Southern Select (The Dutch Curridge Series Book 2)

by Tim Bryant

"Well, what angle do you see?" I said.

  "Think it's one of the reformers?" he said.

  There were a number of people, mostly preachers and do-gooder types, who were always trying to stir up forces to shut down Hell's Half Acre and Jacksboro Highway. They'd already run Top O' The Hill Terrace out of business. While I wouldn't have put anything past them, I didn't see why they would pick on Peechie's. It was just barely in the Acre, and cops hung out there as well as riff raff like me and Slant.

  "If that boy lives in the same place as Patrick did, maybe that's the connection," said Melvin.

  That made no sense at all. Hick Hinson hadn't lived anywhere near the apartment on Sixth Street, and he was the one who caught the fatal case of lead poisoning. Still, it did serve to remind me that a trip to see Ray's uncle might provide some useful piece of evidence.

  "I asked Ray if he could think of any reason anyone would be out to get him," I said.

  Ray's expression said he'd never given the question serious thought, which gave me my answer.

  "Like someone wanted him behind the bar so they could shoot him?" Bismuke said.

  It was a long shot. Too long to really be called a shot at all.

  "How did he get the job?" Slant Face said.

  "He said his uncle asked if he wanted to make a little extra money," I said.

  Wasn't very likely that Uncle Wiggily would set up his own nephew, and a paying tenant to boot. Roads were going nowhere except around and around. I lit a cig and rolled down my window. I sucked in a lungful of cool air and exhaled long and deliberate.

  "Where does his uncle work? In Dallas?" Slant Face said.

  “There’s a cop behind us,” said Walter Bismuke.

  I turned sideways and saw the squad car turn off Commerce and pull into line behind us. He might have been coming from the crime scene, but he wasn't going toward headquarters, and he didn't seem to be in any kind of rush.

  "He works in Dallas somewhere," I said.

  Bismuke slammed his hand on the steering wheel just as the red and white splashed across the inside roof of the car and lit up the inside of the Savoy. The deputy hit his siren, and a sound like a dying animal growled at us.

  "Goddamn it."

  Bismuke pulled over and rolled to a stop.

  "One me to step out and put a new hole or two in him?" Merriweather said.

  He seemed a little too excited.

  "Everybody pile out," I said. "Merriweather, try to keep your pecker in your pants."

  I knew the deputy straight away.

  "We meet again," I said.

  "Do I know you?" he said.

  I dropped my cig and twisted it out.

  "If you say you don't, it'll hurt my feelings," I said. "Not to mention letting me know you're a worthless goddamn liar."

  He got real nervous, like maybe he should've thought twice before pulling over a car full of people who were minding their own business. I laughed.

  "Radio in and tell Wiley King it's his dear old friend Alvis Curridge."

  The deputy stepped near enough for me to read his name tag. Dewey Mitchell. Lieutenant Mitchell.

  "Mr. Curridge," Mitchell said, "you've got yourself a right smart mouth. I'm not sure how smart you really are though. I have a mind to line you and your little outfit up, cuff you and haul every last one of you in with me."

  He was a little guy, all bones and skin. We could have taken him in no time flat. Dulcie could've done it.

  "Ah, come on, Lieutenant," said Melvin, "what kind of charge are you gonna stick us with?"

  "Prostitution is illegal in Tarrant County, pal," Mitchell said. "Between you and me, if the Good Lord himself ain’t been able to stop it, ain’t no reason for me to think I can do better. But it’s on the books, and going by the books is what I'm paid to do.”

  He lined us up against the passenger side of the Savoy and went down the line, patting us down and taking a taking guns, hair combs, and cigarettes. Then he got to Merriweather.

  "Holy Joe!"

  Mitchell jumped back like Pete the Python had jumped up and bit him on the nose. I didn't know what happened. Then I remembered. Merriweather's Model 28.

  "Where in God's name did you get that?" he said.

  I stepped forward quick.

  "You may have heard that there was a dead bartender turned up at Peechie Keen's Bar and Canteen tonight. If you haven't heard, maybe you would do well to call in and confirm with your superiors."

  Mitchell started backing toward his car. Maybe to radio in. I wasn't through yet.

  "We're actively working this case. Call Sheriff King. He'd be really interested to know how you pulled us over while we were in pursuit of a significant lead."

  Mitchell left, walking back to his squad car where he leaned in and talked for a couple of minutes, never appearing to get close to his radio.

  "What's gonna happen if he calls King?" Bismuke said.

  "He won't," I said. "That's just inviting trouble."

  "Is he talking to himself?" Slant Face said.

  We twisted and strained but couldn't see anything but Mitchell leaning on the passenger-side door and yapping away. He scratched his head and kicked at rocks and finally walked back up to where we were, still lined up and ready to be marched off to fate.

  "Okay, boys," he said. "Your story seems to check out."

  His entire manner seemed different. Not apologetic, but like anything he had to apologize for had never happened in the first place.

  "I hope to God Ray Naylor wasn't the boy that was shot. His daddy's gonna come down on all of us like a ton of bricks if he is."

  I said no, Ray was copacetic.

  Mitchell smiled.

  "Well, gentlemen, I've got one of your comrades back here," he said. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna release him into your recognizance and let you get on your way."

  He whistled and waved his arm, the back door of the squad car opened, and Pudsey Robinette magically appeared before us, looking a little sheepish but not much more than usual. This time, I was glad to see him.

  30

  Seven passengers in a Plymouth Savoy is the automotive equivalent of a mouthful. Every time we'd get spit out, we'd come back one stronger, but we were starting to push our luck.

  "One last thing," Lieutenant Mitchell said before he watched us roll away like a car full of clowns. "Mr. Robinette mentioned you were working for Omer Simms. That right?"

  "He the one they call Cat Man?" I said.

  I had never heard him called anything other than Cat Man.

  "I don't know if you're aware of the fact that Mr. Simms is involved in the local smack trade. We've had our eye on him for some time now. I'd be careful getting too close to him."

  Simms didn't have a reputation for being a smackhead, so the news kind of surprised me. Most of the musicians smoked reefer like it was their job and the pay was good, but I didn't know many working players who messed with the hard stuff, mostly because they didn't make enough to afford it.

  "I'll keep that in mind, Lieutenant," I said. "I'm actually just checking on a guitar of his that went missing."

  "You might be getting into more than you think," he said. "Just take care."

  If Mitchell was right, the hidden compartment in the guitar was probably being used to smuggle drugs. That threw a whole new light on things. I told myself he only wanted me to get the guitar back. I could do that much and walk away without losing much sleep over it.

  "Did the Lieutenant just say the kid's name was Raymond Naylor?" Melvin Chambers said.

  "Naylor, yeah," I said. "Ray Naylor."

  "Do you know who Raymond Naylor is?" he said.

  "The new bartender at Peechie Keen's Bar and Canteen," I said.

  "And the son of Jack Naylor."

  Bismuke almost ran off the road.

  "The special agent?" he said.

  "Special agent with the FBI Field Office in Dallas," Melvin said.

  I seldom ran into anybody that high up. I mean, I knew the
FBI had a field office in Dallas. Knew right where it was on St. Paul and Main. But I'd never been in the place and never knowingly spoke a word to anyone who did. I glanced at Slant Face. Was this a piece of the puzzle? If so, how did it fit? I wanted to pull my notebook out and start working. Instead, I took out my bottle of whiskey and took a long slow pull.

  Merriweather cranked up the radio, which suited me. They were playing “Skylark” by Maxine Sullivan, and I took the opportunity to mention that I had seen Maxine play a show with Jimmie Lunceford in Dallas, about a year after the war. Just a few months later, Lunceford, about my age, dropped dead from poisoning somewhere on the west coast. Seems a cook in the restaurant where he was eating took a strong dislike to serving negroes.

  Lunceford died a long way from the south, and it helped me to see that prejudice wasn’t unique to us. When you got right down to it, people were mean and hateful every damn where you looked.

  I took another drink and tried to pull myself away from my surroundings. It was something I was able to do every now and again. Disassociate myself. Disconnect. When things were good, when the whiskey was working for me, I could go into my own world and get a certain kind of perspective that I had trouble finding under normal conditions. All my senses seemed to heighten, and I became more aware. Fine tuning, I called it. Ruthie said it was nothing more than good old-fashioned daydreaming, and maybe she was right. Occasionally, the whiskey would go bad and I would take a wrong turn and totally lose myself for a while. The trick, most of the time, was to keep my eyes focused, keep my mind thinking.

  I looked at Slant and wondered what I looked like to him. I saw the way his right eyebrow grew wilder than the left one. I wondered if that was what gave him his irregular appearance. Or maybe his facial features caused it to grow that way. I watched how his index finger tap tap tapped against his pants leg, as though all of his nervous energy had drained down to that one digit and the rest of him was calm and unaffected, not noticing. I wanted to think that he could at least see that I was working toward something or away from another thing. I wanted to talk it out but not through and around everyone else in the car. What I wanted was to talk to Slant Face and Ruthie Nell. Maybe just Ruthie Nell.

  "Say Cat Man's used the guitar to transfer smack to a buyer," I say. "He shows up for the gig, plays the whole night with a bag of smack, maybe a whole bunch of bags, stored away inside the Kay. The show's over, he packs up and heads for home. 'Oh shit, I left my guitar.'"

  Ruthie would follow that.

  "He goes back to pick it up the next morning. 'Can you believe, I forgot my guitar.' Well, it's right over there where he left it. Only when he gets it home, he sees that the smack is all gone, and can you believe it? It's been replaced with a nice big roll of bills."

  "So he got rooked," she says. "One morning, he showed up and said 'I forgot my guitar,' only the boss isn't in and some kid behind the bar says 'what guitar? I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't seen any guitar.'"

  "He's probably getting heat from somebody above him," I say.

  "He knew who had the guitar all along," she said. "He was using you."

  Not unlike Jerry Crum using two-bit flunkies to do his dirty work. The thought didn't please me.

  "Ernest Muchado," she said.

  "Goddamn it all to hell."

  Dulcie jumped, and everyone looked at me.

  "What was that about?" she said.

  Slant looked at me like one of us had just woken up from a bad dream.

  "We gotta go to the Rose Room," I said.

  Bismuke slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road, coming to a standstill across three or four parking spaces.

  "We'll go to the Rose Room to celebrate," said Merriweather. "I've got to take care of a little business first."

  I looked out in front of me. I knew where we were. Sixth Street was straight ahead three blocks and then make a left. The Rose Room, on the corner of Ninth and Commerce, was a right turn, right there and then.

  I looked at Bismuke. He looked up Main, then down Commerce. He looked at Merriweather and then at me. I nodded. Three minutes later, we were sliding into a half filled parking lot. The Rose Room was notable in Fort Worth as being the very first club to integrate negro and white crowds. It had been a negro establishment through most of the forties. That had begun to change when T-Bone Walker started playing there regular. Month after month, more white guys started sneaking in to see what was going on. Then, they'd go home and tell their friends. By the early fifties, the weekend crowds were pretty well mixed. There were few problems. People came to hear the music and have a good time.

  "This ain't Sixth Street," said Merriweather.

  He was right. It wasn't.

  31

  The moon was angling through the trees that grew along Commerce, and it was casting long and dramatic shadows across the lot. You could hear music coming from inside the Rose Room, a rhythm section that sounded it was trying to punch holes through metal and a brass band. The reason you knew it was a jukebox, the parking lot was half empty.

  It was still early. Within a few hours, tonight's band would be setting up and the crowds would be arriving, filling up the lot first and then the parking spaces for a block in any direction. That was fine with me. I wasn't coming for the show.

  The Rose Room was a small, unassuming place. Just a room, unlike the Rose Room of Dallas which was an old-fashioned ballroom. But the Rose Room had class. You could tell that with one foot in the door. A stage area that looked like something you might imagine in New York or Chicago, forty or fifty tables with real table clothes and napkins. I'd seen people get up and dance before, when T-Bone Walker got the place swinging, but it wasn't a true dance hall.

  I'd seen some good shows at the Rose Room. Walker three or four times, Lester Young twice, Wynonie Harris. The bar area was straight across the room, with the bandstand on the right and the jukebox against the wall right in between. Everyone was congregated in that area. I could see that much, although I couldn't tell much more until I'd walked halfway there.

  "Yoo hoo," said a lady behind the bar.

  I lifted my hand and waved like I was some long lost cousin returned from the war.

  "Mr. Muchado on the premises?" I said.

  "He's in his office," she said. "Is he expecting you?"

  I told her I didn't reckon so. A young negro boy who had been filling the ice box with ice was sent to fetch him, and I did the polite thing and ordered a drink.

  "Who's on the bill tonight?" I said.

  The lady behind the bar said she didn't know, but somebody over at one of the tables said it was a package show. The Rose Room did a lot of package shows. Sometimes they'd bring a national tour in, and you'd get a chance to see some of the acts that were popular on the radio. Sometimes it was just a package of local bands or acts from over in Dallas. Muchado also had his hand in the Vocalion Label, which had a Dallas office and recorded regional race acts, mostly blues stuff. Some of it was pretty good.

  The little boy reappeared and told the bartender to send me back. I stood there while she made my drink and then she told me to go straight through the servers' doors and hang a left, go through the kitchen until I saw a door with a sign on it that said Come In And Die on it.

  "And what do I do then?"

  "You might wanna knock first," she said.

  Slant and I did just as I was instructed and found the door, just as we'd been told. The sign on it actually read Come In! Someone had come along later and added the warning. I wondered if Muchado had done it or one of his hapless employees.

  "She said I oughta knock," I said.

  I reached out to do as much, but a voice called out from behind it, telling me to come on in, and so we did.

  "Should I be prepared to die?" I said.

  Muchado turned in his chair to greet us, throwing his hand out. He was chomping on a cigar that didn't appear to have been lit.

  "Always be prepared to die, Mr. Curridge," he said. "A
lways."

  I was impressed that he knew my name. I wondered if he'd been expecting a visit.

  "I'm here on business, Mr. Muchado," I said. "It seems a guitar belonging to one of my clients has come up missing, and he thinks you might be able to help us locate it."

  Muchado stood up, and when he did, he kept on going. He was close to a foot taller than me, but he was mostly all north to south. I may have outweighed him with my hat on.

  "You're telling me one of two things," he said. "If you are offering me a job as your assistant in tracking this musical instrument down, I'm afraid I'll have to pass. My work here at the Rose keeps me far too busy to entertain such an offer. On the other hand, if you're accusing me of something, I would like to have that accusation spelled out, so that we can pursue this matter with a clearer understanding of what's expected."

  He looked at Slant and then back at me.

  "So which one is it, boys?"

  His words were impressive, but, if they were supposed to make me tuck tail and run, they didn't have so much effect. If I backed up a little, it was only so I could see him a little better.

  "I was paid to retrieve a guitar," I said. "I believe you have it."

  He looked at me like a cat watching a baby bird. I didn't feel like a bird. Muchado got on a telephone and told somebody up front to send for Jackie.

  "So this is what you do to put food on the table?" Muchado said. "You find the things people misplace."

  "I find the things people take and try to hide," I said.

  "It seems like a boy's job, doesn't it?" he said.

  Jackie, the same boy who led us back to Muchado's office, showed up, and Muchado told him to go back and look in the storage room and see if any of the musicians had left a guitar back there.

  "Do people make a habit of storing their stuff here when they leave?" Slant Face said.

  "People leave all kinds of things," Muchado said. "We could keep a fella like you in business, trying to return everything to its proper owner."

  I had never liked Muchado. I'd only run into him on occasion, mostly when I was there at the Rose Room to see Lester Young when he came through town, something like that. I'd never spoken to him or hung around with him like I had Pappy Kirkwood at the 2222. It didn't seem like any of that was about to change.