw. The blues be . . . . . . Blues be music that rattles heaven itself. A quick smile over the big man’s face. That was the way the word man Sweet Home Arthur always put it, and that was the way Heddy put it, too. You goin’ up against Heddy Days in a cut, boy, you gonna have to sail up there ’n’ rattle the gates of heaven, shake those suckers open, reach in and grab St. Peter by the scruff, say, “Ol’ man, I play the blues! What you gotta say to that?” And I say this! Heddy ran his hands up the neck of his Strat, jangled piercing, woody notes that sprayed needle bright through his living room. He leaned back and let the picture of the whippersnappers mouthin’ off to the big man amuse him. Try it! He wiggled his fingers. Come on, son, come on. I want to see what you got. Oh, yeah, yeah. Just like I thought. Seein’ it a little different now. Oh, yeah. Seein’ maybe it’s not just about your music or even about the life you lived, it’s about how big you see all of life can be. Oh, you punks, come at me, come on! Throw yourselves at me. Rattle them pearly gates. Try to take me, try me! The great man leaned back with a tight smile. And maybe, he thought, relaxed now, this weekend’s cut might even be kind of fun. ✴✴✴✴✴ COOL LATE-SUMMER FRIDAY NIGHT,

a slight breeze sashaying up 48th Street off the lake. Neon 6 burning

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around the eye silhouette outside the club. Handful of people on the sidewalk, sportily dressed, eyes lit up, excited, even tolerating a drunk trying to cadge quarters. The sign was in the window: TONIGHT CUTTING SESSION WITH

THE MASTER

THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN FROM THE FOLK BLUES TOUR MR. HEDDY DAYS TAKES ON

ALL COMERS

Josh and Willie Lee arrived together. Everything had been worked out about that Sunday a couple weeks before. Turned out Maisy was heading into town that evening; and she’d been thrilled to give the new blues sensation a lift. The next morning at rehearsals Willie Lee took Josh aside and thanked him for his parents’ hospitality. Willie Lee seemed different after that Sunday. His dedication was that much stronger; and the depths of deep-running soul he brought to the music made Josh even more certain he’d made the right decision with his father. They were surprised by the number of people at the 6-Eye. Josh headed right up to the door, but Willie Lee hung back a moment, staring contemplatively at the sign in the window. While he was standing there, the drunken beggar came over and thrust out his hand. “Help me, brother,” he said in a soft but insistent voice. The beggar planted himself right in front of the guitar player. Josh, impatient by the door, called out, “Willie Lee.” It was large, the weight falling on the kid at this moment. His concentration was so tight he saw or heard little around him. “Brother, I can tell you understand,” the beggar said, moving closer to Willie Lee. The surface of his eyes was

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milky, yellow-cream-colored, but his pupils shone pinpoint black. “You been down here yourself, right?” Willie Lee shook his head, startled out of his reverie. What was this in front of him, this sad sack? Willie had tried to walk past the bum, but he blocked his way. He was a tall man, pretty much the same height as Willie Lee, and he wore a shapeless green army jacket, with tears where decorations had been ripped off. The jacket caught Willie Lee’s interest. He read a name on the man’s chest: BULKIN. Wasn’t there a guy with that name stationed with him in. . . . But no, this guy was years older than Willie Lee. And he was a mess, too. His hair was hand-cut and flew up in spurts. He had a well-creased face, jowly, with lips loose as sagging tires. And those cloudy but piercing eyes. The drunk went on as if the kid had nothing better to do than hear him out. “You seen all kinds of days, brother, all kinds. That’s written all over your face.” Willie Lee gave his head a shake. There was something about the drunk’s insistence that was catching him. Something in his eyes: a deep sense of knowing. “What’re you sayin’?” he said under his breath. The tall man slid up closer. “Like I can see you.” “You can?” Willie Lee looked at the man. This was creepy, but he’d been through enough strangeness lately to believe anything possible. The older man just nodded widely. Uh-huh, uh-huh, uhhhh-huhhhhhhh. Most of Willie Lee simply wanted to follow Josh into the 6-Eye, but still . . . something held him. “You can see me, what?” The drunk reached over a dirty hand, placed it on Willie Lee’s neck, pulled the boy in closer to him. “Just this,” he said, then cackled. The kid shivered. He was caught now, and he knew it. The drunk hushed himself down. “Those days, boy, they don’t leave you,” he whispered. “They be what makes you.”

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The drunk’s eyes flew wide, and he let loose of Willie Lee as he did a feet-clattering dance just like those Willie Lee used to erupt in when he hadn’t a care in the world. He crowed, “Don’t forget none of it, you can’t forget none of it.” Willie Lee tilted his head in closer to the wino. What he was saying was close to what Willie Lee was thinking, too. “I’m not.” “Tha’s good, tha’s good. You’ll make it, you will, but you gotta remember one thing.” The drunk reached over and this time grabbed Willie Lee’s upper arms, shook them. Willie Lee flinched, but the old man’s dirty fingers were tight, the grip solid. “It gotta come out of the bottom.” He was looking straight at Willie Lee, his eyes all black pupils. He held the kid’s gaze tightly. “The very bottom. That bottom, that’s where you see the truth. You been there, you knows that. That bottom, that’s your truth. Nobody take that from you. You understand me?” The man was holding Willie Lee’s arms fiercely; the light behind his eyes flared, as if he could see anything. “It ain’t everybody know it.” The beggar, still holding Willie Lee, clattered his feet in that rough-shake dance. “Nosiree! What we know, my son, it be priv’leged. You kiss the very bottom of things, and when you come back, well— it change you, don’t it?” This was getting a little too close. “What do you want with me?” “I want—I want—” “Is it money?” Willie Lee looked around for Josh, but he was already in the club. The drunk spat on the ground. “I can give you—” Willie Lee pushed his hand into the tight pocket of his tighter pants, pulled out a handful of silver change. He held the coins out. They glittered under the colored lights. “Here.” The drunk threw up his hands. “You’re not listening!

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Use it, use it—love it, embrace it—all of it! Don’t hide no more—from nothing! You’ll see. Make it all part of you, all of it—” Willie Lee’s thoughts swam to the dark place he was afraid to return to. Was this what he was saying: Back to Gary? Back to?. . . Willie Lee shuddered. He wondered if he was somehow dreaming all this. His eyes beseeched the drunk for more, but something had changed. The mendicant looked toward the sign in the window, and when he turned back, the demonic wind that had blown up in him had fled elsewhere. The old man’s features, which to Willie Lee had grown nightmarishly sharp, blurred again. He took his hands off the kid’s arms, then held his left, palm up. “Please help me,” he said softly. “Help an old man get himself . . . a cup of coffee.” Willie Lee suddenly couldn’t get away from the beggar fast enough. He dropped all his change into the man’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, brother,” the drunk said softly. The wild light in his eyes, if it was ever there, was dead. Willie Lee, clutching his guitar tightly, made his way into the club. “Hey, what kept you?” Josh said. He was waiting for him inside the door. “Um, I—” Willie Lee started to speak, but there were no words to explain, and he just shook his head and followed his friend inside. By now the 6-Eye was filled to the brim. Willie Lee and Josh had to lift and dance around crowded tables and chockablock chairs. The noise level was roller-coaster loud. They were halfway down the long, narrow bar length of the club when Josh spotted their table up front. Already there was Sweet Home Arthur, along with his sixteen-year-old go-fer, Jimmy Cricket. Sticks and Thumper of Willie Lee’s band sat next to them, as well as the two ladies from Willie Lee’s first night at the 6-Eye, Barbara Lee and Sally. Josh looked around particularly for Esmé, who had left his apartment a few days

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after the Sunday dinner to go back to her father, but he didn’t see her anywhere. “Hey, Jimmy, haven’t seen you since my recording session,” Willie Lee said. “How you been doin’?” The young boy, like a son to Sweet Home, said, “Fine, Mr. Reed.” “What you up to?” Sweet Home, resplendent as always in his white Borsalino, leaned over and said, “The boy here been steppin’ up strong to the blues.” “I’ve heard him,” Josh said with a nod, wedging himself in at the table between Sweet Home and Sticks. “How’s it going now?” “Well, we might just find that out.” Sweet Home kept his large round face impassive. “Tonight.” “Hey, Jimmy, you gonna—” The boy shivered, then said, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Barbara Lee, caked up and with solid purple lines above her eyes, leaned over and squeezed Jimmy’s arm. “Ain’t he the cutest little thing?” Jimmy blushed fiercely. Sally, on the other side of Jimmy, gave Barbara Lee a glare and said, “Down, you cradle robber!” Everyone at the table laughed, then Sticks said, “Hey, you gentlemen heard the news ’bout Sweet Home?” Willie Lee and Josh turned to the record producer. “Mr. Arthur?” Willie Lee said respectfully. “He’s goin’ back to Poker, ain’t you, Sweet Home.” Sweet Home reached over and squeezed Sally and gave a quick nod. He was playing this all Cheshire-cat quiet. “That’s the label got Heddy Days signed with ’em?” Willie Lee said. “Heddy’s always been with Poker,” Josh said. “From when he first came to Chicago.”

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“Well, Lordy, Lordy.” “I think that’s great news,” Josh turned and said to Sweet Home. “Like you’re goin’ home again.” “Something like that,” Sweet Home said with a faint smile. Josh looked like he was about to say something further but didn’t speak. Music started up on the stage: Jake and his Flames. The same ancient choogle, choogle, choogle. As usual nobody was paying them much attention. But then, with one last drum crack, they were gone; and following them onstage was Heddy’s backup band: Oil Can Baxter on drums, Odom Stanley on bass, Robert Livingston on second guitar, and the harmonica player, Little Shorty. When this group hit its downbeat, everybody’s chins went up. The band was whipcrack tight, but subtle, too, and so relaxed they barely acknowledged the rapt audience. The tour in Europe certainly hadn’t hurt their playing. Little Shorty moved to the mike and wailed his harp through three instrumental numbers, limber and strong. Josh noticed a stirring by the door and turned to see the grand entrance. There was Heddy Days, with his large, regal head and cool, deliberate countenance. Next to him was Esmé. Josh brightened. It wasn’t that they’d parted on bad terms; he’d just come home from working with Willie Lee to find a note thanking him for letting her stay there and for all his concern, and that he shouldn’t worry, she’d be fine. He had worried, not knowing where she’d gone. He’d hoped it was to Heddy, not back to Detroit, and was cheered to see her now. Josh waved to Esmé, who was looking over the crowd as her eyes adjusted to the darkened room. She glanced toward the stage, then to the left, then . . . oh, there, she saw him. A quick wave back. Josh beckoned her over, and she took a couple steps in their direction, then stopped. Josh looked

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over at Willie Lee, the object of her attention. His focus, Josh could tell, was all on Esmé’s father—his nostrils thinned, his eyes slanted. Esmé gave another wave, then brightly mouthed what looked like “Later,” and Josh nodded back, understanding. A glance again at Willie Lee. Yes, he was all over Heddy Days. Josh let out a sigh wide enough for Esmé, too. Quick spoke into his p.a., “Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you now, fresh from his travels across the Continent, the French Field Marshal, the German General, the British Viscount, the—heh, heh—Swedish Meat Ball, the Cherry Danish, the Swiss Chocolate Drop himself, Mister . . . Heddy . . . Days.” The Big Man pushed through the crowd to a huge wave of applause and took the stage. He looked so nonchalant you could mistake him for a man coming out of the kitchen with a beer back to his seat in front of a TV football game. He carried his Stratocaster slung over one shoulder, his suit jacket loose around him, and a gold belt buckle designed like a flying dolphin—a gift of the Danes— resplendent above his pants. Barely acknowledging his band, he hung back from the mike while they went around a twelve bar; then just past the beat he leaned in and cried, “Ohhhh, yeahhhhhhhh. Ohhhh-woooohhhh, yeahhhhhhhhhh.” “Wooooo!” cried the crowd. “Tell it, Heddy. Tell it!” At the large up-front table Willie Lee said not a word. “Thank you, thank you,” Heddy Days said, wiping a white handkerchief over his wide brow. His broad smile glowed. He looked a little hot and swiped his brow again. “I’ve been away, yeah, you know that.” Then he tucked the handkerchief behind the nut of his Strat, pinched in by the strings, where it dangled like a gallant white flag. His voice boomed through the mike and kicked off the back walls, the reverb high. “But all I gotta say is . . . I’m back.” With that he whammed his right hand on his guitar, hit-

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ting splintering double-stop notes, which he sustained, bending the two notes up higher and higher through the next four measures, the crowd seeming to rise farther out of their seats the longer he held the bent notes. Finally, he slowly let the notes fall detumescent to pitch, and the crowd, on top of every microtone, eased themselves down as the tone dropped. As a surprise Heddy kicked the two notes up one last, swelling time, and everyone in the room jumped. “Hooo-eeeee! Hooo-eeeee!” skirled up from the audience in thrilled cries. Everyone but Willie Lee Reed, who didn’t move at all. He simply watched coolly as Heddy strode through his warm-up set. The master did six songs, old ones, crowd favorites, and played them as well as he ever had. He didn’t say anything else through the performance, and except for mopping his brow between numbers with the handkerchief, he just made music. Josh beckoned again to Esmé, figuring the kid was so far into Heddy it wouldn’t matter, but she again demurred. All her attention was on her father. “O.K., now, it’s been a long time,” Quick spoke into his p.a., “but the King of the Blues is back here on the 6-Eye stage, and he’s ready to take on anybody with balls enough to get up here.” A long pause. “Did I say that? Sorry, Jackie—” a nod to his First Lady shrine behind the bar “—but, hell’s bells, I’ll say it again. Heddy Days is waiting for anyone with the balls to get up here with him. “Now we also got our, um, special friends right here next to me. I don’t know where these genl’men been while Heddy been away, but they’s here tonight. They’s our three judges, Grumbling Washington, Baby Stevenson, and Pirate Jackson.” The three men were still and pale and so coolly distant in their special knowing it was as if they’d been hung up in a meat locker for the last month. “Come on, genl’men, say a few words.” Nobody spoke.

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“Tha’s our judges. They only speaks when there’s somethin’ to say.” Quick laughed. “O.K., we’s all in position. Who’s got the brass to come up here ’gainst Heddy Days?” He cast a long gaze out over the crowd. “Now, who’s it gonna be?” It was no longer just the gaze of those at his table on Willie Lee Reed. Customers tables over, even against the walls, were standing, looking at the kid. Many of them had been there months back, and they all remembered him; if not, they’d certainly heard the tale of the kid fresh off the bus who’d given the old master a true run, then disappeared into a hoodoo fog in Gary. Onstage Heddy Days looked as nonchalant as always. Willie Lee just sat in his seat. He wasn’t going to go up first, no way. He wanted things to thin out some. Wanted the Big Man to work a little. Wanted to wait till everything felt just right. “Hey, Jimmy, you go up there,” Barbara Lee said, giving the jug-eared boy a push. Her lips were loud with fireengine-red lipstick. “That’s what we’re all waitin’ for, son.” “Yeah,” Sally said, brushing a feather from her hat back from her forehead. She leaned over to Jimmy Cricket’s ear and said, “And if you take Heddy, you forget about that hussy the other side of you, and you remember what I promised you.” The boy was turning red again under his cocoa skin. “Come on, Jimmy, why not?” Josh said. Jimmy Cricket threw a long look at his mentor, Sweet Home, who raised one of his brushy eyebrows. The boy halfstood, made a tentative move toward the stage, then said in a squeaky voice, “But I don’t have an ax.” “Here,” Willie Lee said, enjoying this. “You can use mine.” Jimmy bit his lower lip. “Come on,” Barbara Lee said in her loud, broad voice,

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“some man’s gotta get up there. This is your big chance.” She gave Jimmy a push. “Go on!” The young boy, both gangly open yet deeply tucked into himself like a hesitant turtle, in a sudden thrust of his hand took Willie Lee’s guitar, then made his way to the stage. “Hey, look, it’s Jimmy Cricket,” a man cried out. “Way to go, kid.” “Well,” Quick said into the p.a., mirth sparkling his tone, “looks like we have our first cutter—or should I say, cuttee. You sure you up to this, son?” Jimmy started up the three steps to the stage, then tripped on the final one, sprawling onto the wood. He was quick, though: At the last moment he twisted so that he fell onto his shoulder, keeping Willie Lee’s guitar from clunking against the stage. The crowd laughed, then as Jimmy saved the guitar, cheered. Through this Heddy kept an impassive face. Jimmy Cricket stood up and dusted himself off. Heddy smiled, reached out, and, to the challenger’s clear surprise, shook his hand. This cordiality didn’t stop Heddy from nailing the boy halfway through the first song. Jimmy Cricket led it off with a high-step jump blues, playing soundly, with growing confidence. He bounced off a flurry of hornlike notes, and grew more and more relaxed by each bar; soon he was dancing around the stage, his long legs clattering over the bare wood. Everyone saw true talent, patently unformed. At his table Sweet Home sat back with a gently pleased smile on his face. But that was the boy’s moment. Now Heddy stepped forward at the end of Jimmy’s riffing and played exactly the same notes but with a brighter timber, a higher honk. Each note was simply and inarguably better. He bobbed his guitar genially to the boy, who, looking uneasy, ran his fingers up the neck, squeaking out notes—only to have his hand fly off the front of the fretboard.

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The missed notes hung there in front of the backing band for a long moment. That same dazed, disbelieving look on his face. Then, whoosh! and Jimmy Cricket was gone. Heddy immediately filled the hollow emptiness with just three notes, safely down the neck, but perfect. By the time the last note faded, Jimmy had left the stage. When he returned to the table, his face held the same red, stunned look as when he’d left it. Willie Lee didn’t waste a moment making Jimmy feel better. “Nice job,” he said, leaning over and patting him on the back. “Yeah, I’m damn proud of you,” Barbara Lee said, giving him another squeeze. Sally squeezed the other arm, harder. “Not as proud as I am.” “I’m prouder!” Barbara Lee said loudly. “No, you bitch, I am!” Jimmy held fire, looking nowhere, then slowly raising his eyes to Sweet Home. He half held his breath. “Good, son,” the record producer said. A smile slowly edged onto Jimmy’s face. “You mean it?” “Damn straight,” Sweet Home said. “But he took me like I was—” “Heddy Days took you,” Sweet Home said. “Don’t you forget that. Puts you in a fine, fine club.” Jimmy was suddenly all smiles. Sally went up and whispered in his ear, and his eyes went wide, his smile hollowed out. On his other side Barbara Lee whispered something too. Now he looked both startled and supremely cocky all at once. Josh glanced at Willie Lee: Now? Willie Lee didn’t move, didn’t even bother to nod his head. Jimmy had broken the ice, and now there was a line of men waiting to take on Heddy, four of them bunched by the side of the stage, guitars at their sides. One by one the great

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man outplayed them, outsang them, simply outpresenced them. They weren’t bad players, they just didn’t hold the stage the way Heddy Days did. This was entertaining as far as it went, but the audience was clearly growing restive. The plot was too damn simple: meat being fed to the lion. More glances were shooting Willie Lee’s way. He kept his quiet focus, eyes straight forward. It was Josh who first noticed that somebody new had come into the 6-Eye. She looked familiar to him immediately, though he couldn’t quite place her. An elegant, beautiful black woman, dressed as uptown as anybody in the club, in an understated purple suit. She had high cheekbones, large, startling eyes, a wide, thin mouth. Her thick black hair was lacquered back, but rising off her forehead was just the faintest trace of silver. . . . He did a double take. Was it her? She looked different, smaller, more hesitant than before. But there it was, the silver stripe; except that what in Gary had been vivid and unmistakable was now faded, a dusting of pewter where before it had been a broad, vivid silver stroke. But it was clearly Silver. And she was alone. Josh reached over and tapped Sweet Home’s arm, then gestured to the back of the room. He leaned in close to the large man and whispered, “Remember her?” It took Sweet Home a little time, though less than it had Josh, to place her. His eyebrows went up worried. “What’s she doing here? I thought you left her back in Gary for good.” Josh gave a quick shrug. “What do you think she wants?” Josh flicked his eyes across the table toward Willie Lee, who so far hadn’t noticed anything unusual. “And we got to keep ’em apart,” he said. Sweet Home nodded swift agreement.

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Throughout the club all eyes held on Willie Lee. All except for Esmé’s. She had just noticed Silver about thirty feet from her, in the back of the room. She flinched and had the same thought Sweet Home had: What was she doing here? Esmé filled with anger, but the longer she looked at the woman she’d considered her nemesis, the more her emotions clouded. Silver looked . . . diminished, weaker, even wan. Her eyes were dark, almost hooded. The air that rose off her was of someone despondent. She simply stood there, arms drooping before her, propped against the dirty wall, looking longingly at the stage where Willie Lee was focused on Heddy Days. Then it hit Esmé, too: Silver’s stripe was faded, almost gone. She didn’t know what this meant, but it let loose a striking involuntary feeling in her—of pity, even concern. Something had changed with the woman, and she wore that change visibly. How could she not feel for her? Still seated at the table, Willie Lee had decided to take his time and let Heddy stand there alone in front of his band, his Stratocaster dangling over his large chest, his hands folded patiently before him. The kid had this idea, and, yes, there it was, Heddy looked right, then left, and simply shrugged his shoulders and glanced toward the exit. Was this it, no other comers? Was Willie Lee reading too much into it, or did Heddy Days look damn ready to head home—as if he could almost feel his comfortable chair, his slippers, and taste his bourbon? Willie Lee stood up. “Guess the night ain’t over yet,” Quick said into the p.a. “I think we got us one more challenger. Is that Willie Lee Reed out there?” Was that a twitch from Heddy Days? Willie Lee looked closely, but he wasn’t sure. No, probably not. He just stood there, hands folded churchlike before him, imperturbable. The crowd was with the challenger, though. As Willie Lee

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walked to the stage, jolly laughter and applause rang out. He heard cries of “Here comes the kid again.” And “Get it on!” Willie Lee carefully cradled his guitar, the same beat-up no-name he’d taken at Heddy those months before, though it was hanging now from Josh’s leather strap with his initials on it. As he stepped up on the stage, he shifted the strap so the guitar jutted out before him, like a sword or a ram. Up there, pushing himself into the older man’s aura, Willie Lee was quickly relieved. He felt it now, at the tips of his fingers: all energy, a snapping, popping, crazy tingle. What force was coming off the old man? Willie Lee didn’t feel anything at first; Heddy continued to be sleepy, rocksteady, for sure, but just sort of . . . there. Then Willie Lee remembered that was just how the old man had been that first night: The rock had had a steady emanating warmth, and his quiet power was like the sun’s. But nothing like that seemed to be going on now. Though Heddy Days was looking over at Willie Lee, up close the kid couldn’t say that Heddy was recognizing him at all. The older man looked a little bored even. Which made Willie Lee bristle bright right up his back. Heddy’s band had never stopped playing, but softly, brushes on the drums, finger-dampened bass slides, cooing harp honks. Willie Lee was watching Heddy’s eyes, but he didn’t see it, whatever the sign was; the older man didn’t even blink, didn’t even twist his neck, but there had to have been some signal because Oil Drum slammed a downbeat with a regular stick, and like that, the whole group was off. Heddy approached the mike and started to sing: Had a sweet little girl, I lose my baby, boy ain’t that bad Had a sweet little girl, I lose my baby, boooooyyy ain’t that bad How can you spend what you ain’t got—

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At this line Heddy threw a glance over at Willie Lee, just a curious look, but Willie Lee seized the moment. Without a second’s hesitation, the younger man moved to the microphone, hip-thrusting the old man aside, and finished the line himself: “ ’Cause you can’t lose some little girl you ain’t never had.” And glanced back at Heddy. Eyebrow up. Gotcha. Willie Lee, guarding the mike, took the second verse: Had money in the bank, I got busted, people ain’t that bad Had money in the bank, I got busted, people ain’t that bad You can’t spend what you ain’t got— And with a tip of his own head, he stepped back from the mike, then beckoned the older man to finish up the verse, which went, “And you can’t lose money you never had,” but Heddy just let the beat move on through. Did that get him? Wing him at least? But the older man remained stone, and there was no way to tell. Heddy Days was all muscle and sinew and weight as he moved toward the mike and finished out the final verse: Had a sweet little home, it got burned down, people ain’t that bad My own damn fault, people ain’t that bad You know you can’t spend what you ain’t got And you can’t lose some blues you ain’t . . . never . . . had. Heddy was right in front of the mike, with that huge presence rising off him, and there was no way Willie Lee could step in and sing, even try to add a harmony. Heddy repeated the final line with anvil force: “No, no, my son, you can’t lose some blues you ain’t never had.” We’ll see, Willie Lee mumbled to himself. The band built to a loud crashing end, and as the final notes hung in the crowded room, hoots and hollers and shouts of “You get

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’im, Heddy” and “Come on, kid, you can do it” rang out. Willie Lee didn’t waste a second. He began to scrape his right hand over muted strings, a scratching sound that defined its own rhythm. He kept at it, and though it took almost a minute, finally Oil Can and Odom fell right in with his beat. Willie Lee was jazzed. He commandeered the mike. Sang a song he’d toyed with over the last weeks but was finishing up on the spot. I came down from Detroit, get me somewhere with my box Came on down from Detroit, make me a living with my gui-tar box Fell into a little trouble, had to take me some knocks. Willie Lee did a little step dance between verses, shouldering Heddy aside, and held the mike. I thought I knew everything, but I was just a stupid kid You know, I was sure I knew everything, but I was just a stupid kid Took me a long time to see everybody knew more than I did. All right, and on to the third verse. But, hell, I’m just nineteen, got my whole life before my eyes Well, I be just nineteen years of age, got my whole life before my eyes But I’m not too young to steal away the prize Yeah, steal away your prize. . . . A wink at Heddy Days, and that was that. The crowd had gone quiet listening to the song, following Willie Lee’s words, but now they shouted out applause. The kid let a smile onto his face. Shake the old man at all?

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What was that on Heddy Days’ lips? Mouthing something to Willie Lee, words simple to make out: Hey, boy, good song. Well, yeah, Willie Lee thought. Well, goddamn yeahyeahyeah! And while he was standing there, facing the crowd, smiling and taking it all in, he saw Silver against the back wall. He recognized her immediately, of course, and his head flew back. She was looking right at him. She lifted her head, tilted it slightly, questioningly. Willie Lee jumped inside, but he kept staring at Silver, thinking that something was seriously different with her. He was expecting to be rattled, but he wasn’t. Then it hit him: He couldn’t see her silver stripe. Up on the bandstand Heddy had given another of his imperceptible cues to the band, and they dropped into a slinky, triplet-leavened slow grinding blues. Splinnnng! Out came Heddy’s slide, and up the neck it rang. Willie Lee was turning over what it might mean that Silver was here—and that she’d lost her skunk stripe—when he heard Heddy’s slide and pulled his gaze back from Silver to the master. So far the two men hadn’t played much guitar to speak of at all, but this was clearly a gantlet tossed. Heddy held the metal slide far up on the high strings, vibratoing it until the note grew and grew, brighter, a white ball blooming into an explosion. Willie Lee flashed on the first cutting session, that one spectral note that had come bombing down on him; and not to be caught off guard, he dug back into the music, flitting his own fingers, sans slide, up the neck and letting the very same note ring out. He tweezed that note up just a quavering tonality higher till it added a sweet, funky blues harmony on top of Heddy’s soaring long-held bottom. One note. Hot damn! Willie Lee stepped back a couple of steps and turned with his guitar so it caught just a whiff of feedback off the amp he’d plugged into—shades of what he’d learned off Maurice James—noise that kept his note

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sustained. It wasn’t easy for Willie Lee to hold this one singing note like this, he wanted with all his passion to light up a firecracker string of complimentary tones, but he hung on, caressing it, letting it ring out till Heddy’s own slide whispered into silence. With the feedback sustain his note held steady, not bleeding away, and because Willie Lee had dropped the note right into the pocket, it stayed musical. He found that by moving his guitar a fraction of an inch this way or that, he could catch more of the feedback; in effect, he could keep using the electric noise to feed the note until it was blooming as large and grand as he wanted it. From inside the bubble of this one note, he looked across the room at Silver. His admission to Esmé that he’d missed her had shaken him; he’d still been afraid of her, and had been trying to ignore the power she clearly held over him. It wasn’t like he was ever going to see her again—though that Sunday afternoon, with Esmé stirring things inside him, he’d wanted to desperately. But it was funny, seeing her now spooked him no longer. This was unexpected. Maybe it was the loss of her stripe, or maybe the way he’d worked himself out of the despair he’d fallen into in Gary, or maybe it was just this one huge round note that . . . just kept going . . . but when he looked at her, he felt a vivid surge of confidence and power. That hadn’t happened before. Must be some kind of payback thing, unfinished business addressed. Proof that he was no longer in bed, no longer lost. It seemed essential now that she was there to watch him do what he was put on this glorious earth to do: play the blues better than anyone. A gloating wink across the stage at Heddy Days. Listen to this! And that one feedback note, buzzing and cracking now, just rolled and rolled out of his amplifier in waves. The master took a step back. Looked at his challenger with an intrigued but wry look. Glanced at the crowd, then

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the three stone-faced judges, and shrugged as if to say, Looks like we got us some newfangled trick here, eh? Yeah, you ol’ muthah, we do! WHAM! Willie Lee couldn’t hold back any longer. He cut off that feedbacking tone, then ran his stilt-long fingers up the neck in a sky-breaching flurry of perfect notes. Fast. He hit ’em fast. Then with a furious wrenching of his guitar, a motion just as abrupt and contemptuous as wringing the neck of a chicken, he stepped back. The band had gone around two whole twelve bars and was starting on a third, and what Willie Lee was saying was, O.K., Mr. King of the Blues, you saw what I can do now. Not the kid you took so easy a few months back, eh? O.K., Mr. Big Man, now it’s your turn. Heddy Days seemed unfazed; barely lifted his eyebrows above his moony eyes. He tilted up the neck of his guitar slightly, like a batter setting comfortably in at the plate, then went into a solo so simple and unadorned, yet subtly pure, that it took the audience at the 6-Eye half the twelve bars to even begin to get it. But then they couldn’t listen closely enough. What’s going to happen next? Oh, yes, that . . . ooh, perfect! And that note—that’s awfully unexpected, but, yeah, that makes perfect sense, too. There was a grand logic to each of Heddy’s tones; they fit so exactingly that though Willie Lee wanted to edge into them, there was no way to. In effect Heddy’s seam of notes was a reticulated mesh; the kid could see openings, but when he lifted his guitar, trying to shoot notes in, all he hit was finely filigreed shimmering cloth. The solo grew better in the second and third twelve bars. It chimed a complexity under and over its simple structure; not just defense, now notes like steel lances flew off and struck Willie Lee—he felt them as sharp pricks up and down his arms. Around and around Heddy went. Could he get in? No way. Finally, the kid simply had to step back and let the older man play it all through.

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The three judges as one were leaning forward an extra inch, but there was no further motion on their impassive, wizened faces. The crowd knew, though. The audience whooped and hollered like Yeah, yeah, that boy is deep fried, pull him out of the oil and let him drain. But Willie Lee wasn’t giving up. He stood back, kept his gaze steady. There had to be some way to get at the old man. He hadn’t yet seen a way in through the golden mesh of notes, but he also hadn’t tried to weave his own scrim of notes and let it drop over Heddy. No, except for the made-up song about himself, Willie Lee had played the older man’s game. When Willie Lee didn’t just up and leave the stage Heddy Days raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. All right, whatever. He graciously gave the kid a nod, Let’s see what you come up with this time. He felt her with him. That was a surprise. From the back of the room, even if she’d lost her witchy silver stripe, he began to feel Silver’s power. The force coming off her hit him deeply, and it was not like Gary, where it had all been confusion and enervation; this time she spoke runnel-clear straight into him—into what felt like his True Soul. This time she was pulling only for him. This was startling to Willie Lee, but it felt right. Willie Lee faced Heddy Days and pulled out every note he had. A furious burst of tones, followed by a sustained high G sharp that wavered sylphlike in the air; a swooping glide back down the neck, an almost violinlike glissando, followed by a rat-tat-tat of lower-register notes blasting out rock and roll. His guitar reflected the whole breathless sweep of the world: silver snow-capped mountains and murky, seaweedtangled ocean bottoms; a flourish of stars cast across a blueblack sky and a sprinkle of magic dust under his fingernails; a storm of swirling thunderclouds burdening the heavy air and the whirling storms in his own head. Over, under, side-

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ways, down—Willie Lee wrenched out of his ax notes he was certain carried every true color and tone and emotion that had ever been known or even dreamed. On the stage he was all whirling energy, windmilling chops, his guitar itself swooping and blasting off like a jet plane. It was a breathtaking display: the Fourth of July and Easter all at once. No way Heddy, or anyone, could play better notes than that. The music was just there, a rainbow of conjuration, emblazoned above everyone lucky enough to be in the 6-Eye to hear it. When he was finished, he looked first to the three stonefaced judges, who remained curiously unmoved. A look of fear crossed Willie Lee’s face. What do they want? What could they possibly want? He stood there for a moment, his jaw dropped, then turned to the back of the club, to the woman who had hexed and bedeviled him in Gary but who now seemed so sympathetic. He looked to her for his glory— for her total approbation. Silver’s eyes, too, were cast down, not looking at him. What did this mean? Had he done something wrong? He’d played every note he knew. Played with all the fire and ice he could command. He felt a slippery chute open beneath him. Had he disappointed her again? But as the explosions of his fretwork settled around Willie Lee, even he knew. He’d played miracles, but at bottom it was just playing. That’s what the judges were telling him with their impassivity, what Silver was telling him with her eyes. And that turned out to be the older man’s edge. Heddy didn’t play his guitar, he played himself. He didn’t create a world, he was the world. He didn’t have to seduce and dazzle a room, he could stand simply before it and let it become his own. That’s what the master did. He just stood there on the stage, not playing now, not showing any emotion—no fear, no concern. He was simply a cool stone beginning to glow

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again, turning red, radiating into the room. All by standing there. All by simply being Heddy Days. That was it. Willie Lee knew it. Nothing he could do. He stood next to the great man’s furious radiance and fought to figure out how to play him, how to get at him, if nothing else, how to position himself in front of him in a kind of eclipse. But any action that came to the kid, like elbowing Heddy aside or starting to play again, over the master’s looming silence, seemed unconscionably boorish; his own total defeat implicit in every gesture he could imagine. So he stood there. Forever, it seemed, the challenger, the kid. His eyes called to Silver, and what he saw back was this: I wasn’t trying to ruin you, I was trying to teach you. I didn’t want you to fall apart. That was a mistake. But you’ve fought your way back. I’m proud of you, and you’ve learned a lot, but there’s no way you could know enough. You’re tilting against that man’s weight and presence, and even with everything you’ve been through in the last months, you’re still the boy in your song, just nineteen years old. Maybe she wasn’t saying this to him at all; maybe he was simply telling it to himself. Nonetheless: Against Heddy Days, tonight at least, he simply didn’t have it. Willie Lee gave a final tip of his head to Heddy, slid his no-name guitar behind his back, and descended the stage to a wondrously hearty round of applause; even the three judges smiled, and one of them, the albino, Baby Stevenson, tipped his well-beaten felt hat. But he knew it was tribute to a loser gallant in defeat. The kid kept his eyes down till Josh got to him and told him to look up. The crowd really was applauding uproariously; dozens stood, clapping their hands. On the stage Heddy Days had an inscrutable cat grin on his face. When Willie Lee looked back, the older man lifted his picking hand and did a little half tip of his nonexistent hat. Willie Lee nodded to himself. The older man’s gesture

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filled him with fury, though it also seemed appropriate. The kid was feeling humiliated, but in a curious way, all right, too. Hadn’t he done everything he could? He hadn’t backed down. Even seeing Silver again hadn’t thrown him but strikingly made him stronger. One thing was certain: Right now he only wanted out of there. But leaving wasn’t so easy. “Son, can I have a word with you?” It was Sweet Home Arthur, standing right in his way. Willie Lee stopped in front of the large man in the Borsalino hat. “As you’ve heard, I’ve moved back to Poker Records, back with the old Polack.” A swift private smile. “I don’t want to beat around the bush. You want to come audition for us?” “You want me?” “I want Vokelman to hear you, yeah. Not that he knows a great blues singer from a drain hole in a shower, but, yeah.” “But I lost to Heddy Days.” “So?” “So, I lost.” Willie Lee kept his chin jutted up. “What you want with a loser?” “Oh, kid, you’re so young. Haven’t you learned any damn thing?” Willie Lee stared straight into the record producer’s eyes. It wasn’t easy, but he held the older man’s gaze. “I learned I ain’t ready yet.” It was Sweet Home who dropped the kid’s gaze. This answer seemed to surprise him. “You mean that?” “Mr. Arthur, I appreciate the offer, I really do—” Willie Lee felt the words rushing out of him “—but Poker’s Heddy Days’ label, and, I don’t know, after tonight, I don’t think it’s the right time. I just don’t.” “And you do mean that?”

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What did he mean? Willie Lee wasn’t sure; he was all ajumble inside. But this seemed to be his gut speaking. “Can I hold off on that? Till I’m ready. Till I can . . . can do us both proud?” It took a huge minute, but finally the big man shrugged and said, “Sure. I guess so. I mean, why not?” He sounded dubiously surprised, but that was enough for Willie Lee. He thanked Sweet Home and turned again to the door. “What was that about?” Josh said, catching up with Willie Lee a few steps later. “With Sweet Home?” “Yeah, did he offer you a deal?” “Deal?” “Willie Lee, come on!” “Said something ’bout that.” “And?” Willie Lee shook his head. “I asked him what he wanted with a loser like me.” “You’re not—” Willie Lee moved right into his friend’s face. “Yeah, what do you call it?” Josh just stood there, chagrined. Well, Willie Lee thought, he’d hooked his star to another stupid kid, and this is what he’d gotten. Still, Willie Lee looked at his friend with sympathy. “Listen,” he said, “you stuck with me, I’ll stick with you. Don’t worry about that.” “But—” “I’m just not ready now, and I gotta take the next thing on my own.” “The next thing?” Now it was Josh and Willie Lee who were holding dueling gazes. Again, Willie Lee held his own, and a second later, he watched Josh involuntarily turn his eyes to the back of the room, to where Silver stood, alone, waiting. Willie Lee followed him. “I know everything you and

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Esmé did, man, I do. And I ’preciate it.” A look of abject pain and unburdened rapture bloomed on his face. “I never wanted to hurt her, but—” “But—” Willie Lee gave out a small, secret smile. He touched Josh gently on the shoulder, then said, “I’ll be in touch, bro.” Josh just stared at the kid a moment longer, then turned and walked away.

✴✴✴✴✴ “I DON’T GET IT,” Esmé said when Josh came up to her. She’d seen the whole thing and understood it all. “I just don’t—” “She got to him.” Josh looked in Silver’s direction. He knew that’s where Willie Lee was headed, but the kid was taking his time crossing the still full room. “And I guess he got to her. More than we certainly thought.” “It’s all right,” Esmé said softly. “You think?” “I’m done with him, yeah.” She sighed though. “I just came here anyway to say goodbye to everyone. You. The gang. Pops—” “You’re— “Yeah, I’m heading back to Detroit.” Josh sighed. “I’ll miss you.” He moved in and hugged her. “What’re you gonna do there?” Esmé blushed slightly, then said, “Well, I told you some about my singing.” A modest shrug. “I think it’s time I take it seriously. Lots of labels starting up in Detroit, you know, Motown, Fleur de Lys. Get me and the girls practiced up, well—” she brightened hugely “—who knows?” “That sounds great,” Josh said. “Good luck.” “You, too, dear. Luck with everything. Your parents.

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Your, um . . . well, you know.” A quick blush again. “And Willie Lee—you still going to manage him?” “He said it, so I guess so.” Josh wiped his hands on his pants. “He still can be great, you know.” Now Esmé patted Josh’s hand. “We did what we could,” she said. “He’ll get there.” Josh nodded. Before she turned to go, Esmé leaned up and kissed his cheek.

✴✴✴✴✴ but clear to Willie Lee that Silver was waiting for him, and he for her. This was still so unexpected it made him feel as if he were shedding skin with each step he took toward her. He moved as in a dream. As he got closer he realized he’d been wrong, the silver stripe was still there in her black hair, but faint now, as the afterglow of a brilliant bulb popped in his eyes. With each step it seemed to fade further. As he got close, the stripe virtually disappeared. She’d changed in other ways, too. She seemed smaller than he remembered; less beautiful, too . . . no, that wasn’t it, but she appeared less glamorous to him. He’d always been afraid of her, even when he was most entranced, and there was something that eased him in the softer way her hair curled around her head, the more muted color on her lips and cheeks, the way her mouth seemed to form a simple gentle welcome, no longer the ravening opening that had nearly swallowed him up. She looked less like Silver and more like Betty Ann Norton. A small, fine smile appeared on her round face when Willie Lee was a few feet away. “I didn’t know if you’d recognize me,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?” “A thousand reasons.” Her smile was an opening, a friendly one.

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“I’ve changed—or you have?” That’s what she was getting at, wasn’t it? “Not enough,” she said, “in any event.” That was confusing. Did she mean him or her? And was she saying. . . . But that look on her face caught him: Heartbreaking. It held sorrow and remorse and pity and love. He recognized all of it; it was the way of her he’d always known. She gave him her fine, untroubling smile again, then with a small laugh, like a bubble bursting, said, “You still need some work.” Up went Willie Lee’s eyebrows, mock indignant. Silver moved next to him, pressed her lips right under his ear, a gentle, undemanding kiss that sent a shiver through him. “Damn, why does everybody keep saying that about me?” He stood back from her a second, his chin up, adoring her. “But I do, don’t I. I surely, surely do.”

J Epilogue

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an album entitled Heddy Days—In the Folk Tradition is highly prized, both for its music and the quality of its recording. The record dates from December 1963, and was produced by the blues songwriter Sweet Home Arthur and J.V. Vokelman, son of Poker Records’ founder, Abe Vokelman. In the Folk Tradition was that label’s attempt to sell the aging blues singer to white kids caught up in the folk music boom—to make him a crossover hit. Around the same time the Rolling Stones started recording some of Heddy’s songs, and a few years later they took the older man with them on tour. Turned out the large black man was more than a little unsettling to white suburban teenagers, even though by then he was worn down and had to do his singing while sitting on a stool; but kids nonetheless waited patiently and politely through the old man’s set until Mick Jagger came out wiggling and jiving. In the Folk Tradition was a simple album, just Heddy Days and his acoustic guitar, positioned straight on into the mike, with a second guitar played by an up-and-coming twentyyear-old off to Heddy’s left. What made the record a collector’s must-have was the quality of Heddy Days’ presence: He simply filled the listener’s whole room. His playing was razor sharp, his voice huge and perfectly articulated (even as he O RECORD COLLECTORS

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growled deep and guttural); it was In the Folk Tradition that, of all Heddy’s recordings, was so vivid that a listener couldn’t help but visualize the great man right there in the room, his moon-shaped face, large lips, meaty tongue, droopy eyes. As much as any of his recordings, In the Folk Tradition keeps Heddy Days fully alive. The backup player, Willie Lee Reed, helped. He sat politely next to Heddy Days but played with sure-handed confidence. Much to the point, he knew when not to play. His guitar, a brilliant brass snap up and down the neck, remained restrained and always complementary to Heddy. The story is that his girlfriend, Betty Ann Norton, came with him to the session and waited patiently as he played in support of the great man, then gave him a sweet kiss that brought a smile to the old master’s face. Such guitar restraint wouldn’t always be the case, of course. In his first solo LP, My True Voice, from early 1966, Willie Lee Reed beat Jimi Hendrix to incendiary guitar playing. (Indeed, Hendrix, resplendent in psychedelic hippie finery, more than once said in interviews that he’d learned much of his flashy style from two men: Little Richard, with whom he’d toured on the chitlin’ circuit, and Willie Lee Reed, whom he’d gone up against in a memorable cutting session on Chicago’s South Side in the summer of 1963 when he was still playing under the nom d’étage Maurice James.) Later in the ’60s Willie Lee Reed headlined the Fillmores West and East, and was briefly considered as the fill-in for the Stones after Brian Jones’s death. When blues lost widespread popularity in the late ’70s and ’80s, Reed soldiered on, playing more than a hundred nights a year, mostly in Europe. He kept releasing albums, and the one considered his masterpiece—entitled simply, For Silver—came out in 1992. It was rumored to be a tribute to a long-ago girlfriend/inspiration who died of cancer in 1965.

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For Silver was slice-’em-up blues of raucous fervor, but what made it memorable was its tender, thoughtful side. Besides blowing the doors down, the record often turned powerfully quiet; and its final note—one note, kept aloft seemingly forever through Willie Lee’s virtuosic blend of string vibrato and amp sustain—was held by aficionados to be the blues equivalent of the piano-crash fade that ends the Beatles’ A Day in the Life. Esmé Hunter, back in Detroit, soon got her own music career going, singing with the Fleur de Lys Records’ group the Cravattes. Her tale continues in the book Soul Cavalcade. In the last years of her father’s life, Esmé spent as much time with him as possible. Heddy Days kept performing up until days before he died in his own bed from a stroke, in 1979. He had recently returned from a successful tour of France, Germany, and the Netherlands, and his death was front-page news for a day. When Sweet Home Arthur passed in 1996, the blues was again Chicago’s preeminent music. Sweet Home’s death became a citywide day of mourning. A musical funeral was planned, preceded by a funeral cortege from the Loop down through the South Side streets he’d musically owned. To everyone’s surprise the streets of Chicago came to a standstill. At Sweet Home’s funeral the city’s mayor said, “Sam Phillips of Sun Records once said about the great Howlin’ Wolf: ‘This is where the soul of man never dies.’ And I’m going to here and now say the same thing about the music Sweet Home Arthur gave us. “We might not have always recognized this, and there are years we might have let the blues wither on the vine, but now we have all grown enough to realize indisputably that the music of Howlin’ Wolf and Heddy Days and Sweet Home Arthur and countless others is as true as any art in expressing

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the human condition. There is in the blues a purity of expression, an unbounded sorrow and an unbreachable joy, that is the equal of anything man has done in our century. “Sweet Home Arthur was the blues. May he rest in peace. And the rest of you . . . start dancing!”

Robert Dunn is the author of Pink Cadillac—a Musical Fiction, which was chosen for the prestigious Book Sense 76 list. Cutting Time is the second in a series of novels tracing the history of rock ’n’ roll, blues, and R&B. The third, Soul Cavalcade, will be published in 2004. Dunn has published poems and short fiction in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, and the O. Henry Prize Story collection. He teaches fiction writing at the New School in New York City, where he lives. His band, Thin Wild Mercury, plays often in Manhattan. Special thanks to Schuyler Bishop, Nancy Ramsey, Monica Fedrick, our favorite copyeditor, Joni Blackburn, John Hail, Jill Jaroff, and John Shostrom.