Rick went to his record collection to see if he had any Bukka White or Big Bill Broonzy, something to listen to as he researched the Blind, Crippled, and Crazy business. He pulled out a couple of blues compilations and blew the dust off them. Crusty started sneezing immediately, sending snot everywhere. Rick grabbed a tissue and chased him around the apartment until the fit passed. That’s when he noticed something green extruding from Crusty’s nose. It was a blade of grass, and a big one, looked like St. Augustine sticking out of a nostril, like it was coming out of a dispenser. Crusty was cross-eyed trying to see it as he swiped at it with his paw.
Rick gently held Crusty’s head. “You want me to ease that out or yank it?” He gave a test tug. “It’s in there pretty far. Probably best to get it over with quick,” he said. So he yanked it. It must have been quite a shock, because Crusty’s tail puffed up like a toilet brush. After a startled pause, he sneezed his way back to his cat carrier. Rick looked at the wet blade of grass wondering how the hell it had gotten up there.
Rick looked at Crusty and ad-libbed a blues, “He’s a snot-nosed kitty, got grass stickin’ outta one side. Yeah, he’s a snot-nosed kitty, got grass stickin’ outta one side. And when ya pull that blade of grass out, he’s sho nuff gonna run off and hide …”
Rick put on one of the albums and sat at the computer. With Bumble Bee Slim singing “Cold Blooded Murder, No. 2,” Rick started looking for information on the Blind, Crippled, and Crazy sessions. There were several references to the legend, but none revealed much more than what Smitty Chisholm had told him. It happened around 1953 and somewhere in Coahoma or Washington or possibly Sunflower County.
He found entries for all three of the musicians in various blues guides. Crippled Willie Jefferson was the elder statesman of the three, having been born in 1913 on the Rosedale Plantation in Bolivar County. His guitar style was compared to T-Bone Walker’s, with whom he is thought to have played for some time in the 1940s. Never traveling outside the deep south, Crippled Willie had a solid regional reputation as a guitar and harp player. At some point in the early to mid 1950s, however, he had become a minister and stopped playing the blues altogether, performing only gospel music and folk spirituals from that point on. Rick did the math and figured Crippled Willie would be ninety if he wasn’t already on the wrong side of the dirt. He was a good candidate for the Social Security Death Master File.
Blind Buddy Cotton was born in 1920 in Hollandale, Mississippi, “halfway between Muddy Waters and B. B. King,” as one source quoted him as saying. Highly regarded as a guitar player and singer, Buddy Cotton recorded a few sides for Trumpet Records in Jackson and a few more for Okeh Records when one of their mobile recording units passed through Louisiana in the 1940s. His distinctive rumbling voice was said to have been a commanding instrument that carried all the troubles of the time and place where he lived.
Crazy Earl Tate was the baby of the bunch at seventy-three. Born in 1930 in Eden, Mississippi. As a teenager, he was discovered on a street corner in Greenwood playing the repertoire of Son House on a lard can with three strings. Tate was equally adept on piano and guitar, but he was more famous for his shocking vocal delivery and wild-eyed stage presence, legendary for its demonic intensity. Asked about the origins of his stage persona, he claimed that his mama had been cursed by a conjure doctor when he was still in the womb and that the devil was trying to get out of him every time he performed. There was no need to ask how he got his nickname.
None of the guides indicated a date of death for any of the three men, but Rick knew that if Son House could disappear for twenty years before being rediscovered, it was possible these men had disappeared and died without anyone noticing. Rick returned to the Social Security Death Master File. None of the three was listed under the name Rick had, but given the requirements of the search engine, that wasn’t surprising. He’d never find Son House there either, unless he knew to look under Eddie James House Jr.
He called Smitty Chisholm to ask if he knew their legal names. Smitty said he’d try to find out and get back to him. Finally, Rick searched for Lamar Suggs, but there was no listing in the death file, so maybe he was still in Yazoo City.
Using a reverse directory and the address Smitty had given him, Rick found a number in Yazoo and called. A machine picked up. An old man’s voice, country as four rows of okra, got straight to the point: “Ain’t here, leave a message.” Rick figured it was the voice of Lamar Suggs, so he hung up and dialed another number.
“Lollie?” he said. “It’s me. You free to go to Yazoo City tomorrow?”
NOT SINCE MARCUS Dupree was setting records for Neshoba County High School had there been a running back in Mississippi with all the promise of Crail Pitts. Scholarship offers poured in, a full ride anywhere he wanted to go, but he never gave a serious thought to anywhere but Ole Miss. It wasn’t a Pitts family tradition or anything, but if he was going to have a shot at getting Cuffie LeFleur’s family’s approval, he was going to have to run for the Rebels.
He was redshirted as a freshman, but he started the season opener his sophomore year. He ran for 118 yards in the first half against a solid Texas Tech defense, leaving alumni salivating at what he might be capable of against Alabama, LSU, and Mississippi State. On his first carry of the second half, Crail was supposed to run off tackle on a trap play, but Big Jim Magee missed his block. Crail cut just as the linebacker hit his knee squarely from the side, tearing every tendon and ligament in the joint. The line judge was later quoted as saying that it sounded like someone had ripped a live chicken in half. The last thing Crail remembered was being carried off the field on a gurney with all his promise.
Now, seven years later, he was still rubbing his knee and wondering if it was going to hurt this bad for the rest of his life. He’d had six surgeries so far and the damn thing still wasn’t right, probably never would be. Of course it didn’t help that he’d twisted it the way he had when that old man started fighting back the other night. Sumbitch was a lot tougher than he looked. And what good had it done to put up a fight? Didn’t keep him alive, that’s a fact. All it really did was piss Crail off. And for what? For nothing. The guy didn’t even have ’em.
So now Crail was just killing time until he got word on where to look next. He was down at Billy Mac’s Sporting Goods in Indianola, looking at the new crossbows that had just come in. The guy behind the counter said, “That’s got your trajectory compensator, an adjustable cheek piece, and the quad limbs with the turnable yokes.”
Crail sounded impressed as he looked down the sight, saying, “That’s the shit, iddn’t it?” He was handing it back to the guy when his cell rang. It was Cuffie calling to tell him where to go. He got in his car and headed south. An hour later he was crossing the Yazoo River.
He drove up Broadway Street to the address Cuffie had given him. It was a turn-of-the-century Queen Anne Victorian, white with a black wrought-iron fence. It was the kind of place Cuffie LeFleur’s people were used to. Crail imagined the place filled with sterling silver and porcelain and a grand piano and servants. He parked across the street and sat there for a while, watching the place. He counted five chimneys and wondered what kind of person needed five damn fireplaces in their house. You couldn’t sit in front of but one at a time. Snobs, that’s what kind, people who looked down on the likes of the Pitts family. Like they were in any position to act superior. Hell, if the LeFleurs were so damn pure, he wouldn’t even be here.
He was beginning to think nobody was home until, finally, he saw a body pass slowly by a window. Crail couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Whichever it was, the person was canted forward and stopped every two steps before continuing. He hoped this was the only person inside and, further, he hoped it was the man he was looking for. Crail looked at his watch. It would be dark soon. He lit a cigarette and relaxed.
WHEN THE MEALS on Wheels van pulled up behind him, Crail had an idea. He got out of his car and intercepted the driver, a young woman, as she fetched a cover
ed plate from a hot box in the back of the van. “Hey, you takin’ that to Uncle Lamar?” He pointed at the house.
The young woman seemed surprised. “Lamar’s your uncle? He never told me he had nephews.”
“Well, technically he’s my great-uncle,” Crail said, reaching for the food. “I was just going in to visit. I’d be glad to take that for you if you’d like.”
“Well, thanks.” The young woman let him have the plate and the utensils wrapped in a napkin. “Tell him Carol said to take his calcium pills, all right?”
“I sure will. You have a nice night.” He waved to Carol as she drove off, then he gimped across the street to the big white house and knocked. “Meals on Wheels,” he said as he reached down to check the door. It was locked. He could see movement through the cut-glass sidelight, someone approaching slowly with a walker.
“Carol? Zat you?”
“No, sir, Carol’s out sick. But she told me to remind you to take your calcium.”
“That sounds like her,” he said. “Always pestering.” The door opened a little at a time as Lamar Suggs backed away from it with his walker. “Just set that in the livin’ room on that table if you would.”
Crail stepped in and bolted the door behind him. No wonder he’d been unsure if it was a man or a woman. He was in a nightshirt, stained and unsightly. His gray hair, oily and scraggly, fell past his stooped shoulders. And he was small, like a woman. Crail wasn’t worried about this one putting up much of a fight.
The house was stuffy and smelled of mothballs, dust, and garbage that needed to be taken out. To Crail’s surprise, there was no porcelain or silver or grand piano. In fact, there was virtually no furniture at all. Ancient wallpaper hung off some of the walls and you could almost hear the silverfish eating the glue. There were staggering piles of magazines and newspapers and empty produce boxes throughout the house. It looked like the sort of place where they find old women living in filth with a hundred cats.
Lamar shuffled into the living room and sat in an aluminum lawn chair at a folding table with a small television on it. Crail set the plate in front of the old man and removed the cover, revealing three piles of mush, orange, green, and grayish-brown. Lamar teetered as if he might just go into it face-first. Crail unfurled the paper napkin wrapped around a set of institutional flatware. He put the fork in Lamar’s gnarled hand and said, “Yeah, when they told me Carol was out, I said I wanted to be the one to bring you your supper.”
Lamar scooped a forkful of the orange mush with his palsied hand and trembled it slowly toward his mouth. “Why’s ’at?”
“Well, ’cause of who you are. I mean, all those records you produced back then. Yes, sir, I been wanting to meet you.” He gestured around the room. “In fact, I’m kinda surprised. I figured you’d have gold records on the wall and autographed pictures of you and all them guys you worked with. Like that Blind Buddy Cotton and them. Where you keep all that stuff at? Upstairs? I’d sure like to see it.”
Lamar smeared the sweet potatoes across the opening in his face and snarled, “What’re you after?”
“I’m just gonna have a look around,” Crail said. “You go on and eat.”
“Well now, you just hang on there.” Lamar reached for his walker. “You ain’t gonna do any such—”
“Shut up, you old coot!” Crail kicked the walker across the room, then grabbed Lamar by his stringy hair, jerking his head back. “Tell me where that stuff’s at!”
Lamar’s milky eyes went wide as he stared up at Crail. “I ain’t got nothin’ ’cept that TV,” he said.
Crail shoved Lamar’s face into the plate of food, then pulled him back up. His teeth stayed behind and some blood from his nose was mixed with the creamed peas. “You don’t tell me where it’s at, you’re gone end up like that Tucker Woolfolk.” He put his mouth close to Lamar’s ear and said, “And lemme tell you, that sumbitch’s eyes are set.”
There wasn’t much Lamar could do, but he weren’t no quitter, so he did what he could. He swung his arm down with all his strength and sunk that fork right into Crail’s bad knee.
ON THE DRIVE to Yazoo City, Rick told Lollie about the Blind, Crippled, and Crazy legend and how her grandfather and Lamar Suggs had been partners in the radio station where they might have recorded the mythic session. When he finished, she asked if any of the musicians were still alive.
“Don’t know yet. Figured we’d ask Mr. Suggs when we get there.”
“You think the tapes exist?”
“Sure as hell hope so,” Rick said. “Don’t you?”
She shrugged. “I guess I like the idea that it stays a myth. It’s a better story that way. Besides, it just seems like it would have to be a disappointment after all the hype. The music couldn’t possibly be as good as your expectations, you know? It’s like when they released that ‘new’ Beatles song ten years ago, remember that?”
“Yeah. ‘Free As a Bird,’ ” Rick said. “Boy, did that stink. Still, if they exist, I’d love to hear the tapes, especially after the way Smitty Chisholm talked about them.”
“Did you get a feeling one way or the other whether he thought my grandfather or Mr. Suggs actually had the tapes?”
“No, it’s just one of the possibilities. If they recorded at the radio station or if Suggs recorded them at a rent party or something, you’d think one of them might have them. But you’d also think they’d have surfaced by now. So who knows? If they ran into legal problems, which was one of the stories, there’s no telling what could’ve happened to them. Might be sitting in a lawyer’s office somewhere.” Rick glanced over at Lollie. “What about your grandfather’s estate? Are you handling that?”
She turned and looked out the window before she said, “No. Speaking of lawyers, he had one taking care of that. I’ll ask if he found any tapes or anything next time I talk to him.”
About a mile later Rick said, “By the way, is there a date set for the funeral?”
“What?” She turned back from the window. She looked as though the thought had never crossed her mind.
“Yeah, I figured you’d worked that out by now,” Rick said. “I wanted to make arrangements, so I could attend.”
She looked back out the window. “Oh, there won’t be a funeral,” she said. “They found a will. Said he didn’t want any service. But that’s nice of you, thanks.”
At the intersection of Highways 3 and 49, they turned and headed into Yazoo City. They drove past the old Bon Ton Cafe, its once inviting neon sign a victim of thirty-five years of rust and neglect, like so many things in the Delta. The place was a shabby convenience store now, with a hand-painted sign, cockeyed and sloppy and nailed to the exterior wall, that read “Beer & Butts,” a perfect reflection of how so many things in this once splendid town had gone downhill with the changing economics of agriculture. Rick wondered what the late, great Willie Morris would have thought about it all.
Highway 49 turned into Broadway Street as it struggled up from the Delta to the Loess Hills above. They passed the once thriving downtown that was now a shallow canyon of empty brick buildings waiting for the second act to begin. They drove up the wide street lined with leafy trees shading homes that ranged from the modest to the grand. Halfway up the hill, Rick pulled to the curb and pointed across the street. “Here we are.”
They went through the iron gate and up the front walk. As they stepped onto the porch, they noticed the door was ajar, provoking them to exchange a curious glance. Rick nudged the door and leaned toward the opening. “Mr. Suggs? Anybody home?” They waited for a response, but none came. He pushed the door open wide. “Mr. Suggs?”
The front hall was strewn with trash. They exchanged another glace before stepping inside. Lollie said, “Maybe he doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Shhh.” Rick’s head turned to listen. “I think I heard something.” They walked slowly toward the living room. Glass crunched under their feet, apparently the screen from the shattered television. They saw the walker lying sidew
ays, against the wall. Rick had the sense that something violent had happened. He held up a hand. They stopped. “Do you hear it?”
“Yeah,” she said, pointing toward the next room. “In there.”
Lollie was first into the room. She said, “Oh my God.”
“What is it?” Rick stepped in behind her and saw the body lying on the floor with a fork sticking in its back.
10
LAMAR SUGGS WAS facedown on the floor next to a small bed, amid pieces of shattered black vinyl, yellowing newspapers, and the smashed parts of an old record player that looked as if it had been thrown against the wall. Suggs was scraping something on the floor.
Rick pushed Lollie back toward the living room and told her to call an ambulance. He went to Lamar’s side and put his hand on the man’s back. “Hang on, Mr. Suggs. Help’s on the way.” Rick pushed the trash away from around Lamar’s head and looked in his hand. He was clutching a shard of a broken 78. “Mr. Suggs? Can you hear me?” He said something Rick couldn’t understand. He leaned in close to listen, but Suggs could barely speak.
He seemed to say, “Bees cease siege.”
“Okay,” Rick said. “Just relax.” Without thinking, he started to roll Lamar onto his back, but then, considering the fork, he thought better of it. Rick decided to wait for the paramedics instead. He stepped over Lamar to get a look at his face. All around his toothless mouth was what looked like dried orange mud. Both eyes were black. He’d taken a beating. It surprised Rick that someone this frail was still breathing. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Lamar tried to muster some strength and muttered, “Bees easy.”
Lollie came back into the room. “They’re on the way,” she said. “Is he alive? Did he say who did it?”
Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5) Page 9
