Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Clarence figured he was right, but it crossed his mind that even if prejudice wasn’t invented in the deep south, it may have been perfected here. As they cruised around the city, Clarence maintained a steady stream of commentary about the way things had been the last time he was here. A few blocks onto Farish Street, something caught his eye. He pointed at a storefront and said, “Now right there, I remember, was old furniture store run by the McMurray family. Mrs. McMurray, Lillian was her name, she and her husband made a little studio in the back and they made some records.”

  “What kind?”

  “Good ones,” Clarence said with a regal nod. “Called it Diamond Recording Studios. That’s still clear. They label was called Trumpet Records. They was big-time, now. Had plenny hits. Elmore James did ‘Dust My Broom’ back up in there. Sonny Boy Williamson cut ‘Eyesight to the Blind’ for ’em, and by that I’m talkin’ about Rice Miller, not John Lee Williamson, the other one.”

  Clarence had to explain to his confused driver that there had been two men, both harp players, who called themselves Sonny Boy Williamson. There was John Lee Williamson up in Chicago, probably the most influential harp player of the prewar blues. Then there was Rice Miller, who was blowing harp down in Mississippi and Arkansas and eventually ended up as the star of the King Biscuit Time radio show on KFFA, in Helena, Arkansas. The show’s sponsor figured they could sell more goods if they got Rice Miller to pass himself off as the more famous Chicago harp player, despite the fact that the two men sounded nothing alike. It worked. And a few years later, when John Lee was murdered during a robbery, Rice Miller began calling himself the Original Sonny Boy Williamson.

  Clarence got a sad look in his eye when he said, “I was s’posed to go cut a few sides there myself.” His voice trailed off as they drove on, past a row of shotgun houses. “But I never got back down here till now.”

  “Did you know this is an historic district? Built by former slaves,” the driver said. “I read in the newspaper how this was once a thriving community for the blacks.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Clarence said. “Sho was. And I spent some time here when that was the case. Knew a nice gal stayed over on Amite Street. I got right enthused about her, but I can’t think of her name right now.” He shook his head thinking about how that girl had made his heart jump. “It’s just a faded thing now, though,” he said. “I can’t even see her face. But I recall she had a funny high-pitch voice. And she laughed a lot. Sho did.” Back on Pearl Street, Clarence craned his head to look as they passed the dilapidated Summers Hotel. “The only place a black man could get a room back then, he said. “That or stay at a private home.”

  “The Subway Lounge there is famous,” the driver said. “I go sometimes on the weekends, for the music.”

  “I was gone by the time they started doing music there,” Clarence said. He had the driver turn around and go up Capitol Street past the Illinois Central Depot, which was getting a facelift, and the King Edward Hotel, which was all boarded up.

  It was all different, Clarence thought. He couldn’t even tell where the Heidelberg Hotel used to be. As they drove up Capitol Street past the McCoy Federal Building and the big banks, Clarence stared in wonder at what looked to him like a seamlessly integrated society. Black professionals—men and women—coming out of office buildings with white coworkers, talking and laughing and carrying on. He knew things had changed, of course, but seeing it with his own eyes, and not just on television, packed an unexpected punch, a good one. “Ain’t nothin’ like it used to be,” he said.

  “Yes,” the driver said. “Everything changes.”

  Clarence noticed the clock on the side of the Lamar Life Building. It was just about time. He had the driver turn back and take him to his appointment.

  The Mayflower was Jackson’s oldest surviving restaurant. Clarence stood outside, looking at the fancy neon sign and the glass bricks, thinking about how he couldn’t even walk in there last time he was here. And even though he could now, he felt funny going through the front door. He had a feeling like someone was going to grab him by the scruff of his shirt and show his black ass to the street, but no one even looked up from their tables. This was going to take some getting used to.

  A white lady approached him and said, “One for lunch?” Clarence looked at her for a few seconds without speaking. She smiled gently, thinking he was hard of hearing, like her own grandfather. She spoke a little louder. “Sir? Just one?”

  Clarence shook himself back to this strange new world. “No, ma’am, I’m looking for a Mr. Jeremy Lynch. Said to meet him here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “If you’d follow me, he’s sitting in the back.”

  She showed him to the table where Mr. Lynch was waiting. Clarence sat down, said hello. It was the first time he’d seen the man without a thick pane of glass between them. They’d met only the one time, when Mr. Lynch had come to see him at Parchman. His head was bigger than Clarence remembered, and it looked like he spent more time on his hair than a man should.

  Mr. Lynch said, “You okay?”

  Clarence went mute, staring at the man, and overcome by a wave of misgiving and suspicion like nothing he’d ever known. Back inside, he knew the rules and who he could trust, and he wasn’t troubled with doubt. But he was now, and he didn’t like it. He wasn’t sure if he could live out here in an uncertain world, and he wasn’t sure about this deal he’d made. Maybe he was being set up. Or maybe this was a dream, maybe none of this was real. Maybe he was going to wake up back in unit 17 where things were more predictable.

  Mr. Lynch reached over and touched his arm. “Clarence, you all right?”

  The touch brought him back. He managed to nod and say, “Uh-huh.” He took a drink of water. They told him he’d have moments like this, that his mind would have to get accustomed to things and that it wouldn’t be easy. When they said that, Clarence thought they were crazy. Easy? You think doing fifty years is easy? Fifty years he should’ve been somewhere else, like with that gal with the high-pitched voice, playing his music, raising children, having their children sit on his lap and listen to him play the guitar. How hard could freedom be? But he could tell they were right. It was going to take some effort. He had to get a grip. A grip on his thoughts and fears and doubts. He had to trust Mr. Lynch. Nobody else was offering to help. He had to keep his end of the bargain. Clarence looked at his lawyer and said, “You still got them tapes?”

  Lynch smiled reassuringly. “Of course I do. Locked in the safe in my office. Would you like to go and see?”

  Clarence shook his head. “No, sir. I’m just askin’.”

  Lynch waved off the concern. “I understand. You want to be sure. I don’t blame you.” He took a pack of crackers from the red plastic basket on the table. He opened it and said, “So, how’s it feel to be a free man?”

  “Different,” Clarence said as he looked around the restaurant. “Feels different than I thought.”

  “I bet.” Lynch sprinkled some Tabasco on his cracker and nibbled it. “Well, look, I’m sure it’s gonna take some time to adjust. Maybe you want to see a psychologist or some kind of counselor, help you deal with the transition.”

  Clarence shook his head and stared a hole in Mr. Lynch’s head. He didn’t have any use for that kind of nonsense.

  “Or not.” Lynch stopped a passing waitress. “Hon, bring me some of that Come Back Sauce, would’ja?” He leaned down to open his briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope that he put on Clarence’s side of the table. “That ought to hold you for a little while,” he said. “You know where you’re staying? I need to know where I can find you.”

  “Saw hotel up the street. Figured it’d do.”

  Lynch leaned forward onto the table and glanced slyly at the envelope. “What’s the first thing you gonna do with that, get you some pussy?” Clarence’s face hardened in a way Jeremy Lynch had never seen. A prison-yard stare. “None of my damn business,” Lynch said, holding his hands up. “You’re right. Just curio
us. Forget I asked.”

  Clarence glanced down at his clothes and said, “I’m gone get a new suit.”

  “AWWW, HE’S SO cute,” she said when she saw the kitten. “What’s his name?”

  “Crusty,” Rick said. “Crusty Boogers.”

  The woman at the vet’s office gave Rick a disapproving look. “That’s terrible.”

  Rick acted as offended as she did. “He doesn’t seem to mind.” The woman made a disagreeable noise and continued the paperwork. “And how are you going to pay for it?” Her tone suggesting that Rick didn’t look like the kind of guy who could afford their services.

  “I was thinking about using money,” Rick said. “I didn’t know I had options. You guys do stuff on trade or barter?”

  She remained unamused. “We’ll need a credit card for a deposit.”

  “Deposit? You’re not doing a heart transplant. How much is this going to cost?”

  “That’s a sick cat. It can get expensive.”

  “Naaahhh.” Rick looked at Crusty. “Probably just a bath, some food, and whatever shots he needs for a license.”

  “That’s what everybody thinks, but they’re wrong. How much are you willing to spend?”

  “I tell you what,” Rick said, handing over his credit card. “Do an exam and call me with your estimate.” He gave her his business card. “I’ll be at that number the rest of the day.”

  RICK PICKED UP the film he’d dropped off the day before, then headed for the offices of Rockin’ Vestigations.

  It was a block from his apartment, on the second floor of a restored building that dated to the 1890s. Named after the merchant who’d run a dry-goods business there, the Adolph Rose Building had a sign in front that promised antiques, art, a café, and a theater. The latter was a reference to the old Strand Theater next door. Long boarded up, the Strand had originally featured first run motion pictures, then B-movie classics like Queen of Sheba. At the end it was showing a Civil War documentary appropriately called The Vanishing Glory.

  The first floor housed Adolph Rose Antiques. Their showroom was filled with antebellum armoires, canopy beds, and dressers. There were also displays and glass cases filled with Civil War battlefield relics ranging from swords and socket bayonets to Confederate belt buckles and Union artillery projectiles. The proprietor was an affable man who answered to the name of Pee Wee Milkwood.

  During the day, Rick’s clients came through the antiques showroom to a wide staircase leading up to a hallway that fed the rented offices on the second floor. There was a back entrance up an exterior metal staircase for use after regular business hours. Rick had “Rockin’ Vestigations” painted on the frosted glass of the door, like something from a Sam Spade movie. Inside there was a small reception area with a door leading to Rick’s office, which was furnished with a desk, three filing cabinets, two chairs for clients, and a small table. There were large arched windows that looked out over Clay Street. The effect was a sort of southern noir.

  Just after two, Rick was sitting behind his desk, saying, “Don’t worry about it, Wanda Lee. I was only in jail the one night.”

  “Well, I’m still sorry,” she said, sitting on the other side of the desk, rooting through her purse. “But did you at least get the pictures?”

  “No, I’m afraid the Port Gibson police decided to keep those, since they weren’t convinced I was who and what I claimed to be. But it’s okay, I don’t think you need them.”

  Wanda Lee pulled a pack of gum from her purse. “You want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She unwrapped two sticks and popped them into her mouth. “But you said the pictures would be the key.”

  Rick smiled. “And they will be, Wanda Lee. I promise.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope containing the set of eight-by-ten black and whites he’d picked up earlier. “Now, before I show these to you, let me tell you exactly what I saw.”

  Wanda Lee sat up straight and listened intently but didn’t seem the least bit shocked by what she heard. In fact, by the time Rick finished, she looked downright disappointed. She sat back in her chair and thought about it for a moment before she said, “Well, I mean, does that count as cheatin’? You know what I’m talkin’ about? I mean, you think a judge’ll call that adultery?”

  “I doubt it’ll go that far, Wanda Lee.” He handed her the photos.

  She flipped through them quickly, then paused at one. “Those ain’t Durden’s feet,” she said, pointing. “He’s got more hair on his toe knuckles.”

  “Yes,” Rick said. “I know.”

  “But that sure is a pretty dog.”

  Rick took the photos and put them back in the envelope. “Wanda Lee, here’s what I suggest, and I’ve already talked to your attorney about this. Make a lunch date with Durden, somewhere he won’t want to raise a fuss, like a place that buys his Tru-Fry 2000. You’ll show up with your attorney. Your lawyer will inform your husband that you want a divorce and that you expect it quick and easy. When Durden starts to squawk, your attorney will flash a couple of these pictures and then mention the public nature of a divorce trial and the likely damage to his reputation should he become too closely associated with the word ‘bestiality.’ ”

  Wanda Lee thought on that for a moment before she said, “You think that’ll be enough? Ole Durden ain’t got much shame.”

  Rick nodded and said, “I think he’s got that much.” He stood and walked her to the door. “Everything’s going to work out just fine, you’ll see.” He held up the pictures. “I’ll get these over to your lawyer this afternoon.” Wanda Lee thanked him and went on her way.

  Rick sat at the receptionist’s desk to address the envelope. He’d was licking the flap when Lollie Woolfolk came in like a cool breeze in a pink gingham sundress. She was shorter than she sounded on the phone, Rick thought. Early thirties, beauty-parlor blond, with a ripe-peach complexion and intriguing cheekbones. Rick just stared at her, his tongue on the flap.

  “Rick Shannon?”

  He nodded as though guilty of something quick and shallow.

  She smiled and casually gestured at his tongue pressed to the gummy flap. “Stuck?”

  “Huh? Oh.” Flustered, Rick sealed the envelope and tossed it on the desk. “Sorry, I was … you surprised me.”

  She stepped into the room and said, “You should be careful doing that. I got a paper cut on my tongue once. It hurt like the devil.” She stuck her tongue out, touched the tip with her finger, made a pained face.

  Rick wanted to examine her for scars, but instead he stood and held out his hand. “You must be Miss Woolfolk.”

  “You can call me Lollie.” She looked as soft as a magnolia petal.

  Rick showed her into his office and offered her coffee. She took it with sugar. He asked her to fill out a client-information sheet. Pointing to the bottom of the form, he said, “Down there, if you’ll give me whatever information you can on your grandfather. Date and place of birth, where he worked, anything that’ll help me get started.”

  Lollie was halfway through the form when the phone rang. Rick excused himself and took the call out at the reception desk. “Rockin’ Vestigations, Rick Shannon speaking.” It was the woman from the veterinary clinic. She had the results of the doctor’s exam. “How is he?” Rick asked.

  “Sick,” the woman said. “I need your authorization to go ahead with more blood tests and treatments.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “It’d be quicker to say what’s not,” she said. “Poor little guy’s malnourished and dehydrated. He has flea anemia, amoebic parasites, worms, ear mites, his temperature’s low, he has some sort of upper-respiratory problem, and he only weighs about two ounces. He has slight polychromasia, moderate anisocytosis, and the doctor thinks he has a viral infection in his sinuses.”

  Rick wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he could hear the cash register ringing in the background. He said, “Is there any good news?”

  “X
ray indicates he doesn’t have fluid around the heart or any pulmonary lesions, but his stomach is full of air. We have him in an oxygen tent right now and we’ve got him on vitamins, Terramycin, Clavamox, Albon, ViSorbin …”

  Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. “What do I owe so far?”

  “About four hundred dollars.” Rick was quiet for a moment before the woman said, “So, do you want us to continue or should we terminate?” While Rick tried, in silence, to figure out where the money would come from, the woman took the opportunity to say, “Seems like a waste to stop now, don’t you think?”

  Rick thought about the kitten looking up at him from the bottom of the Piggly Wiggly sack, then he looked into his office at his new client. Well dressed, well heeled. He’d get a few hundred bucks for finding her grandpa. “What the hell,” he said finally. “In for a penny, in for a pound. When can I pick him up?”

  “End of the day if you wanna do everything yourself. Or you can leave him with us and we’ll do it.”

  “How much to leave him overnight?” Rick paused to listen, then said, “I’ll be there before you close.” He hung up and returned to his office.

  Lollie handed the form to Rick and said, “Do you work alone, Mr. Shannon? The reason I ask is, I was hoping you’d be able to dedicate full-time to finding my grandfather.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I have operatives. But I’ll handle this personally.” He glanced at the form to see how much he had to work with. “All right, let’s see. Mr. Tucker Woolfolk, approximately seventy-three, born in Issaquena County, et cetera, et cetera.” He read to the part about occupations, then stopped and looked at Lollie. “Theater manager and faith healer?”

  She looked down in what Rick took as embarrassed amusement. “Yeah, from what I gather, he was sort of a showman, though snake-oil salesman may be a better term. It’s all kind of vague because I heard all these stories as a kid, but I think he may have traveled around the state with a kind of, I don’t know what you’d call it, a kind of minstrel or medicine show, you know, musicians, dancers, stuff like that. This was back in the forties or fifties.”