The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey)

by Jason Jack Miller

  "So that's it?"

  "I've answered your question as thoroughly as I can."

  "What do you think? You personally? Man to man."

  Father James stood, and walked over to the sink. He held his teacup over the drain and flipped it over, shaking out the last few drops. He rinsed the cup out, wiped it dry with a paper towel, then said, "I've already told you what I think."

  On my way through the pews I tightened my scarf. Before I left the vestibule I called Dani. No answer. I hung up before it went to voicemail, then called right back. "Hey, Dani? This is Preston. Sorry I missed you, I didn't expect to end up staying down there so long. I found out a lot and I'd love to tell you about it. Give me a call if you want to get together again. Maybe I can meet you in the library, if you're still up there. All right... Good-bye."

  The only way I could get to the library or anywhere on campus—except for some of the frat houses and the bars up on Sunnyside—was by starting from the Mountainlair. I bundled up and crept forward in that general direction.

  With my head down and my eyes shut to the wind, I shuffled. I felt a drunk coming on. A whiskey drunk. I wanted to smoke. Marlboros. I could feel the soft paper against my lips and could smell the match come to life. I could feel the smoke catch in my lungs. Making me cough a little. I'd watch the paper flake, then disappear into the night. Somewhere in the middle of all those thoughts my phone rang. Like my sour little prayer had been answered.

  I knew before I even got the phone out of my pocket that it was Dani.

  Dani's old Mercedes didn't feel quite as impressive the second time around. The seats weren't as warm. The windows weren't as clear. The music a little harsher. The company a little colder.

  "I'm sorry you had to come into town. I didn't know there were two libraries." Saying it, like that, seemed to validate her frustration. "I would've hopped the PRT up to Evansdale if I would've known."

  Asking her to run by the apartment first so I could grab a change of clothes and my Tele made me feel even smaller. I apologized as I got out of the car and ran up the steps. I threw a few clean shirts into the backpack with all the books and CDs in it. Right before shutting my door I noticed the notebook with all my songs in it sitting in a milk crate. And the record. I threw those into the pack too.

  By the time I got back to the car she'd softened a bit. She said, "I haven't eaten all day. Are you hungry?"

  "Let me take you out," I said. "Someplace where we can talk?"

  "It's late, don't you think? Tomorrow I am driving to Hagerstown to meet a client." A demand disguised as a question. "I've already ordered."

  I thought pizza or Chinese. She'd called Edo Mama's and ordered sushi. Still wanting to honor my offer to take her out, I ran inside to pick it up. Forty bucks for raw fish made my neck hot. Forty bucks was most of what I had left until I sold my Marshall and pedals.

  Up in Dani's old apartment old floors creaked a meek welcome. Worn Persian rugs purred beneath my socks. The old electric light bulbs glowed like candles behind their dusty shades. She took my jacket and my bag and set them on the couch. I followed her into the kitchen and put the sushi on the table.

  "Please, just sit. Tell me about your adventure." She poured water into a black, cast iron teapot and turned on a burner.

  While she measured loose tea from a small paper sack I told her about Jamie and the fire hall and the song. She placed small tea cups at each place setting, nodding. I could tell when somebody isn't listening. When she returned to the cupboard I stopped talking about it altogether and asked her what she had to do in Hagerstown tomorrow.

  She composed a reply. "Nothing, really." Her voice trailed off, then picked right back up, like she'd talked herself out of feeling something. "More of the same. Contracts and shipping orders."

  I didn't say anything.

  She raised her voice. "Translating books is not the only way I make money, Preston. I am free to choose whom I want to work with and the type of project. It may sound vain or proud, but I don't give a damn what people think when I take a job like this." The kettle whistled, and she slid over to the stove. She let the water sit a bit before pouring it through the tea leaves. She picked the teapot up by the handle with a cloth napkin and brought it over to the table. "I say let everybody write what she wants. Nothing at all matters until a writer puts it on paper."

  She picked up a bit of eel at the end of her chopsticks. "Publishers think they are like gods—like I have to be grateful for their breadcrumbs. A world without writers and literature is a sad place. A world without publishers is most certainly not. I remind myself of this often so I don't become bitter."

  After a thoughtful pause, she added, "If it is not written on paper it never happened."

  I sipped tea and listened while she picked through bits of tuna and salmon with fish eggs and mayonnaise and talked about books I never heard of. I didn't have an appetite for anything but the tea.

  While she showered I drifted back into the living room. Faint singing rose over the hiss of the water. Her voice crackled like sunlight through fog. I took my Tele out of its case and settled onto her couch. After running through exercises and scales I tried to remember my song. But the phrasing and tone eluded me. It seemed simple—an A minor, an E, and a D. Or B7. Maybe the timing dragged a few beats; something sounded weird or off. As I played I sang, humming along, playing chords and variations of chords.

  On the counter Dani's phone rattled to life, screaming like a baby with a dirty diaper. I stood up and looked at the incoming call. Clay. He must belong to the shirts and ties hanging in the closet. The guy from the Met the night I met Mikey. I told myself I didn't know her well enough to get jealous and went back to my guitar.

  "Preston Black couldn't eat and he couldn't drink..." I sang, trying to get the rest.

  Dani's singing from the other side of the door came to a stop. She let the door drift open. "Should we have something to drink?" she said, wearing a pair of white towels, one wrapped around her middle, one around her head. "I have a bottle of bourbon we can try. On the shelf by the refrigerator. Glasses are above the sink."

  I got off of the couch and laid the Tele back in its case. She went from the bathroom to her bedroom, then back to the bathroom. I ducked into the small kitchen. Whiskeys, absinthe, schnapps and a scotch stood like kids in gym class hoping to get picked first. "Woodford Personal Selection?" I asked, giving each label a glance.

  "That's the one."

  I took two short, heavy-bottomed glasses from the shelf and poured three fingers into each glass. She walked in from the bedroom wearing dark blue pajamas, like a man's, but silk, and met me in front of the couch. She sipped a little, and said, "Mmm, it's very good? It is from a banker from Munich who invests for a consortium of breeders from Shelbyville, Kentucky. A very easy job." Dani looked deeply into her glass between sips, attempting to read the tea leaves or something. "Sometimes I don't feel good about doing so many contracts and documents instead of novels, but it lets me stay."

  I didn't follow. "Stay where? Here?"

  "If I renew my visa then I am no longer so... invisible. I am 'on the radar?' and I'm not so ready to leave. Doing these jobs, where clients like to be discreet lets me remain discreet." She sipped and savored the bourbon for a moment, then finally said, "Sundays always make me sad. It's guilt, I think." She tried to smile, but her thoughts got in the way.

  "Sunday's when you're supposed to do nothing. Isn't that one of the big three?" I joked, but she didn't laugh. "Commandments?"

  Disregarding my comment, she said, "First, we lined up in the coat room. During the winter the custodian kept the garbage cans in there so he didn't have to go outside. The smaller children needed help putting on their coats and scarves and mittens. In a line we'd go into the gray morning, happy to be outside. All of us in the same gray coats and scarves. The only color was our pink cheeks. Far below I could see Charles Bridge. I believed it had to be better on the other side."

  Just listening to th
ose few sentences made me realize how good I had it with mom and Pauly. I muttered, "Singing was the only reason I liked church. I'd belt out all those old songs, especially at Christmas. The nuns told my mother I should be an altar boy. My mom didn't know for sure if I'd been baptized. Soon after she began inquiring, the priest asked her not to bring me back."

  Dani smiled and went on with her own memories. She said, "Sometimes I miss the smells. Especially the candles. The beeswax smells like devotion, maybe? We always arrived early so the sestra could pray the Rosary. Always the same pew, always next to Christ's face is wiped by Veronica."

  She took a moment to savor the memory. When her smile faded I asked, "What did they teach you about the Devil?"

  "The Devil? Why do you want to know about the Devil?"

  "It's been on my mind. I can't seem to shake it. The song."

  She accepted the challenge with a smile. "Well, the communists didn't believe it was healthy to tolerate thoughts of the supernatural. All state art abided by their doctrine of social realism, which was meant to transform the spirit of the masses in a way that reflected that ideological rebirth of our nation.

  She stared at her shelves of books like she could get answers from them with just a look. "But I always believed the Devil could exist one of two ways. He was either a malicious, magical force. Perhaps a formidable opponent to all but the most powerful saints. Or, maybe the Devil is a sophisticate, one who leads a literate and lavish sort of life. You know, he likes fine food and drink and art and rich fabrics."

  Like you, I thought, then immediately felt horrible for thinking it.

  She took my glass and went into the kitchen for more bourbon. "Some Czechs, like our president Václav Havel, defied the party and wrote what they wanted to write. A play that comes to mind is Pokoušení—Temptation. It's like Faust?"

  I shrugged.

  "In Pokoušení, a scientist, Foustka, practices black magic. It is all very biting and satirical, but Havel meant to show how the people maintained their beliefs despite the regime's attempts to suppress them. The devil is an informer named Fistula—means, like a birth defect, but sounds like Mephistopheles. Foustka seduces Marketa, the woman he loves, with eloquent words he learns from Fistula. But to keep pursuing black magic he must lie to everybody by claiming to be an informer also."

  Her hands poked and jabbed the air like a cat toying with a mouse. "When Marketa speaks up on his behalf, to protect him, Foustka does not defend her. He cannot take a side. He has no convictions. And when he falls, he finally understands, saying that he was arrogant and he thought he could exploit the devil without signing away his own soul. But he learned the devil cannot be deceived."

  I asked, "How is that different than the original Faust?"

  Dani replied, "Faust was not cast into hell because his intentions were not purely malevolent or selfish. That is how he sidestepped his contract. In Pokoušení, Fistula says if the devil exists, he must exist in ourselves. A very different ending. But still I admire Havel. He is an excellent choice for our first president. He is proud, just like Prague. He is artistic, just like Prague. He is an achiever, and he is admired, just like Prague."

  She kept talking, and I watched her, afraid that if I took my eyes off of her for even a second she'd disappear. After a few more drinks she fell asleep there, at the other end of the couch. I poured myself another.

  Only after I finished that drink, and another after that, and then one more, did I finally fall asleep myself. At some point Dani got up and covered me with a warm quilt, then went into her bedroom to sleep.

  "Remember, no matter who wins or loses, this is a game. ABC News in New York City confirms this unspeakable tragedy..."

  Tender little rye seedlings poke up through cracks in the sidewalk. Waist-high rye stretches down Central Park West and down 78th, rustling as cars roll through.

  Nothing is real. This is my statement.

  All these little kids playing tag in the rye, stomping it into the concrete.

  The seedlings tickle my cheek.

  I'm sure the large part of him must be Holden Caulfield, who is the main person in the book.

  The small part of him must be the devil.

  Maybe he was the type of guy who could get a bang just buying a Charter Arms .38 Special revolver. Nothing like a few bullets in the back just to find out where the ducks went in winter. Nothing phonier than bleeding to death on a cold sidewalk while the city goes on like nothing happened.

  Four bullets. Just to make sure I'm dead. Seems like three too many.

  Like I ever stood a chance. They all thought my world ended on a cold rooftop above Westminster one January a long time ago. Better than a cold sidewalk, just steps from my front door. Holden Caulfield has to grow up some time. Sooner would've been better than later. This morning would've been better than tonight.

  Somebody will cry tonight. A wife, a son, at least. Maybe more. Somebody will miss me when I'm gone. Somebody will watch a cop car roll by, wondering 'Will he make it?'

  New York City. Bleeding where whores shake and kids make. Central Park West where I lay me down to sleep. So far from Mimi and Mendips.

  Don't let me down.

  When they run past me to the cliff, I let them all fall. Nobody bothered to catch me. Not even St. Luke.

  "Hard to go back to the game after that news flash."

  John Lennon couldn't eat and he couldn't drink.

  John Lennon couldn't eat and he couldn't drink.

  Nothing's going to change my world.

  Dolphins win.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cold water rushed down the drain. The ambient glow from the streetlights brought just enough brightness into the bathroom to let me see my face half-illuminated in a dusky blue light. I had to walk the dream off.

  The cold NYC sidewalk on my cheek had given me a chill. I heard sirens, saw city lights reflected in the windshields of cars on Central Park West. Yoko screamed. I even felt them lift me into the cop car. All I knew was that we were headed to Roosevelt Hospital. Christmas lights and wreaths drooped from some of the poles, but not all of them. Then I woke up.

  I felt a hangover steeping in my gut. I thought maybe I could make myself throw up. The sulfur from Chapman's bullets bit the back of my nose, stuck to my sinuses.

  My breath came back to me in the living room. I lay on the couch to sleep. I didn't want to wake Dani up. But out in the kitchen I heard somebody rummage through a cabinet. I rubbed my eyes and stretched and went out to apologize to her.

  "Preston," John Lennon said in a very narrow voice, "Have a seat." He poured brandy into a second glass and pushed it across the table. John looked just like he did when he played Instant Karma on Top of the Pops. His hair had just been cut short and he seemed agitated, like the primal scream therapy hadn't kicked in yet.

  I almost asked what he was doing here and he said, "If you knew he'd shoot, why didn't you stop him?"

  My reply got caught in my throat like a hiccup, and I took a quick drink to ease it out.

  Lennon said, "If it was you on the sidewalk and me on the street I'd have let you know. It's the right thing to do, right?"

  "But I didn't know. I thought he was one of us."

  "Oh, I see." John took a drink. He held the glass by the stem and swirled the brandy around. "One of us, huh? Like you, me, us, 'one of us'? Or one of you 'one of us'? Big difference, you know."

  "I know. I meant just one of the crowd. Like, as harmless as any of us."

  "That's a bit like saying he's one of us murderers and thieves, only more so." He drained his glass and poured himself another. He held the bottle at me.

  I finished mine and tipped my glass toward him.

  He went on, "We're all Hitler inside. We're all Christ inside. I'm not keen on the idea, but it's true, isn't it? We've all got a little bit of the devil in us."

  "I guess. I always thought it was just me. Before the song and all this, it wasn't so complex. I played my music and tried to be decent.
"

  I could tell by the way he leaned over the table he'd grown frustrated with me. He struggled to keep his voice low so Dani couldn't hear. "That's just it, though, what've you done besides just being yourself? If you'd have seen the gun would you have tried to stop him?"

  "If I'd have seen the gun I would've jumped on him and held him on the ground. But I didn't see it. I wasn't even there. I'm sorry." I felt really horrible. Guilty. Like I was personally responsible for his murder.

  "It's too late now, isn't it? I mean, I'm over here, all... And you're over there, all..."

  "I know. I wonder what it would've been like if they could've saved you at the hospital?"

  "What it would've been like? Is that really what you mean? Or did you mean to say, 'would we have gotten back together'? That's all anybody wants to know. But none of it matters, I suppose."

  He was mostly right, so I didn't say anything.

  "Look, if you have to smile when you don't want to smile you do it, because nobody gets hurt, right?" He pushed his glass away, like he was finished, so I did the same thing. "But when somebody's going to pull a gun, or push your girl in front of a train or steal your mum's purse you have got to make a choice whether you want to get involved or not. It's not as easy as forcing a smile."

  I nodded.

  "Nodding is the same as smiling. It's easy. The hard thing would've been to have kept your friend Stu from leaving."

  "I tried. I begged him, man. I went up to the university and got him info on the GI Bill. He'd made up his mind all ready."

  "So you saw the gun, but didn't try hard enough to stop it going off. What'll you do when you have to stop a bullet from getting your brother?"

  "Are you telling me something is going to happen to one of them?"

  He scratched the stubble on his chin. "Let's just say I'm showing you the gun."

  He stood up and pulled his scarf tight. I wanted to shake his hand but he walked by like I was going to ask for an autograph. I followed him to the front door. On his way out he said, "Do you remember what Jimi said?"