Delta Blues

by Carolyn Haines

  The man smiled and held up a wallet. “I believe this is yours, sir.”

  Mr. Easley quickly frisked himself. “What the—”

  “Pickpocket,” the other man said. “I saw the whole thing as I got off the train.” He handed the wallet back to Mr. Easley.

  “I’ll be damned,” Easley said. “Thank you, sir. I, I don’t know what to say.”

  “No need to say anything. You’d have done the same, I’m sure.”

  Stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket, he offered his hand. “I’m Wade Easley.”

  “Charlie Clanton,” the other man said. “Nice to meet you, except for the circumstances.” He rubbed his jaw where the pickpocket had landed the punch.

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment before Mr. Easley opened his wallet and fingered some bills. “Here, I owe you a reward.”

  Charlie Clanton held up his hands, said he wouldn’t think of it. Completely unnecessary, just doing the right thing. But Mr. Easley insisted, said he wouldn’t feel right otherwise. Charlie said he understood but simply wasn’t going to accept money just for doing the right thing. Said it’s the way he was raised.

  “Well, okay, all right,” Wade said, putting his wallet away. “But I insist you let me buy you dinner tonight, at the least. I’m staying at the Hotel Greenville. What do you say?”

  Charlie Clanton smiled and said, “That’s fine and generous, Mr. Easley. I accept. What time is good for you?”

  THAT EVENING, when Charlie met Wade in the lobby of the hotel, the first thing Wade said was, “I’m sorry to say I just discovered this is one of your dry counties, Mr. Clanton. I had hoped to enjoy a few drinks with you before dinner. That is, if you’re a drinking man.”

  Charlie winked and said, “Not to worry, Mr. Easley, things are not as dry as they appear.” He gestured toward the door. “Let’s take a walk, see if we can’t find a little somethin’.” They went up to Nelson Street where there seemed to be a lot of action for a place where prohibition was still the law. They stopped at a storefront with blacked-out windows. Charlie knocked on the door. A panel slid open. Charlie winked at Wade then leaned toward the open slot and said, “We’re here to see the blind pig.”

  The man behind the door said, “Cost a dolla’ each.”

  They paid their fee and stepped inside. The room was cool with black and white tiles and a long bar on which sat a child’s stuffed pig with the eye buttons removed. They ordered gin and sat at a table in the corner where Charlie explained how the county sheriff made out like a bandit allowing the sale of liquor as long as he got his cut, same as with the cocaine and the gambling and everything else in Washington County, the way it had always been.

  They made a toast to local law enforcement and ordered another round.

  The gin loosened things up pretty quick. Charlie eased into asking this and that. Found out Wade was in Greenville to meet with a man by the name of Tucker Woolfolk, see about buying his farm. It wasn’t long before the gin got Wade to let Charlie in on a little secret. “See, I got an old friend at the chancery clerk’s office, tips me off when one of these dumb crackers’s about to default on his loan. I get here before the bank does a foreclosure auction, get it on the cheap, then I turn around and sell it to corporate farming interests.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty damn slick,” Charlie said in admiring tones.

  “Can you imagine?” Wade shook his head in contempt. “Like this Woolfolk I’m here to see, living on the richest farmland on earth and he can’t make a go of it as a farmer?”

  “Hard to believe, alright,” Charlie said.

  “I mean, I hate to say it, but, hell, you can’t grow a crop here, you probably oughtta be doing something else.”

  “Really, you’re just helping ‘em out, then, right?”

  “That’s the way I like to see it.”

  Charlie seemed mighty impressed. He pointed at Wade. “Say you’re the first guy to the door when opportunity knocks, huh?”

  Wade shrugged as modestly as he could, but he had to admit he was pretty sharp.

  Charlie seemed intrigued by the whole thing, said it sounded like some real sophisticated business, encouraging Wade to carry on about how he’d developed some clever sales techniques. Said one of his tricks was carrying lots of cash to his meetings because, he said, people are willing to sell for less when they see they’ll get the money right on the spot. “That’s what I call my bird-in-the-hand technique.”

  Charlie said, “Well it’s a good thing we stopped that pickpocket.”

  Wade laughed at that. “Charlie, my wallet ain’t big enough to carry the kind of money I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” He shook his head like Charlie had no idea. “I got a briefcase back in the hotel safe for that.”

  Charlie was more and more impressed with every word out of Wade’s mouth. Said he figured Wade for a regular real estate genius.

  Wade soaked it all up with the gin and they got another round before Wade got around to asking Charlie what he did.

  Charlie allowed as how he used to work for the Library of Congress, making field recordings of American folk musicians. “I’m considered something of an expert in the field.”

  Wade said, “Folk? Like that Woody Guthrie? People like that?”

  “Well, some like that, but mostly blues players. You heard of Honeyboy Edwards or Dusty Brown or Muddy Waters?”

  “I think I’ve heard of that last one, that Muddy Waters,” Wade said. “But I can’t say I’m too familiar with that music. I’m more of an Elvis fan.”

  “Well, you know a lot of what Elvis does comes straight outta the blues.”

  “No.”

  “Oh yeah. I mean, for example, ‘That’s All Right Mama.’ That was written by Arthur Big Boy Crudup, one of Elvis’ favorite blues players.” Charlie talked about the blues for a while before he said, “You know it’s funny, the blues originated right here in the U.S., but the only place you can sell the records, in big numbers anyway, is overseas.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh yeah, Europeans and Japanese can’t get enough of it. That’s why I became a record producer. See, with my background, I was able to get standing contracts from half a dozen foreign record companies if I manage to locate and record specific artists.”

  “No kidding? For good money?”

  “Well, probably not the kind of money you’re dealing with your real estate, but good enough,” Charlie said. “Of course, depends who the artist is. Some contracts are just a few thousand, but I’ve got one for a ten thousand advance and royalties that can add up to four or five times that.”

  Wade let loose with a long, low whistle. “That’s some good money.”

  “Hey!” Charlie rapped his knuckles on the table like he’d had an idea all the sudden and said, “I tell you what, I’m going to a place outside of Leland tomorrow night, meet a local contact who’s helping me track down some old recordings. Why don’t you come along? Bound to be somebody playin’, we could have us some fun. Have a drink, maybe throw some dice? Give you a story to tell about the night you spent in a real Delta juke joint.”

  The next night they drove up Highway 61, a few miles north of Leland, eventually pulling into the parking lot for the Starlighter’s Lounge, a squat cinder block affair surrounded by cotton as far as you could see.

  The joint was jumping. Skin game going at one table, Florida Flip at another, and dice in the corner. Some couples laughing and dancing to the jukebox. Charlie and Wade were the only white faces in the place. Charlie got a bottle and they sat in a booth, started talking. Wade allowed as how it sure seemed authentic even though he didn’t have anything to compare it to.

  “Oh yeah,” Charlie said. “This is the real deal. Bartender tells me Automatic Slim’s supposed to play later tonight. Got a real distinct style.”

  “He somebody you’re looking to sign?”

  “Naw, I’m here to meet a fella sent me a telegram last week, said he got a hot lead on some recordings we been looking
for.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “And if he does, me and him’re gonna be shittin’ in some tall cotton,” Charlie said with a wink.

  Wade laughed and asked what the lead was. Charlie played coy, said he couldn’t talk about it. But Wade kept pestering until Charlie relented. He poured Wade another drink, glanced around, then leaned onto the table, lowering his voice. “All right, you ever heard of the Blind, Crippled, and Crazy sessions?”

  Wade shook his head and leaned in close to hear the story.

  After a furtive look around the room, Charlie said, “Well, there’re some tape recordings out there that have what you might call a mysterious provenance. There’re actually two different stories about these tapes. The first one, and the one most people believe, is one that goes back to the night when a man named Lamar Suggs was murdered.”

  “This Suggs was one of these musicians?”

  “No, he was a bootlegger and occasional pornographer,” Charlie said. “Anyway, the story goes that these three guitar players—Blind Buddy Cotton, Crippled Willie Jefferson, and Crazy Earl Tate—got together that night under mysterious circumstances and recorded as a group, which was highly unusual, since they’re all famous for being solo players.”

  Giddy on the gin, Wade was hanging on every word out of Charlie’s mouth. He said, “What kinda mysterious circumstances?”

  “Well, the story goes that a fella name of Pigfoot Morgan was driving Cotton, Jefferson, and Tate up to Memphis so they could catch a train to Grafton, Wisconsin, where they were gonna record for the Paramount label. Well, on the way, they came across the body of Lamar Suggs out on Highway 61. The four men got out to investigate. A minute later they saw the sheriff’s car approaching. Well, when Pigfoot Morgan saw the sheriff’s car coming, he drove off, leaving the other three men behind.”

  “Boy that’s a bad case of wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You ain’t kiddin’,” Charlie said. “A Mississippi sheriff finds three jigs standing over the body of a dead white man, everybody knows the deal. Anyway, once he figured out who these three were, the sheriff got an idea. Instead of takin’ the three of them to jail, he took them to the local radio station, which was owned by his uncle. He figured as long as he had these fellas between a rock and a hard place, he’d blackmail them into cutting a few sides and make a few dollars.”

  “Blackmail ‘em how?”

  “He threatened to arrest ‘em for Lamar Suggs’ murder if they didn’t do two things: first, they had to make a few recordings, and second, they had to sign statements that Morgan was the killer, even though the sheriff knew it wasn’t true.”

  “How’d he know this Pigfoot Morgan hadn’t done it?”

  “Because the sheriff had killed Suggs himself about five minutes before they showed up. Seems that he found out Suggs was seein’ his wife,” Charlie said. “The back door man, as they say.”

  “That’s a helluva story.”

  “Yeah, and if the tapes are as good as people say, they’re pretty valuable. But see, here’s the best part. For years, there’s been this rumor that these tapes were actually recorded back in 1932 out at Dockery Plantation and that it’s a recording of Charlie Patton, Tommy Johnson, and Son House playing together. Three of the most important names in the blues. And if that’s the case, the tapes are virtually priceless.”

  “How priceless?”

  “Who knows? A quarter million, a half million. It’s impossible to say.”

  Wade’s jaw dropped. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

  Charlie shook his head. “People say the tapes leave you speechless. Collectors have been trying to find them ever since. Matter of fact …” Charlie reached inside his jacket and pulled out a document. “Record company out of London sent me this contract, said they’ll pay a ten thousand dollar advance against the standard—” Charlie stopped when he noticed a man had stopped at their table.

  The man snatched the contract from Charlie’s hand and said, “Charlie, what the hell’re you doin’?”

  Charlie looked up casually. “Oh, hey, Travis. I was wonderin’ where you were.” He snatched the contract back and returned it to his inside pocket.

  For a moment Wade thought he’d seen this man before but he couldn’t figure where and he let it go.

  Travis sucked so hard on his cigarette his cheeks sunk in. He pointed at Wade and said, “Who’s this guy?”

  “Relax.” Charlie gestured at a chair. “Sit down. This is Wade Easley. We both came in on the Delta Eagle, that’s all. Wade’s in real estate. He ain’t after the tapes.”

  This seemed to satisfy Travis and he joined them at the table. “If you say so.” He shook Wade’s hand and said, “Nothin’ personal.”

  Wade shrugged it off. “Have a drink.”

  “So,” Charlie said. “Whatcha got?”

  “Good news and bad,” Travis said. “Good news is … I found the tapes.”

  Charlie nearly jumped out of the joint. “Jesus! Where? Who has ‘em?”

  “Crazy Earl Tate’s had ‘em all along,” Travis said. “And he’s willin’ to sell.”

  “Did you hear them?”

  “Of course I heard them,” Travis said. “And every word is true. I got goose bumps. Hair on the back of my neck was standing on end.”

  “You think it’s Blind, Crippled, and Crazy or Patton, Johnson, and Son House?”

  “Tate said it wasn’t him and Willie and Buddy, so draw your own conclusion.”

  Wade’s head bounced back and forth as the conversation unfolded.

  “So what’s the bad news?”

  Travis sucked hard on his cigarette again, said, “Fontaine’s in town and he knows Earl’s got the tapes.”

  “Shit. Fontaine?” Charlie buried his face in his hands for a moment before he looked up. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

  Travis shook his head. “I made the offer, like we talked about, but Earl said Fontaine’s willing to pay more.”

  “God—” Charlie slammed a fist on the table then looked at Travis. “He say how much more?”

  “Five more.”

  “I don’t suppose you mean hundred.”

  Travis shook his head again. “Thousand.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and—”

  A sly smile crossed Wade’s face.

  Travis stubbed his cigarette out. “Earl said he’d give us til tomorrow night to match the offer since we got there first.”

  “Oh that’s just peachy. Where the hell’re we gonna get that kinda money in the next twenty-four hours?”

  That’s when Wade nudged Charlie and cupped a hand to one ear. He said, “You hear that?”

  Charlie looked distressed and distracted. “Hear what?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, it’s the sound of opportunity knocking.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the solution to your problem.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You said it yourself, Charlie. Who’s the first guy to the door when opportunity knocks? Me, right? Well, you got a venture and you need some funding. And I’ve got funding for a venture.”

  Travis lit another cigarette and said, “I don’t like where this is goin’.”

  “You got your real estate to deal with,” Charlie said. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “Hell, it’s my money,” Wade said. “I ain’t gotta invest everything in real estate. This looks like a good deal to me. You got that contract. You found the tapes. All you need is the rest of the financing.”

  Charlie looked at Travis like he might be considering the idea.

  “Are you outta your rabbit-assed mind?” Travis shook his head. “No way! We ain’t cuttin’ this sumbitch in on this. Don’t even start.” He slugged down his drink, reached for the bottle.

  Charlie shrugged, said, “Fine with me, Travis, but we gotta get the money somewhere or kiss the tapes goodbye. You got an extra five grand?”

  Travis stared hard at Charlie for a second before h
e cursed and said, “I knew something like this was gonna happen.”

  “You knew what was gonna happen?”

  “I don’t know. Just … something. We let this sumbitch in and we gotta make the split three ways.”

  “Well Travis, would you rather split something three ways or keep nothing all to yourself?”

  Wade smiled and slapped the table top. “Now you’re talking.” He rubbed his chin for a second before he pointed at Charlie. “Lemme ask, you know how this Fontaine character plans to pay?”

  “Same as us, I ‘spect.” Charlie shrugged and poured another round. “Standard contract, small cash advance with the rest due based on royalties over time.”

  “So that extra five grand he’s offering is in the royalties?”

  “Yeah, it’s all on the back end.” Travis nodded. “That’s what Earl told me.”

  Wade smiled and said, “Bird in the hand, Charlie.” Wade rubbed his finger and thumb together. “Instead of that small advance, we show this Earl Tate he’s gonna get that money up front instead of that pie-in-the-sky pitch. I guarantee we get those tapes.”

  Charlie scratched his head. “I don’t know …”

  “Trust me,” Wade said.

  THEY WENT BACK to the Hotel Greenville so Wade could get his briefcase out of the safe. Then they drove out to Crazy Earl’s shack near Milestone Bayou. They parked on the side of the road and started down a narrow path leading to a field beyond a stand of cypress.

  Wade had never been so far back in the woods. Charlie and Travis were a few feet away but in the darkness he could barely see them. The drone of frogs and cicadas was so loud and constant that he couldn’t hear himself think. Somewhere out in the moonless bayou, a big cat let loose with a murderous screech. It chilled Wade to the bone and made him think this was the sort of darkness into which people fall and are never seen again.

  They picked their way slowly through the dark and weedy field that led to Earl’s shack. Ahead they could see the golden glow of candles flickering in the window.

  Charlie said, “Wade, just so you know, Crazy Earl didn’t just draw his name out of a hat.”