by Sarah Black
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Aspen Mountain Press
www.aspenmountainpress.com
Copyright ©2007 by Sarah Black
First published in 2007, 2007
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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WARNING
This e-Book contains material that may be objectionable to some: sexually graphic scenes, violence, racial prejudice. Store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.
Death
of a
Blues Angel
Sarah Black
Aspen Mountain Press
Death of a Blues Angel
Copyright© 2007 by Sarah Black
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Aspen Mountain Press
PO Box 473543
Aurora CO 80047
www.AspenMountainPress.com
Published by Aspen Mountain Press, December 2007
This e-book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-60168-079-2
Published in the United States of America
Editor: Maura Anderson
Cover artist: Jinger Heaston
Death of a Blues Angel
Leona Washington was going to die tonight, and there was no question she deserved it. He opened and closed his hands, trying to work the stiffness out of the joints. His knuckles were swollen and he'd started to lose feeling in his fingers. He was old, weak, and his fingers had nearly forgotten how to play a blues guitar. But they hadn't forgotten how to thumb-cock a pistol.
He traced the warm metal until he felt the trigger, wrapped two fingers around it to make sure that he could do the job. The gun smelled good, a trace of machine oil and some old, burned smell, like brimstone. He reached for the sheet and pulled it back, felt Leona's body, her smooth young belly, skin softer than anything his hands had felt in years, maybe ever. She didn't move—too drunk and fucked out.
The brimstone smell was stronger now, and he smelled Teacher's whiskey and semen on her body. She smelled the way a blues angel smelled, trouble of every kind that waited for a man. He pressed the barrel of the gun between her breasts.
She was going to hell; he was going to send her there. He would be dead himself before long, and it gave him a bit of comfort to think that Leona's first few days in hell would be made worse, knowing he was coming.
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"Deke, listen. Can I ask you something?” Bruce Charters leaned so far back that his office chair let out a squeak of alarm. “Why are you being such an asshole? You know I got a bunch of hungry journalists out there who would love to get sent into a blues club with instructions to hang around with the musicians and listen to their music."
Deke stood up, paced off a stiff figure eight between a couple of visitor's chairs. Bruce stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Mr. Charters, I'm ... naturally I'm happy to have any opportunity...” Bruce's eyebrows flew up. “But this is ridiculous! It's 1966, Bruce. It's Christmas, 1966, and we've nearly torn ourselves to pieces this last year. Mississippi is in flames, and people are having police dogs set on them by men in uniform, wearing badges! Dogs and fire hoses, Chicago's been torched, so has Atlanta, cities burning and crazy kids with guns and sticks looting everything that isn't tied down. And sickos are popping up everywhere, strangling student nurses and climbing towers in Texas! But Mississippi, man, God knows what's happening down there. If nobody's looking..."
Bruce sat forward, folded his hands on the desk, and let his handsome face assume a look of exaggerated patience. “What? No way! Trouble in Mississippi! I bet it's a race thing. You must be one of those Black Freedom Riders.” Deke stopped and stared at him. Of course he was a Freedom Rider, and Bruce Charters would know that because he had sent him to Mississippi on assignment with the Freedom Riders twice this last year. And twice the year before.
Deke sat down and shut up. Bruce waited a moment, then unfolded his hands and put them flat against the surface of the desk. “You are one of my best photojournalists. And yes, there is a lot of very bad news coming out of Mississippi. So here's some good news—a new bluesman, a guitar player and singer, brought up here by three of the grand old men of the Delta Blues. A white guy. Black guys and white guys, coming together through music. It's a good story for Christmas."
Deke felt his lip curl into a sneer, but Bruce held up his hand. “His name is Rafael Hurt. You go interview him and take his picture down at the Blues Angel like a good reporter. Interview the old men who brought him up here.” He hesitated. “You don't recognize his name?” Deke thought about it. Rafael Hurt? He shrugged and shook his head. “Well, I guess you don't know as much as you think you do about Mississippi, now do you? And don't take this the wrong way or anything, Deke, but it's Christmas and it's not like you have anything else to do."
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The Blues Angel was a seedy little dive from the outside, gray metal door off an alley in the black part of downtown, but when you pushed the doors open against the grit and wind, the club smelled like a little bit of Mississippi, transplanted to DC.
There was a pot of collards cooking somewhere, and fatback frying in an iron skillet, and old men with Delta voices were talking and laughing, bottles and glasses clinking on a tabletop. Bluesmen were famous for letting the pain out with the help of a little corn whiskey, and he heard the whine of a harmonica, somebody fingerpicking a guitar, then the low, sexy sound of a bottleneck slide.
Deke walked past the bar, and the battered tables with the chairs turned upside down on top. There was a bunch of old men back there next to the stage. A woman in a flowered dress, an apron tied around her ample waist, was giving them a what-for. “Put that moonshine away, you want some supper. Blind Pete's been sniffing at the kitchen door for an hour."
"Maybe he's not sniffing at the greens, girl,” and the old men cackled and slapped the tabletop. The man who had spoken was missing both his front teeth, and the woman swiped at his head.
"Don't you talk to me like that, Blue Otis. I've a mind to give your ham to the dogs."
The white boy set down his guitar. “We're clearing the table right now, Mama Rose. Just everybody get your napkins tucked under your chins. You don't want to be spilling gravy down those fancy silk shirts.” This must be Rafael Hurt, and he looked like an angel, so young and pretty and so out of place in this company of dark old men that Deke took a step back into the shadows to watch.
His skin glowed like a pearl. His hair was that silver-white color that most boys outgrew about age five, and he'd let it grow long and shaggy, like one of the Beatles. He was passing out napkins to the old men now. One of the men was wearing dark glasses, with a white cane hooked on the arm of his chair. The boy tucked his napkin up under his chin, spread it out to cover his shirt. Rafael looked up suddenly, straight to where Deke was standing in the shadows, and the wild
blue of his eyes hit Deke like a punch in the stomach.
"Mama Rose, looks like you got some company.” Then he handed the third old man his napkin and went to stand behind his own chair.
The woman was sliding plates onto the table, huge fried ham steaks, mashed potatoes and gravy, and big steaming piles of greens. She looked up sharply and Deke stepped forward, holding his bulky camera and press card. He hoped that she couldn't tell he was nearly drooling on the floor at the smell of her food.
"We're not open yet, son,” she said.
"Ma'am? Are you Sally-Rose Johnson? I'm Deacon Davis with the Washington Post. My editor sent me for a story.” He knew he didn't sound very enthusiastic.
The third old man picked up his fork. “Rafe, sit down and eat.” He pointed his fork at Deke. “Come on over here, pull up a chair and have some supper. Bruce Charters sent you?"
Sally-Rose raised her eyebrows and went back into the kitchen, and Deke pulled up a chair, waited for the white guy to scoot over and make room for him. This third old man seemed to be the one in charge. Somebody had made a real effort to bring some Christmas spirit into the club, with fat, colored light bulbs strung around the door frames and a cornhusk angel floating in each window. Deke noticed that the husk faces were darkened with coffee, and they were hanging by a string taped to the window frame. Grim. He wasn't really feeling the Christmas spirit.
The fat man with the dark glasses sprinkled the hot pepper vinegar over his greens, then he passed the bottle to Deke. He had the tip of one finger near the edge of his plate, and that's probably how he felt where the greens were. Deke didn't realize he was staring until the white boy, what was his name, Rafe? Rafael? cleared his throat. “You gonna use that?"
Deke sprinkled some vinegar, passed the bottle, and had the first delicious forkful in his mouth when Sally-Rose stood next to the table, folded her hands at her breast, and began the prayer. “Praise Jesus, and we thank you for this food and our family, together..."
Rafael slid those blue eyes his way, his face too innocent, then he dropped his eyes to his plate and folded his hands until they all said Amen, and Deke could swallow.
Blind Pete was already on his second plateful before Deke was able to drag his attention away from his food to a little disagreement brewing at the table. “Uncle Jimmy, I don't think it's a good idea. And I don't want that kind of attention. He's not a bluesman. Look at those soft hands. I bet he's never even picked up a guitar."
Deke looked up and they were all staring at him. He put his hands in his lap. “Uh, no, I'm not a musician. I'm a reporter. And a photographer. Photojournalist, actually, is what they call it."
Rafe made a tiny snorting noise next to him, but he was looking at Deke with an open face, his eyes a little eager, like a puppy who was hoping for a friendly pet.
Blue Otis patted his mouth with his napkin. “You ever done radio, son? You got a strange sounding voice for a black man, like one of those men on the radio."
He shook his head. “No, I'm from out west. West Texas. Accents are different out there."
Eyebrows flew up around the table, but Rafe kept his eyes on his plate. “You don't even look black to me."
Deke gave him a dirty look. “I'm part Indian, Comanche, but I'm still blacker than you are."
The blue eyes glared at him full on. “What's that supposed to mean? Nobody said I was black."
"You're playing the blues. You're sitting here in a blues club."
"So what? I'm sitting with my family having supper. And nobody invited you to come in here and start giving me dirty looks.” He looked back down to his plate and scooped up a forkful of potatoes. “I don't think you know dick about the blues. I bet you don't even know a blues story."
"What's a blues story?"
"It a story you tell on yourself. You know, about something you did, that makes you look a fool. Uncle Pete, tell that story about Texas. The one about the mule."
Blue Otis cackled. “You ever been to San Antonio, Deacon? To the Black Bull? It's a gambling club, dice, cards, like that, down by the river."
Deke shook his head. “I've been to San Antonio, but I must have missed the Black Bull."
Blind Pete leaned back in his chair. “Well, I'd say that's probably a good thing. Cause otherwise you might not be sitting here today, making Rafael mad with your big mouth. Me and Blue Otis, we escaped with a howling mob on our heels. They was getting ready to shoot us, stab us, lynch us, some damn thing, and it was all the fault of a Texas mule."
Blue Otis was nodding, grinning his toothless grin. “Pete, I know what I heard you say, and there was a woman involved. But you go ahead, you tell it."
"We was invited up there to San Antonio to play some blues at this gambling club. They was trying to keep the knifings down, the cops threatening to close them up if they didn't stop hauling dead bodies out of there every week. We didn't know about that till later. All we knew was the man said he would give us twenty dollars each to come play for a week, and the corn liquor was free and we could stay in the back room there. Twenty dollars, that was good money. So we borrowed a car from Sally-Rose’ husband and made us up a sack of bologna sandwiches and drove on across Texas.
"The Black Bull was rough, man. They was telling about a man got killed in a fight over a hand of cards, so they hauled him over to the craps table, let a dwarf stand on his body so he could see to throw the dice. It was that kind of club. Blue Otis goes in the back door to talk to the man, and I'm standing in the alley guarding the car. So this mule walks up. No bridle, no rope, nothing, and it shoved its head hard right into my balls. I hit it with my fist, and that damn mule takes a step forward and stands on my foot. I hit it again, and I say, ‘Get the hell off my foot.’ That mule don't move. I say, ‘What's wrong with you? You standing on my foot, stinking like a bow-legged mule.’”
"Blue Otis comes out the alley and we both push the mule and hit it on the ass with a stick and twist its ears, but it don't move and my foot is crushed. So then Otis pulls out his mouth harp, starts playing a blues. He moves off a little ways and damned if the mule don't get off my foot and start following him. Then the mule puts its head down again, goes after Otis’ balls. He makes it to the door of the club, I run around behind him and we squeeze through the door before the mule pins us again."
Blind Pete stopped and took a long drink of his iced tea. “Well, what happened next is a matter of dispute at the Black Bull to this very day. We go up to this little space they have cleared for us to play. I get my slide on. The mule is banging its head against the back door, trying to get in. And I said something like, ‘that damn Texas mule was trying to go after my balls', and I think I called it an ugly, bowlegged mule with raggedy ears. It must have been the blues I was playing caused all those crazy Texas cats to think I'm saying they women after my balls. And they thinking I had just called Texas women ugly, bowlegged, with raggedy ears. Next thing I know, every man in the joint, even the dwarf, is reaching in his jacket for a weapon. Little pearl handled revolvers, razors, flick knives, one man had a shotgun under his coat. So me and Otis, we grab our music and run like hell out the back door. Blue Otis leaps over the mule like he's running the hurdles in the Olympics. Then we was in the car and backing out of the alley, and the back door busts open and the men start pouring out. We going in reverse and the damn mule is chasing us and a wild pack of drunk Texas men is chasing the mule. We ain't been back to Texas since. When was that, Otis, 1951?” Blue Otis nodded. “Sometimes I think I see that mule, though, like its run after me all the way from Texas. If I'm not mistaken, that mule's name Deacon."
The old men howled at the story, and even Deke found himself smiling. Rafe leaned over, put a hand on his shoulder and spoke into his ear. “I guess you get to stay. The mule's name is usually Rafael."
"Somehow I think there was a Texas woman involved.” It was the old man in charge, the one Rafe had called Uncle Jimmy. He was whip-thin, wearing old fashioned-looking glasses with black frames, and his fac
e was so dark and wrinkled it reminded Deke of an old piece of saddle leather. “Maybe we should introduce everyone,” he said. “I'm James Hurt.” He pointed to the man sitting next to him. “This is Blue Otis Johnson and next to him is Blind Pete Watson. If you know anything about the blues, you'll know their names. Mrs. Sally-Rose Johnson is the cook, and she's Blue Otis’ cousin. And this is her place, so act nice. She don't put up with bad manners. And you're sitting next to Rafael Hurt, who's gonna be the next great bluesman come up from Miss'ippi."
Rafael looked up and smiled, and Blind Pete nodded. “Amen to that. The boy's got hands like an angel, just like you did, Jimmy, before the arthritis got you. I think he spent so much time when he was a kid listening to Sonny Boy on the King Biscuit radio hour that blues got built into his bones somewhere, built into his blood."
Rafael toyed with the last bit of ham on his plate. “Thanks, Uncle Pete."
"Don't go getting a big head, boy. You got lots of work still to do.” It was Blue Otis. “We're his teachers,” he told Deke. “He's coming on, but he's still young. He works hard, you got to give the boy that. And he's got that quality, what do you call it? I don't know the words. He's a bluesman, that's all."
Blue Otis was wearing a cobalt silk shirt in a pattern with gold diamonds and cobalt blue slacks. Deke had glimpsed gold socks under the table. The old men were dressed for a night out, but Rafe was wearing a white t-shirt with a little gravy stain and blue jeans.
This was sweet, a Christmas-time love-fest. Uncle Jimmy? Uncle Pete? What kind of good-ole-boy Mississippi crap was this? He was a news reporter. Did they really think he was buying this honey and bullshit? “So, they're your family?” He turned to Rafe, who looked back at him warily. “Y'all don't look much alike. How is it you and Mr. James Hurt over there have the same last name? The usual reason for Mississippi?"
Rafe's face flushed red, then went dead white, but he wouldn't look up and meet Deke's eye.
