“I was leanin’ toward Judgment Day,” Willie said, finally getting around to what they had to talk about. “Gettin’ ready for it, all that.”
Buddy looked as if he thought the subject had some potential. “You gone include somethin’ on forgiveness and mercy?”
“Gone be more about the guilty among us.” Willie closed the book and laid his hand on top of it, as if to swear. “The time is come for all us sinners to account for what we done.”
Their eyes met and something passed between them. Buddy said, “I guess you done heard, huh?”
“Yeah, old Cooter, he told me. You ’fraid of what’s gone happen?”
“You ain’t?”
Willie shook his head. “I put it in His hands long time ago.” He pointed at Buddy and went solemn. “You should too.”
“Naw, unh-unh.” Buddy reached down and touched his suit-coat pocket like it was where he kept a straight razor or a pistol. He said, “The Lord helps those what helps themselves.”
“That ain’t right,” Willie said, shaking his head again.
“They’s a lot ain’t right,” Buddy shot back. He felt a cough coming, but he held it. “Most of what happened fifty years ago weren’t right. And the hundred years before that. Way I sees so many people livin’ today ain’t right, but that don’t stop a bit of it. Fact, right don’t seem to have much to do with anything,” he said. “Cancer ain’t right, but I tell you what, it’s what’s gone kill me. I don’t need no help from Clarence or anybody else, I don’t care what happ’m fifty years ago. I’m on die natchal.”
“You think he cares ’bout what you think? You don’t ’spect he feels he’s owed?”
Buddy pointed a broad finger at his friend and said, “He shouldn’ta drove off like he did.” He hit the table with a fist. “Shouldn’ta stopped in the first place.”
“Got nobody to blame but hisself, huh?”
“That ain’t—” Buddy stood abruptly and put on his hat. “All’s I’m sayin’ is, I wants the few days I got comin’ and I’m willin’ to fight for evva day I can git.”
8
THEY DROVE DOWN the road in silence, Lollie staring out the windshield, Rick sneaking glances to see if she was going to cry or show any symptom of grief. But she stayed focused on the road, steadfast, expression flat, eyes on the verge of calculation. Finally she said, “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I mean, shouldn’t I be crying or something? Maybe getting angry or depressed?”
“I don’t know,” Rick said. “Not necessarily. You never met the man. You don’t have any real emotional connection to him, do you?”
“He was my grandfather.”
“Yeah, but only in the abstract. He’s not somebody you have memories of, right?”
“But he was family.”
Rick hesitated a moment. “Well, if you’ll pardon me for saying it, he wasn’t very good family. He never tried to see you, did he? Never sent you a Christmas card or a present, never told you a story or bought you ice cream or did anything.”
“I know, but still, it seems like I ought to feel … something.”
“Well, do you feel like crying? Are you mad? Depressed?”
“Disappointed, I guess. I wanted to get to know him.”
“Sure,” Rick said, touching her arm. “I understand.”
Neither one of them spoke again until they stopped for gas. Rick went in and bought a few things before returning to the truck. At the gas-pump island, he looked in the trash and found half a cardboard box from a case of motor oil. He pulled a small bag of kitty litter from his sack and dumped it into the box. He took Crusty out of the carrier and set him down on the ground. Crusty didn’t waste any time. Afterward, Rick put him back in his carrier and got back in the truck.
He was about to key the ignition when Lollie said, “Hang on a second.” She went into the convenience store and the ATM. A minute later, she came back to the truck and handed Rick another two hundred dollars. “That’s the ATM limit,” she said.
“What’s this for?”
“That’s a retainer. I’m hiring you again.”
“You want me to find out who killed your grandfather?”
“No, it’s probably some crackhead, like he said. That deputy sounded pretty sure they’d catch whoever it was.”
“Then what’s this for?”
“I want you to find out whatever you can about my grandfather. People who knew him, who worked with him, anything. I just want to get to know him better.”
THE STORY OF Tucker Woolfolk’s murder got four column inches in the Vicksburg Post the next day. There was nothing about his life, just his death, which Rick felt was a shame since the man had apparently led such a colorful one. The reporter seemed to be regurgitating everything the sheriff’s spokesman had given him and didn’t bother to do any other research, identifying Woolfolk only by name, age, and manner of death. “Crack Claims Another Victim: Elderly Recluse Killed by Addict.” It said funeral arrangements were on hold pending notification of relatives.
Rick picked up the phone to call the reporter and give some background on Woolfolk. But then he had a thought. It would be just his luck that the reporter would wonder why Rick had this information on, and this interest in, the dead man and, showing the sort of initiative he failed to do when writing the original story, might do enough research to find out that Rick had been hired by the victim’s granddaughter. Then the suddenly enterprising reporter would throw himself into writing the most important piece of investigative journalism in his career, with the hope of moving up to the Clarion-Ledger over in Jackson, and the next thing you knew, Rick would be sucked into the police investigation, and who needs that headache? So he hung up.
He needed more information on the life and times of R. Tucker Woolfolk, and he had two choices. He could either continue doing the research himself or he could talk to someone who might already know the answers to his questions. He looked up the number for the River City Blues Museum, which he’d visited soon after moving to Vicksburg. They had a nice collection of rare records, photos, and instruments reflecting the history of the Delta blues. But its more valuable asset, for Rick’s purposes, was the curator, one Smitty Chisholm.
Rick got Mr. Chisholm on the phone and told him what he knew about Tucker Woolfolk and asked if he could help. Chisholm said the name was vaguely familiar, said he’d go through his archives to see what he could find. He told Rick to come over later in the afternoon.
The call made, Rick went to the kitchen and got a TV tray, which he took into the living room and set up. He arranged the ointments, supplements, pills, and formula on the tray, along with some flat toothpicks, an eyedropper, and a couple of soft cotton towels. He passed by the kitty condo that Crusty refused to have anything to do with, unless you counted the time he peed on it. He went to the cat carrier and looked inside. “Hey,” he said, reaching in for Crusty. “It’s time for your midday food and medication extravaganza.”
Sitting in the BarcaLounger with Crusty in his lap, Rick picked the gritty bits from his nose as he squirmed and scratched and almost got eye ointment in his ears. Crusty was even less cooperative with the pills. He’d learned how to work them up the back of his throat with his tongue and spit them out. And his spitting range was increasing. It took five minutes to get three pills to stay down, by which point Rick had scratches and bites on his hands and forearms. He made a note to trim the claws. Finally they got to the part that Crusty liked. As soon as he saw the eyedropper filled with formula, Crusty began kneading a spot in Rick’s lap. Then he curled up and started to purr while slurping his lunch.
Afterward, Rick did some cleaning up. Over the past few days, Crusty had launched dozens of nostril rockets, leaving lumpy gray-green things drying on walls and floors throughout the apartment. This might have seemed grotesque to some, but Rick had seen the homes of people with children and he knew this was trivial by comparison.
After cleaning the litter box, Rick walke
d over to the museum. Opening the door, he triggered an electronic sensor that sounded the cry of a bottleneck guitar. Inside was a modest space with tidy exhibits. Over here was a framed photo of Blind Willie McTell wearing a jaunty cap and a three-piece suit as he sat in a chair holding his guitar. Over there was the only known copy of the original Skip James record, “Hard Time Killin’ Floor Blues.” Across the room was a display case featuring a 1931 Stella guitar thought to have been owned (and later pawned) by none other than Charley Patton. The exhibit had a listening station featuring several of Patton’s songs. Rick put on the headphones and pushed the button for “Down the Dirt Road Blues.” Patton’s guttural growl was hard to decipher until he came to the lyric about how every day where he was seemed like murder.
Rick closed his eyes and listened to the old recording that had been copied off worn-out 78s made from cheap bowling-ball vinyl. Despite the primitive sound quality, Patton’s original fingering and churning rhythms emerged and reminded that the blues was, perhaps foremost, music played at dances. When the song ended, Rick hung the headphones back on their peg. He turned just as a man entered from the next room, dressed casually and wearing bifocals. He looked over his glasses and said, “You the guy who called?”
“Yeah, I’m Rick Shannon.”
They shook hands. “Smitty Chisholm,” he said. “I like your radio show.”
“Thanks.”
“I heard you playing Paul Butterfield the other night, ‘Shake Your Money Maker.’ I’d bet you were the only station on earth playing their version of that song.”
“Probably right.” They talked for a while about how Butterfield and Mike Bloomfield had introduced the blues to a younger, white audience and what a shame it was that fame had eluded both men.
“Speaking of fame,” Rick said, gesturing at the case with the 1931 Stella guitar. “Why is it nobody seems to know Charley Patton’s name like they do Robert Johnson’s?”
Chisholm’s head rocked back and forth for a moment. Then he said, “Patton didn’t have the mythology like Johnson. Selling your soul to the devil’s a powerful image. And if any of these guys’ lives can be considered more doomed than the others, it’s Robert Johnson’s.” He gestured at a nearby photo of Patton, his hair slicked to the side, ears like jug handles, and that bow tie. “Now Patton lived pretty fast himself, with all the cocaine, whiskey, and women, but the trick to immortality isn’t livin’ fast, it’s dying young and, better yet, under mysterious circumstances, the way Johnson did.” Smitty dipped his head, then looked up at an angle and said, “Dead at twenty-seven, poisoned by a jealous lover in a juke joint outside Three Forks, Mississippi?” He shook his head. “Hell, Charlie Patton died of garden-variety heart problems at forty-seven. How’s that gonna compete? Still, Charley might’ve become more famous if he’d had the sense to die after getting his throat cut during that fight up in Holly Bluff.”
Rick said, “Yeah, well, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.”
“Ain’t that the truth? Well, listen, c’mon.” Smitty gestured for Rick to follow and led him into his office. The place looked like a prison library after a riot. Books, pamphlets, LPs, and papers were shelved, stacked, and strewn all over. He pointed at a chair and said, “Just put all that stuff on the floor, have a seat.”
Rick sat down and admired the mess for a moment before he asked what there was to know about Robert Tucker Woolfolk. Smitty winked and said, “Well, let’s just say he’s one of those guys who contributed his share of pigment to the state’s colorful history. I knew his name was familiar, but I couldn’t remember why till I started poking around in the dustier corners.” He gestured at the bookshelves surrounding them. “Your Mr. Woolfolk had his fingers in all kinds of pies. Among other things, he was a partner with Henry and Shelby LeFleur in a radio station up around Clarksdale that was one of the first to play what they used to call ‘race records.’ And since they had the equipment, they also recorded some of the local talent and pressed their own records. Most of ’em only got regional distribution, so they’re pretty obscure. But they did have a small national hit with a record by Charlie ‘The Hawk’ Hawkins. A song called ‘Marcus Bottom Blues.’ ”
Smitty held up a piece of paper with some handwritten notes. “Now the list you gave me is of some of the records they produced at that station. But there may be another one out there. Actually, not even a record, but some tapes that were never pressed for reasons that are … shall we say, obscure and lost in the mists of time?” He leaned forward and continued speaking in deliberately mysterious tones. “You ever heard of the Blind, Crippled, and Crazy sessions?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Rick said, taking notes.
“The story goes that one night, Blind Buddy Cotton, Crippled Willie Jefferson, and Crazy Earl Tate got together and played as a group for reasons no one now agrees on. They’d never played together before and never did again. The performances are said to have left witnesses speechless. Blues scholars and collectors have been trying to find the tapes for fifty years.”
Rick looked up from his pad. “A sort of Holy Grail for blues enthusiasts …”
Chisholm raised a finger in the air and said, “Except the Grail was a real thing. The deal here is that nobody knows for sure if these guys were recorded that night, and, if they were, no one knows what happened to the tapes.”
“How can no one know if it was recorded? Was this in a studio?”
“Depends on who’s telling the story,” Smitty said. “One version has it as an impromptu gathering at a juke joint where there wasn’t any recording equipment, which makes the tapes nothing more than wishful thinking. Another version has it in a studio where the tape recorder wasn’t working, but they didn’t know it until it was too late. Another is that the tapes somehow got passed near a magnetic field and were erased. Still another is that the men were under contract to different record labels and, under threat of litigation, the tapes ended up in some lawyer’s office somewhere. There’re all sorts of crazy stories about how it all came about, and how and why the tapes were lost or stolen, if indeed there were any tapes. The only thing everybody seems to agree on is that, recorded or not, it was some of the most powerful blues ever played.”
“What’s Woolfolk’s connection?”
“His name shows up consistently in the studio version of the story, probably because of the radio station. He’s said to be one of the producers of the session.”
Rick looked up from making a note. “Producers, plural?”
“Yeah,” Smitty said. “After I made the connection between Woolfolk and the Blind, Crippled, Crazy sessions, I called Beau Tillman, who used to run a juke joint outside of Leland, knows all those old guys. He allowed as how Woolfolk had a partner at the radio station by the name of Lamar Suggs.”
Rick glanced down at his notes. “I thought you said his partners were Henry and Shelby LeFleur.”
“They were investors,” Smitty said. “Father and son, old cotton money and the main gear in the political machine in that neck of the woods. Woolfolk and Suggs ran the thing for ’em. Suggs was the talent scout. He was on the road a lot of the time, out making field recordings of anybody he thought they could sell, you know. Running around with a one-celled Presto disc recorder. Ever seen one of those things? Weighs about three hundred damn pounds. How’s that for portable? They used acetate-on-aluminum discs until aluminum got scarce during the war. Then they used these acetate-on-glass recording discs that broke real easy. No telling how much good stuff got lost on those damn things. Suggs’d show up at fish fries, juke joints, turpentine camps, wherever somebody was playing music. Woolfolk ran the radio station, sold some advertising, probably engaged in a little bootlegging and whatever else might turn him a nickel.”
“Did Mr. Tillman say whether Suggs was still alive?”
“Funny you should ask,” Smitty said as he handed Rick a slip of paper. “That’s his address up in Yazoo City, at least it used to be. Beau thinks he’s still living there, but he c
ouldn’t say for sure, hadn’t talked to him in years.”
“He say anything else?”
“Yeah, Beau said that whatever else might be true about Robert Tucker Woolfolk, he was not the man Diogenes was looking for. Same was true of Suggs. In fact, Beau said that Suggs and Woolfolk still owe him some money.” He laughed and said, “Those two robbed every artist crossed their path, black or white. Had ’em sharecropping onstage and in the studio too.” His head wagged back and forth as he said, “Granted, that was par for the course in those days, hell, I guess it still is. You know the old sayin’, record company’ll let you be as dumb as you wanna be. But anyway, it almost got ’em both killed, and more’n once.”
“Makes you wonder if maybe one of those chickens has come home to roost,” Rick said. “Though you’d have to ask why it took so long.” He looked at his notes, then at Smitty. “You know if Buddy Cotton or any of those guys’re still around?”
“No, and Beau wasn’t sure either. Keep in mind we’re talkin’ about men who’d be anywhere from their midseventies to their early nineties, so if you’re gonna go lookin’ for ’em, you might wanna try the cemetery first.”
9
RICK WALKED BACK to his apartment thinking about the blues. As long as he’d been in radio he’d been playing the songs of Sonny Boy Williamson, Howlin’ Wolf, Willie Dixon, Robert Johnson, and others, though he rarely played the original artists. He played the British bands who were, on the whole, more enamored of the blues than their American counterparts. Rick figured he’d played Cream’s version of “Crossroads” more times than Robert Johnson ever sang the song himself. He played the Stones, John Mayall, the Animals, early Fleetwood Mac, the Yardbirds, and Zeppelin. And the American blues-rockers, too, Allman Brothers, Paul Butterfield, and Johnny Winter, among others. He was a definite fan of the blues, but third generation and one race removed.
When Rick got home, he found Crusty exploring the apartment. Based on the mess in the kitchen and the goo all over his head, it was obvious Crusty had already explored the garbage. Rick picked him up and said, “You’re not going to win any cat shows looking like this.”
Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5) Page 8
