Damn Straight

by Elizabeth Sims

  "Mrs. McVittie," I said, "you are a true friend."

  "I bet she'll keep Monty in the backyard from now on."

  "I bet she will."

  The next day as I was looking over my accumulated bills, it occurred to me that I hadn't received my thousand dollars for wearing Ace-Tek's chicken visor. For the hell of it, I called the company and actually got Jeff Evans on the line.

  "Hey!" he said on a falling note. "I'm really sorry, but the deal was you'd wear our visor for the whole round. Eighteen holes."

  "But Jeff—"

  "Not seventeen and a half holes. That was the agreement you signed. I'm really sorry, but—"

  Cursing myself, I hung up on him as hard as I could.

  .

  That night I received a phone call I hadn't been expecting but was glad to get.

  "I am sorry I finaled out on you," said Coco Nash. I'd tried without success to get ahold of her before flying back home.

  I said, "Never mind. Are you all right?"

  "I will be. You?"

  "I'm fine. What do you mean, you will be?"

  "I jerked up my wrist some on that two-iron to the metacarpals."

  "I thought so. Is it broken?"

  "No."

  "You're getting therapy for it, then?"

  "Yes, I have the most righteous of therapists—infrared, everything."

  "You know, Coco, Genie probably will never thank you, but I will. You saved me as much as you saved her. Thank you, Cornelia Nash."

  "You are welcome."

  "I wish there was something I could do for you."

  Her voice went husky. "It would be nice to see you again."

  "Oh! Uh, Coco. Whew, boy, um."

  The line was silent.

  At last I said, "I hope you can understand that I kind of need to—"

  "You need to keep to yourself for now."

  "Yes."

  "So I believe you read some Bible to Genie."

  "I did, and she didn't like it."

  "And when you left—"

  "She really didn't like it."

  "Well. I do not know everything I would like to know."

  "Coco, I think you're plenty hep to all of it. You do know. Hey, I'll be watching you on TV next tournament, okay?"

  "That swings."

  .

  I went for a drive a few early brights later, taking along Todd, my mandolin, and a picnic lunch. I thought we'd ride around the Irish Hills, enjoy the sunny soft breezes and just have a good time.

  But I found myself forgetting the exits off I-94 and just driving through, past Ypsilanti, through Ann Arbor, Jackson, Albion.

  Me: You're going out there, aren't you?

  Me: Maybe.

  Me: Why?

  Me: I just want to.

  There was a good oldies station on the radio in western Michigan, but I turned it off as I kept the pedal down and talked to Todd about happiness and about achievement and about love.

  What the hell did I want? What the hell did I ever want? Who the hell cares?

  Truby wanted to know a certain score, and she found it out. At least she learned as much as she needed to know now. When we'd said so long at LAX, she was looking a good bit better than she had when I'd seen her at the baggage claim a week and a half earlier. And I looked the worse, but no matter.

  I thought about Genie. Three people dead in her wake. The baby. Peaches. Dengel. I guessed I was lucky. I didn't feel lucky, though.

  Was I a chump? I'd always seen trouble coming. But this time trouble saw me first, sneaked up behind me, and sapped me but good. Did I have it coming?

  After my talk with Coco on the phone, I got out one of her scrapbooks on Genie and leafed through it. Yes: I'd stuffed it into my suitcase and brought it home. Looking at the pictures, I thought, If only you'd done it differently. Don't think I'm going soft, though. That scrapbook might be worth a bundle someday.

  It wasn't all right with me that Genie was who she was. I understood that the making of Genie Maychild was the suffocation of her son, while she believed that the making of Genie Maychild was putting the killing behind her. And she was going to go on being who she was, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I could rent a billboard calling her poison and a murderer, and nothing would come of it, except possibly a libel suit.

  .

  It was late afternoon when I hit the Pearl Center town line, having stopped outside of Benton Harbor to eat lunch and exercise Todd. The Illinois prairie sky was mottled with gray clouds that were moving ahead of a westerly wind. I took the river road and parked the Caprice on the bluff overlooking the small series of rapids west of town. I watched the water for a while, then I walked the fence line to the end, where it jutted out from the oiled parking lot.

  The earth there had been disturbed. I saw loose clods, and spade marks on the wooden fence post. The hole had been carelessly filled in and stomped down, and the dirt had already sunk a few inches. I tried to make out footprints, but it had rained enough to obliterate any that had been there.

  I drove over to Coach Handy's street and cruised down it slowly. The public works department had finished its job: The sewer line or water main, whatever had needed fixing, was fixed and the trench was filled, the broken concrete hauled away and new concrete poured.

  I pulled over and stared at that new concrete.

  Full many a flower is born to blush unseen

  And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

  Those lines, from Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, came to me then.

  .

  "One of those wreaths." I pointed into the cooler, and the flower shop lady smiled.

  "That's a lovely one," she said. "Are you going over to the cemetery?"

  "Uh...how much do I owe you?"

  I fought with myself as I drove past the office of the Pearl Center Bugle. If I could've driven past it with my eyes shut, I would have. When I returned to the coach's street, I noticed that her house had a Century 21 sign out front: For Sale. A cardinal lighted on the yellow crossbar and pecked it experimentally.

  I shut off the engine and said a Hail Mary. I carried the wreath, made of lilies, carnations, and ribbons, down the street, walking beside the wide strip of new concrete. I didn't know where to put it. It would be ridiculous to leave it in the street.

  I returned to the Caprice, muttering to Todd, and drove back to the river as twilight came on.

  The air at the river smelled fresh and healthy. I stood on the bluff. The water swirled around the rocks below, not far below. It splashed and caught itself and raced on, and it played that music everyone likes to hear, the music of cleanliness and no troubles. I slung my mandolin around and joined in, slowly playing "Bury Me Beneath the Willow" and "Were You There?" I put the pick in my pocket and watched the tips of the trees tossing in the breeze. The sky had cleared. Its blue deepened as I watched.

  One by one, then in handfuls, I plucked the flowers from the wreath's backing and tossed them into the water. They bobbed along prettily, pink and white and yellow.

  When it grew too dark to see the river anymore, I stood and listened. Then it was time to go.

  __________

  Did you know that people who recommend books experience an 88 percent increase in the stress-busting hormone Wellapropylene?

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My undying thanks to my family and my friends for their support and belief. (You know who you are.)

  Also, I thank the thousands of readers who actually bought and read my first book, Holy Hell. Knowing you're there keeps me from a life of wantonness and despair.

  I'm grateful to the booksellers, especially Suzanne Corson
of Boadecia's (Kensington, California); the women of Mama Bears (Oakland, California); and my many friends at Borders Books and Music. (Updated note for e-book versions of Damn Straight: Times sure change. None of those bookstores exist any longer in physical form, but the spirit shared by books, booksellers, and readers never dies!)

  Special thanks to the people of the Kraft Nabisco Championship and Mission Hills Country Club.

  I'm indebted to Joy Glover for sharing her medical expertise; Angela "Sensible" Brown for her good advice and encouragement; and Marcia, for everything.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Elizabeth Sims is a prizewinning author and writing authority. She's the author of the Lambda Award-winning Lillian Byrd Crime Series and the Rita Farmer Mystery Series, and she has written articles, essays, short stories, and poems for numerous publications.

  Elizabeth writes frequently for Writer's Digest magazine, where she is a contributing editor. Are you a writer too—or would you like to be one? If so, you'll find help and inspiration in her book, You've Got a Book in You: A Stress-Free Guide to Writing the Book of Your Dreams, published by Writer's Digest Books.

  Elizabeth earned degrees in English from Michigan State University and Wayne State University, where she won the Tompkins Award for graduate fiction. She has worked as a reporter, photographer, technical writer, bookseller, corporate executive, street busker, ranch hand, and symphonic percussionist. She belongs to several literary societies as well as American Mensa.

  NOTE FROM ELIZABETH

  I hope you enjoyed reading Damn Straight as much as I enjoyed writing it. Books are such an intimate connection between author and reader, aren't they? Just wanted to say thanks.

  Yours,

  Elizabeth

  Read on! Here’s the first chapter of Lucky Stiff, the third book in the Lillian Byrd Crime Series.

  Chapter 1

  I wouldn't have thought "Happy Birthday" could lend itself to the blues, but Blind Lonnie could pull the blues out of anything. He sat on his box like an old soft statue and moaned it. His fingers, the only moving parts of him, slowly plucked and squeezed his guitar, making the song unrecognizable unless you stopped and stood and listened, unrecognizable unless you knew the thing Lonnie liked to do best was make blues out of cheerful songs. I'd heard him blues up "Oh, Susanna," "Getting to Know You," "Camelot," "Jingle Bells," assorted circus marches, and the national anthem of Canada.

  Blind Lonnie and I got to know each other about a year ago when I brought my mandolin down to Greektown and took up busking for money. Greektown was a decent place for buskers. I walked up and down Monroe Street, the main drag, looking for a spot to set up, gathering my nerve. I'd seen Lonnie there before—everybody knew Blind Lonnie; he'd grown old playing the blues on that street. He wore iridescent polyester shirts, wraparound dark glasses, and he kept his silver hair in a conservative natural.

  Musicians have the reputation of being a friendly lot, but when it comes to freelance commerce, established musicians don't always look kindly on newcomers. That is, they're happy to help novices except when they represent competition. Once a musician has established a habit of playing in a certain location, he considers that territory his. No matter that it's a free country, the sidewalks are public property, and that everybody else has to put potatoes on their table too.

  I decided Blind Lonnie and I should make acquaintance. I stood nearby and clapped after his Brubeck-style tag on "Take the A Train."

  "Thank you," he said.

  "You bet."

  He played another—"Button Up Your Overcoat." I stood and listened as the last note died away.

  "Didn't you like that one?" he asked.

  "Well, sure."

  "How come you didn't clap, then?" I'd expected his speaking voice to be profoundly dark, like his sing-moaning, but it was a buttery baritone.

  "I was just about to," I said. "How'd you know I was still here?" Sounds overlapped on the street—cars growling, people yakking, shoe leather clopping up and down.

  "Blind Lonnie didn't hear you leave."

  "But I'm wearing sneakers."

  "Makes no difference. Blind Lonnie knows all."

  I laughed. "You ever play anything but the blues?"

  "Like what?"

  "Oh … Chinese stuff."

  Lonnie's mouth cracked wide and a laugh rolled from his considerable gut. "Chinese stuff, hey? Lessee—" He tipped up his chin Stevie Wonder style. His left hand flew from its resting place on his thigh and settled on the fretboard of his jumbo Guild cutaway. With his right hand he stroked five smart notes. Pure Beijing, they rang out from the instrument's honey-lacquered wood.

  He said, "My rice bowl, please."

  I put in a fistful of change.

  "Loud money's OK, quiet money's better," he said.

  "It sure is. Hey listen, Lonnie, my name is Lillian Byrd. I play a little too, and—"

  "What you play?"

  "Mandolin. Irish, bluegrass, old-time. I'm not much into blues or jazz."

  "Bluegrass ain't nothing but jazz in a major key."

  I hadn't thought about it that way. "I guess it is," I said. "Anyway, I'm looking to do some playing down here. I don't want to get in your way. I intend to set up on weeknights when you're not usually here. I need to make a little money, see. And I just wanted to … I was just hoping … Like, do you have any problem with that?"

  He shook his broad head. "Naw, I don't have any problem with that. What'll you do if I start to come around on weeknights?"

  "I'll move on."

  "That's right. Can you see good?"

  "Yeah, I can see."

  "Can you play good?"

  "That's not for me to say."

  "Open up your case and let me hear you."

  "How come?"

  "I'll tell you if you got a future in it."

  "All right."

  With trembling fingers I did as told and minutes later found myself playing the streets of Greektown with Lonnie's blessing. More important, he invited me to play behind him sometimes.

  As I began to grasp the rudiments of improvisation, I played backup for Lonnie, essentially using my mandolin as percussion, backing his lead with chop chords or sometimes just single-note rhythm.

  My progress was slow. Lonnie gave me no praise. One night, after I'd played what I thought was a nearly hotsy-totsy walking line beneath his "Stay as Sweet as You Are," I prompted, "Not bad for a girl, huh?"

  He corrected, "Not bad for a white girl."

  "What makes you think I'm white?"

  "Oh, please. Please, Lily."

  I wailed, "Is no one in this world color-blind?"

  "Sing!" he commanded. He blasted out an A-minor chord. I fastened my voice to it and made up tragic lyrics.

  Oh, they call me Lily white girl,

  My skin's so pale and drab,

  I'm hot milk without the cocoa,

  I'm the whale without Ahab.

  A few people stopped to listen. Blind Lonnie was laughing hard, but I gave it everything I had. It felt good to let my voice out. I'm no singer, actually, but here's a little-known secret: Anybody can sing mediocre blues. Great blues, no. Only a few can do that. But if you can hold a pitch and you've got decent backup, most people can't tell the difference. I sang on:

  They call me Lily white girl,

  I don't know why they do.

  I get so sad and lonesome.

  Do you feel that way too?

  Lonnie stopped and said, "Why didn't you end on 'blue'? Like, 'I feel so down and blue' or something?"

  "That'd be too cheap. In the blues you're not supposed to say you're blue. People are supposed to judge for themselves."

  "Well, that's enough now anyway. Billie Holiday you ain't."

  "Yeah, well, I'm twice the woman you'll ever be."

  "Quiet now while I'm playing. Let's do 'String of Pearls.'"

  Generations of Greek families strolled by, scrunch-faced grampas and gorgeous young teenagers with smooth black hair and th
at terrific Greek nose-mouth combination where if you took the nose and mouth separately they'd look too big, but in combination their proportions are perfect, especially beneath those strong eyes and brows.

  Greektown: A few crammed blocks was all it was, an old Hellenic neighborhood. An Orthodox church, home-style bakeries featuring honey-drenched baklava, a mob of restaurants serving lamb grilled, roasted, stewed, and braised, with or without every vegetable in the market. Greek seafarers settled here during Detroit's early boom as an inland port. The neighborhood somehow remained cohesive and was now a civilized island in the midst of ghetto blight. A Reno-sized casino had gotten in and resurrected a block gone to seed, and now more people came through Greektown, for better or worse. It was the kind of place you went on dates, once or twice per relationship. It's interesting as far as it goes, and it would be a nice addition to a city like New York or London, which are pastiches of neighborhoods. In such a city, Greektown would be a beautiful gemlike patch in the quilt, but it can't carry Detroit alone: One patch cannot a quilt make.

  Because of all that, I admired the spirit of the neighborhood. Those old restaurateurs had seen everything.

  In addition to establishing a relationship with Blind Lonnie, I got to know the other people on the street. Panhandlers hung out in Greektown, also around Hart Plaza on the waterfront. They picked odd places too: the median on Eight Mile east of the Southfield expressway, certain right-turn curbsides on Woodward uptown. They were typical panhandlers: drunks, crazies, druggies. Most of them got government checks, most disappeared at night to their rooms in the welfare hotels scattered through the ghettos. They tended toward self-medication—cigarettes, alcohol, pot.

  I knew the downtown ones by sight. There was Highland Appliance Guy, who towed a child's red wagon everywhere he went by means of a harness made of salvaged seat belts. He piled the wagon with ruined electronics: a stack of VCRs, about a dozen cordless phones; two or three boom boxes; thousands of knobs, wires, and circuit boards. He fastened the harness around his waist and pulled that wagon all over downtown. Why? Nobody knew. His pitch was, "A penny. Just a penny. Everybody can afford a penny."