The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey)

by Jason Jack Miller

  I didn't know who he was talking about.

  "Didn't think so. What if you saw the gun and it was pointed at you?" His eyebrows went up above the rim of his glasses.

  The steps creaked as he made his way down. He shoved his hands into his front pocket just before disappearing into the darkness.

  I went into the bathroom, shut the door, and with the light still off, tried looking into the mirror.

  After a few minutes Dani knocked.

  "It's open," I said, afraid of my voice, and sat on the edge of the tub.

  She sat down next to me without saying anything. For a few minutes she just rubbed my back. Soft strokes along my shoulders. When she got up to leave she held her hand against my cheek for a moment. She said, "I have to get ready."

  I studied the septic patterns of spearmint and blue sky tiles in the floor for another minute. Thinking about the dream made me remember that I loved Pauly and had to call him. Sooner, rather than later, before the rift turned into an ocean.

  Over the next hour Dani transformed herself from the girl I saw last night to the woman I met at Isaac's somewhere between Mudhoney and the Pixies. Dressing for the Lower East Side instead of Sunnyside. While she put herself together I threw on clean jeans and a new shirt and waited on the couch. I flipped through my old notebook and saw more than a few starts of half-decent songs, and one or two that may have been worthy of a revisit. They were honest and simple. I wondered how they'd sound on a record, if people would like them, if I'd be able to ever make a living playing my songs.

  My phone buzzed, and since Dani was busy primping in the other room, I figured it had to be Pauly. The text said

  I stared at the text. I knew who it was from, and it wasn't Father James.

  I hit REPLY and thought of a way to ask without coming across as crazy. When I realized there was no easy way to do that, I typed 'JOHN?' and hit send.

  Dani's announcement that she was ready to go broke the spell. I carried her bag down the dark steps, and helped her into the cold car. I shivered the whole way to town. The air felt really crisp at seven AM. Mountaineer Doughnuts was the only place in town I knew of that opened this early. Pearl, an older lady with a bad dye job sat us at a booth that looked out onto Spruce. But the windows were cold, so we strayed to the warm end of the bench.

  Dani whispered, "All women in Prague have hair the same color as her." She pointed at the waitress. "When I was little I thought this was strange. But a sestra told me that because of chemical shortages at the factories, this is the only color available. I wonder if there is a shortage here now, too."

  I said, "Well, don't ask her."

  When the waitress returned, Dani ordered egg whites and rye toast. I got buckwheats and sausage. She said mine looked better and helped herself to half. But I wasn't hungry anymore, and sipped my coffee. I asked if she'd have more tea.

  She said, "I will have to leave soon."

  "You can have dessert, right? Maybe a doughnut?"

  But she didn't reply. Her weak smile, apologetic and endearing, reminded me that I already knew she had places to be today. Reminded me that I was not the only guy she spent time with. She said, "Tonight we can pick up here. I have a long drive, and unless the client gets chatty or the weather gets worse I'll be back in town this evening."

  I nodded and looked out the window.

  She checked her phone and said, "Maybe I can stay just a little bit longer." She rested her fingers on the back of my hand. "Perhaps the dreams are a way for you to move on? Your mind is clearing itself of the images and ideas it no longer needs."

  "I suppose. But it wasn't the content of the dreams as much as the realism. I felt the cold sidewalk against my cheek."

  "I stopped remembering my dreams when I realized my dreams would always be dreams. Melodramatic? Maybe, but for me, not dreaming became an act of escape." She sipped her tea. "Out of spite a sestra who thought I dreamt too much told me everything—how I was left in the chléb košík—like a bread basket? A small door in the gate with a bell, so a mother can leave a baby like a milkman leaving milk."

  "That's a very sad story."

  She changed expressions, forcing a laugh. "Who could be happy with so many memories hanging in the air like clouds? By nature, I am not a happy person. I wasn't raised to know happy, only right or wrong. Always asking myself, 'Is it a sin?' anytime I deviated from the sestras' ideals. But I want to pursue happiness." She checked her face in a small mirror she took from her purse. "If it hadn't been for the revolution I'd never have had the opportunity."

  "Have you found happiness?"

  "I am pursuing it." She smiled. "And I do not plan to stop pursuing it, even after I find it."

  She pulled a crisp twenty from a thin black wallet, folded it lengthwise and set it on the table.

  I said, "I feel like just as I get a glimpse of who you really are it's time for you to go." I stood and helped her with her coat and scarf then waited for a kiss. She cupped my chin in her hand and gave me a tiny peck on the cheek. Hoping for more, I followed her outside.

  The cold poked through my shirt like the wind was blowing needles into my skin. "I guess you'll give me a call when you want to see me."

  I held open her door. My fingers almost stuck to the handle.

  "Would you like to see me tonight?" she said, with mock disinterest.

  "Uh, yeah. I'd love to."

  "Then I will call you."

  "Be safe. And think warm thoughts." I shut the door and held my hand up.

  Back inside, I spiked my coffee with a little creamer and took out my old notebook. The dry-rotted gumband that had held it together broke when I slid it over the cover. I tried to knot it, but it broke again. My fingertips smelled like rubber.

  Pearl refilled my coffee, saying something about taking a table 'from real customers'. As the sun got higher students started to roll in and I kind of saw what she'd meant. At ten 'til nine she swiped the twenty and cleared the table of everything but my notebook and the cup of coffee, which I held in my hand. As I put my coat on, my mom came out from the back. Right off the bat she asked where the girl had gone.

  "To work."

  "Where's she work?" She tied her apron and put her pad into a pocket. "A bar?"

  "From home. But she had to meet a client."

  "What'd you do to Pauly? He called me and told me you two had words."

  "I didn't do anything to Pauly. Pauly needs to grow up."

  "He said the same thing about you." She put her hands on her hips. She'd already picked a side.

  "You really believe it was my fault. For a second I thought you were playing." I gathered my notebook.

  "The devil's keeping you from getting saved. You can't pick the time when you can be saved. Think on that." She went into the kitchen before I had a chance to walk away.

  The sidewalk along Spruce looked a hell of a lot sunnier than Walnut, so I walked that way. As soon as I crossed High just up from the Warner Theater I saw Mick's Caddy sitting out back like a ripe apple. Chrome bumpers shined like salt couldn't stick to it.

  I strolled down and rapped on the shop window.

  Mick whipped around like nine in the morning was prime time for smash and grabs. He had a lot to learn about gangstas and meth freaks.

  "Look at this precious little sunbeam," Mick said snapping the locks off.

  "Lock it," he said as it swung shut behind me. "You hiding from the law? Can't think of any other reason why you'd be here this early."

  "Stayed with Dani last night." I set the Tele by the counter and leaned my bag against it so it wouldn't fall over. I left my coat on.

  "Dani's a woman? It's not Daniel?" He studied me over the top of his glasses.

  "Danicka."

  "She Polack?"

  "Czech."

  "Same."

  "Said the Dago."

  "How l
ong you been seeing her?" Now that things had gotten decidedly less interesting he went back to his paperwork. He rifled through pink layaway receipts. Counting his eggs before they could hatch. I collected a hundred of them since I bought my first guitar. Mick'd always be like, 'I'm tired of this nickel and dime shit. Lawaway's supposed to be for three payments. Not ten bucks here and there for eighteen months.'

  "I met Dani at Isaac's last week before a lesson."

  "Well, call your brother and tell him that. Son of a bitch called me last night at home and asked if I'd heard from you."

  "Sorry about that. I'll give him a ring."

  "You hiding from him?"

  "Why would I have to hide from Pauly? He's all wrapped up in AA and his new job anyway." I'd hoped for a better transition to ask what I wanted to ask. But without one, I went on. "I wondered if it'd be okay to bring a few things down to you today."

  "What kind of 'things' are you talking about?"

  "To sell. My Marshall and some effects."

  "Jesus. Preston... Does this look like a bank? You know what things have been like around here." Mick set his glasses on the counter. "You hurting for money?"

  "Jamie poisoned me. I've really been thinking about a new guitar."

  "Let me guess... A Gibson Hummingbird. 1964. Natural finish. Four grand."

  "Martin. D-28. Brazilian rosewood. I don't care when it was born."

  "I got a god damned shop full of Guilds you never even touch." He was mad. I'd have been insulted too if I had a room full of cats and all anybody ever wanted was a dog. "No, I don't want to take a look at your stuff."

  "Just thought I'd give you first crack."

  "So you're going to pawn it. May as well throw it in the river." He played with his receipts. "Don't expect a cent over fifteen percent below Blue Book. And when you little bastards make up and get your band back together don't ask for a cent less than what's on the tag. I'd only do this for you and my grandkids, and for you never again. This is a one-time deal."

  "I do appreciate it, Mick. I really do. I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important."

  "Well, there won't be a next time. Do you even know what Brazilian goes for? You're going to need a lot more than an amp and some stomp boxes. Are you clean enough to sell blood?"

  "I get it."

  "I hope so. The least you could do is not interfere with my customers." He rapped the glass counter with his knuckles. "Let's get a move on before I open up."

  I left, pulling the door shut behind me. A new guitar came with too many strings attached. Too many questions. Too many doubts. If it hadn't been for the song and Jamie Collins, who Mick'd set me up with in the first place, none of this would even matter.

  Maybe the guitar felt important to me because it represented a new direction—a last chance to realize a life in music, a time when I wouldn't have to rely on anybody else to play, which was all I ever really wanted to do any way. And if Mick really had a problem with the situation he would've said so. Mick rolled like that. He didn't hold back. All of that back at the shop was just busting my balls.

  Up in the apartment the only thing that had changed since the last time I'd been there was the note on the table. Pauly wanted to talk. So what.

  In my room I took a long look at all the stuff piled on the floor, making two mental lists—the things I'd grab in the event of a fire, and everything else. It only took a minute to figure out the Tele and the Twin were all I needed. Everything else was sunroofs and leather seats.

  All my pedals fit into a milk crate—the Crybaby, the Big Muff, the Boss digital delay, phase shifters, reverbs, tuners and all the rest. I carried it to the bottom of the stairs. Back in my room I eyed up the Marshall cab and head. Before I could talk myself out of it I rolled it down the hall, through the kitchen to the door.

  After I backed it down the steps I sat on the curb, puffing a little. Cold air rushed down my throat. Mucus came from my sinuses to warm the cold air, making my cough worse. Pauly must've had a hell of a time getting it up the steps, meaning he must've been pretty pissed.

  Rolling it down to High wasn't much of a big deal. I set the milk crate on top of the Marshall and started pushing. Up the wheelchair ramp and down the street. When the signal said WALK I pushed it onto the salt-covered street, pushing forward as fast as I could so gravity didn't pull it down Walnut through The Stink's window or into the Mon. I guess I'd seen people pushing weirder things down High. Couches mostly. An upright piano once. A bunch of pro-life assholes pushing a coffin filled with fake blood and baby dolls.

  When I got to the store Mick had a customer. The college student kept trying to convince Mick to let him play a Custom Shop Strat. By the time I had all my stuff in the shop Mick had him sitting down with a Made in Mexico Strat.

  "Give me a few minutes," Mick said as he rounded the counter.

  While Mick tallied, I looked at the used gear on the wall like they were framed works of art in a gallery. Pauly's bass hung there like a taxidermied jack-a-lope.

  "Here's my offer." Mick slid the slip, face down, across the counter.

  "Eleven fifty?"

  "Two fifty for the pedals, four hundred for the head and five for the cabinet."

  "Eleven fifty." That was how much a lifetime of saving, scrounging and collecting was worth.

  "I'm not a bank, son. I've been as generous with you and your brother as I can be." Mick didn't act nearly as agitated as I expected him to be. "Business isn't personal."

  "Sorry, Mick. Thank you. I'll take it." I held out my hand.

  Mick gave it a firm squeeze.

  "Still a long way off. I can always sell blood."

  "Or sperm. Get paid for what you already do for free, right?"

  "I guess. I'm going to run up to the bank real quick. I'll clean all this up and stock it for you."

  "That isn't necessary." Mick started to fill out my slip.

  "I know. But I want to show you how much I appreciate you helping me out."

  "See if you think that when you see the mark-ups."

  I went to the door.

  Mick asked, "What do you need this guitar for? A guitar is just a hunk of wood somebody saw fit to take a saw to." He slid the check to the end of the counter.

  "I know, Mick."

  The door shut behind me, sealing out the cold. I never let the check hit my pocket. I never felt like it was my money. I asked for a deposit slip and let them have the whole thing.

  When I got back Mick was on the phone again. Must be a morning thing. I grabbed his push broom and went out to sweep the sidewalk while he talked. But the cold made my nose run and I couldn't stand more than a few minutes outside.

  As soon as the door closed behind me Mick said, "A buddy of mine has your guitar. Lou said it's a sixty-eight. Brazilian. An old lady played it at church once a week, fifty two times a year from the day she bought it 'til the day she died."

  "How much?"

  He held up four fingers.

  I nodded, and without thinking, asked, "How much would you give me for the Twin?"

  "Jesus Christ, Preston," he stammered. "Not enough. Not what you're asking."

  "What about the Tele then, too?"

  "Absolutely not. I can't. You're throwing too much away. Sell it on Ebay. I'm not going to keep signing checks for this. You're being irrational."

  Mick watched the kid who'd been playing the Mexican Strat hang the guitar back on its hook. When the kid walked past he told Mick he'd be back, but Mick just kind of nodded, then folded his arms, and added, "Hotheaded like Pauly. This is a pound of flesh, is what this is."

  "Well, I'm not going to push it then. Especially if it makes me seem ungrateful for what you've done."

  Mick stared at me, his face empty of expression. Finally he asked, "I understand passion and drive, but I can't see where you're going with this."

  "I've been thinking about that a lot myself. I knew that gear meant something to me, but not enough to take with me if I ever made it out of West Virginia.
For some reason I feel like things as I knew them are about to come to an end. Like, this situation, here in town, with Pauly and the same old places, will cease to be. I figure the universe is telling me nobody's going to pay to see a thirty-five year old nobody singing covers while they put down cheap PBRs. I have to make my own way now. I have to be able to put everything I own into a pack and split when the time comes. I can't strike out on my own lugging two hundred pounds of gear.

  "My dad's out there somewhere, and I'm going to find him. And I'm going to write songs that are going to make me famous. And I'm not going to quit until I make it, man. I can't, Mick. I let Pauly slow me down. Him dropping me was the best thing that could happen. It's scary, yeah. But it's mine. And I'm going to go down singing. I haven't been trained for anything else in this world except singing and playing a guitar. I can't build houses, I can't teach school and I can't write books. This is it, Mick. This is all I got. And you've been more than instrumental in helping me see the light. The hours I spent in that back room teaching kids pentatonic scales have been some of the best I've ever had. But I want more. Finally, I can say it. I want more than this world's given me. And I figure it's up to me to get out there and take it." My eyes dropped, like they sometimes do when maybe you let just a little too much of yourself out for everybody to see and you wish you could just take it all back.

  "So you're serious? You're not going to stop until you make it?"

  "That's right, Mick. I'm not going to stop." My phone buzzed.

  "Then I'll lend you the money. Bring the Twin down and I'll give you the difference for the Martin. But it's a loan. I want every cent of it back. Every cent. Hear me? And I want you to walk out of here with that Tele in six months. You have until August, not September. Not October. That's your guitar. You've put such an imprint on it that I'd never be able to put a price tag on it. So you will pay me back. All of it. By August."

  "I promise." I walked out, knowing it'd all be different the next time I stepped through Mick's door. It felt like graduation day all over again. Except today I wasn't going to end up laying in puke in an empty above-ground pool. I had a clean slate ahead of me instead of a resume of laziness and bad intentions. I had ten years-worth of knowledge and the desire to put that knowledge toward something a lot more significant than the glorified karaoke I'd been practicing since eleventh grade. If it meant moving out of the apartment, out of the city and out of West-fucking-Virginia then that's what I'd do.