Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  THE POLICE EVENTUALLY allowed everyone to go into the studio while they continued working the crime scene. Jessie accompanied Shelby into the sound booth while Rick and Lollie situated Buddy, Willie, Earl, and Pigfoot in the main studio. Smitty set up the microphones and helped tune the guitars. Once they were set, Rick opened his mike and said, “I’m honored to have in the studio with me four men tied to one of the great legends of the Delta blues. Blind Buddy Cotton, Crippled Willie Jefferson, Crazy Earl Tate, and Pigfoot Morgan. Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve talked to a lot of folks about what happened the night of the infamous recording session, and we’ve heard a lot of different stories. What we’re going to do now is try to patch together the truth of it.” Rick paused before continuing.

  “Also in studio with us is Shelby LeFleur Jr., who has brought with him the answers to a lot of questions. Mr. LeFleur, we’re going to turn to you first.” Rick asked a few preliminary questions to set the stage. Then he moved on to meatier stuff.

  “I wasn’t there,” Shelby said in answer to one question. He gestured at Buddy, Willie, and Earl. “I’ll let these gentlemen tell you how they came to make the recording. All I can do is explain how it ended up in my possession.” He took a deep breath and pushed himself up in his chair. “The tapes were made the night Hamp Doogan was murdered. Mr. Suggs and my son, Henry, figured they could get a few records on the market before these men signed a contract with Paramount. Later, in the wake of Mr. Morgan’s trial, they looked into the matter and discovered that Mr. Cotton was under contract to Imperial Records, I believe it was, owned by a man name of Whitsett. They talked to him about buying Buddy’s contract, but he had heard about the tapes by then and he tried to hold them up for more than they were willing to pay, so they just put the tapes on the shelf. They were more trouble than they were worth.”

  Shelby continued, “About six months later Mr. Suggs and Mr. Woolfolk made some recordings with a Mr. Charlie Hawkins. One of the records that came out of that session was a hit for them, though I don’t recall the name of the song.”

  “That was ‘Marcus Bottom Blues,’ ” Smitty said.

  “Yes, I believe that’s right,” Shelby said. “In any event, they got busy promoting Mr. Hawkins all over the place and making more records with him and wasn’t long before they just forgot about those other tapes. Some years later, Henry sold his interest in the station back to me, which included all the master recordings they owned. By the time I went to sell the station some years after that, I had found the tapes and I knew they were valuable for more than one reason.” Shelby squirmed in his chair and said, “Maybe I should have destroyed them or edited them, but I didn’t. I left them just as they were. I knew they could help Mr. Morgan, but I couldn’t bring myself to release them because of what I thought it would mean to my family’s name. It’s a burden I’ve carried my whole life.” Here Shelby hardened a bit and said, “But when I heard about Cuffie and what she was involved in, that was the last straw. That’s why I brought them.”

  Rick turned to Pigfoot and asked him to tell his story.

  “Hard to know where to start,” Pigfoot said. He seemed self-conscious and vaguely reluctant. “I wasn’t there when they made the tapes.” There was a sense of shame in his voice when he said, “I’d drove off and left ’em before that.”

  Buddy shook his head. “You did what you had to,” he said. “I’d been in your place, might’ve done the same.” He doubled up and coughed a bit.

  “You told us to come on,” Earl said. “And we shoulda.” He gave a little nod. “It was just bad luck.”

  Crippled Willie leaned toward the microphone. It looked like he was going to sing another verse of the same song, but instead he said, “We all met at the Key Hole Club. Must’ve been ‘round midnight …”

  IT WAS A last-minute thing. As soon as Tucker Woolfolk found out about it, he got to a phone to call Lamar Suggs, in Memphis. Lamar had gone up there to record Limpin’ Jim Crawford at a club off of Beale Street. It was around nine o’clock when he got Tucker’s message that Cotton, Jefferson, and Tate were meeting at the Key Hole Club around midnight to play awhile, to make some money before heading for Wisconsin to record for Paramount. So Suggs packed the Presto disc recorder in his truck and started the long drive south on Highway 61.

  The streets of Leland were electric that night. All up and down McGee Street between West Second and Railroad Avenue, men were sporting they fine suits and hats, and the women had dressed to kill. The whole town was pulsing like Chicago on a Saturday night. The gins were working overtime on all that cotton the fields had given up. Everybody had a little something jinglin’ in they pocket. The time had come to have some fun. Reward for all that sweat.

  A couple of women from the Negro Temperance League trudged silently along the sidewalk with small signs decrying the dangers of whiskey. Both were plagued by the proud yet defeated look of people who knew the game was over before it had started. Around the corner, “Hot Tamale” Charlie sold wares from his wagon while that little monkey of his, tethered on a leather leash, bobbed his head to the music coming from the joints.

  The skin ball had been rolling three days and four nights. Blind Darby and Shorty Parker were the only ones had caused any trouble so far, and that was over at the Rexburg Club on the first day. They’d been shootin’ craps when Shorty accused Darby of chokin’ the dice. Well, Darby broke on him with that bone-handled knife he called his Casey Mae. But Shorty had him an ice pick. They both got in they licks, patted each other up pretty good, before one of Henry LeFleur’s deputies carted both of ’em off to jail.

  On the second day, Red-eyed Jesse—who was one of the luckiest skin players to draw a hot breath—got sent packing back to Texas after he scooped a low one in the rough and lost all he’d brought. Before he left town he told everybody he was gone back to Houston to get some more money, then he was gone come back and whup everybody’s ass. And that made everybody laugh.

  Just standing on the street corner you could feel the skin ball gathering momentum, like it was rolling down a steep hill. The music seemed to get louder as the worries lifted. It was like this all over town, hardworkin’ folks havin’ theyselves a time.

  Stumpy Rivers had been playing at the Key Hole Club for a few hours before he started to wobble. He always opened with some lively reels, old minstrel stuff that got the crowd going good. Always something you could dance to. He played in a vigorous style until he got enough drink in him. Then he slowed way down. The later it got, the sadder the songs became, until they were just plain draggy, and if he didn’t fall off the stage, somebody’d carry him off. But for now, he had the place hoppin’.

  You could hardly get across the Key Hole, the room was so crowded. A hoot and a holler rose from the dice game in the back corner near where Buddy was sippin’ some good brown whiskey. One of the skin players hollered something about the big moose comin’ down from the mountain and everybody laughed at that.

  Buddy stood up when he saw Crippled Willie stepping and flopping through the door with his guitar case. Buddy waved a hand up over the guys shooting craps and called Willie over. He passed the table where the Florida flip game was going in the front. He nudged Puddin’ Hatchet on the way by and said, “You not puttin’ yo’ cabbage on that hand, are you?”

  “Naw, hell, I ain’t beggin’ yet.” He laughed and slapped Willie on the back. “Just playin’ with my stuff out the window, you know, jus’ in case.”

  One of Henry LeFleur’s deputies was back in the kitchen picking up the early cut from the games and the bar. He had a quick drink himself, then took a big can of tamales to go.

  Earl and Pigfoot came in not too long after that. Earl never seemed to care much about how he looked. But Pigfoot looked fine in a new suit. While Buddy pulled his guitar from the case, he told Pigfoot he ought to sell Earl one of his old jackets, just out of charity. Earl fixed Buddy with one of his crazy hoodoo stares and said he didn’t need no fancy bait to get no womens. That was
for men didn’t have nothin’ else to offer. They all laughed at Crazy Earl. Then they made a toast to they good luck, wasn’t everybody who got a record contract with Paramount. “We the last of the good men,” Earl said. They drank a little more whiskey and tuned up.

  There was a bright flash on the far side of the club as Hamp Doogan tried to get a dozen folks from Greenville all in the same frame. He lowered the camera, shaking his head. “Y’all cozy up or all we gonna get is ears on the sides of the picture,” he said with a gesture that looked like he was playing accordion. “That’s it,” he said. “There we go. Hold it!” Another bright flash lit the room.

  Over at the skin game, the players began to chant, “Let the deal go down now. Let the deal go down.”

  “Jack’s the bet,” said the dealer. “Who wants one for a dolla?”

  Baby Buddy said he was dead on the turn, hadn’t seen a card all night. The dealer told him to pull his narrow black ass up to the cryin’ post and hitch onto it. Either that or get a new card. Everybody hooted at that, then resumed the chant: “Let the deal go down.”

  Temptation was floating thick under everybody’s nose. The smell of pork and onions and tobacco and perfume mixed with marijuana and sweet whiskey breath whispering promises of untold delight. A big laugh rose from the crowd when Stumpy Rivers finally tipped over sideways, then got to his feet and stumbled off the stage.

  Buddy was the first to get up and play. Things had gotten draggy toward the end of Stumpy’s set, so Buddy picked up the pace with a sort of boogie-woogie thing. It only took about eight bars to turn the mood around. By twelve bars, Buddy had a grinding rhythm pushing hips in lewd circles. Whole bodies started rocking as he did some fast changes and threw in some dirty lyrics to get a couple of ladies up front laughing. Earl moved to the piano bench and chugged up a rhythm that worked pretty good with Buddy’s thing. Then he hollered for Willie to bring it on up and bust the roof off. The three men played a couple of things together, trading leads on one song in particular that sounded like a fast train going on a track.

  After a few reels, Buddy said he was gone step aside and get a drink. He waved for Pigfoot to come on up and take his spot. Pigfoot came on up and turned some heads with his sound, starting off with his favorite song, “It’s Mighty Crazy,” the first thing he’d learned from Lightnin’ Slim. He smiled when he saw a couple of gamblers pick up their money, grab their dates, and start to dance.

  Looking out on crowded rooms like this was the one time these men saw the faces of their fellows not dragged down by their place and circumstance. The food and the drink and the dance and the rhythm and the possibilities put the life back in their bones and, for those precious hours, it was all good.

  31

  LATER ON THAT NIGHT Hamp Doogan packed up his stuff, said he was heading out to Chick’s Inn, out north of town. Had somebody out there wanted a little something and Hamp was the man to deliver. He figured he’d sell some more of his pictures there too. Plus he’d heard a rumor Elmore James was gone drop by and play later and that was sho’ ‘nuff gone draw a crowd.

  He loaded his car and pulled away from the curb. But he failed to notice Henry LeFleur lurking in the alley, watching with an evil eye. A second later, Henry pulled out and started to follow. He stayed back a ways as Hamp turned on East Third and then north on Highway 61. It was only after they got out past Tyler and Yeager Streets that Henry began to close the distance. He knew where he wanted to stop him, and that was still a few miles out.

  Hamp had drunk a few and wasn’t paying as much attention as he ought to, though it wouldn’t have mattered even if he had been. His time was coming.

  A few miles later a car came speeding down the road going the other direction. It was Lamar Suggs hell-bent for the Key Hole Club. When Henry’s red lights popped on and started dancing in Hamp’s mirror, he figured the speeder was heading for a ticket. But the sheriff didn’t turn around. He kept following Hamp with his lights on. Hamp didn’t give it a second thought. He’d never had a problem with anybody in the sheriff’s department that a few frog skins couldn’t resolve.

  He’d started to pull to the side when Henry hit his spotlight and shined it toward a farm road off to the left, hidden by a line of trees. Hamp drove up there and turned on the gravel road. He started to pull over again, but Henry hit his siren and waved Hamp farther down the road. Hamp drove another fifty yards before he pulled over and killed his engine. As he sat there, waiting for the sheriff, he peeled fifty off his roll and folded it behind his driver’s license, figuring that would be that.

  Henry sauntered up and said, “Get out the car, nigger.”

  Hamp noticed Henry’s revolver was still holstered, yet he had a pistol in his hand. He didn’t know what to make of that or the “nigger” Henry had spit his way. The whole thing seemed hinky, put Hamp on edge. It wasn’t part of the normal let-me-see-your-license-and-did-you-know-how-fast-you-was-going routine. Still, he’d never had any problem with LeFleur before—always figured he was too dumb to know all that was going on and was just happy to make his money—so Hamp played along with it, acting friendly all the way, though he did sense a little something tighten up in his gut. He looked around as he got out of his car. He’d never noticed before, but things don’t get much darker than a dirt road in the Mississippi Delta at this time of night. Hamp held out his license with the money tucked underneath and said, “Evening, Sheriff, how’re you to—”

  Henry pistol-whipped him across the face, knocking him down. The money fluttered to the ground around him as Henry said, “Nigger, you think I’m blind? You think I don’t know what’s what?” Hamp was too stunned to answer. He spit a bloody gob and felt a half-broken tooth in the back of his mouth. He tried to push himself up to his knees, but Henry kicked him in the ribs, taking him down again. Henry pulled something from his shirt pocket and dropped it on the ground by Hamp’s head. “You think I’m just some dumb-ass cracker?” It was a picture of his wife, Lettie, posing in a way Henry had never seen in person. He’d found it on a man he’d arrested the night before, a gambler down from Missouri for the skin ball. The man, who had no idea the woman was Henry’s wife, said he’d bought it in St. Louis off a guy who sold such things.

  Henry knew Doogan was making pictures like this, but in his wildest dreams he couldn’t imagine Lettie was involved. He’d been so busy managing his rural empire (and getting a little on the side) that he didn’t realize Lettie had grown bored sitting at home, all alone, night after night. Even with all his feelers out, Henry had no idea she’d started to spend time with that floozy, thrill-seeking Ruby Finch. And even if he had known the two of them were sneaking around behind his back having some fun, he never would have guessed that Lettie would try cocaine, let alone become fond of it. But she had. And when she wanted more and couldn’t come up with the money without making Henry suspicious, Hamp suggested posing for the photos.

  Henry kicked Hamp in the ribs again and shouted, “Where’s the rest of ’em, nigger?”

  Hamp figured Henry had finally put two and two together. If that was true, his goose was cooked. If Henry didn’t kill him out here on this dark road, he was bound to search the car and find what was in there, and that would put him in a deep hole for a long time.

  Henry bent over and yelled, “Answer me, nigger!” A cheap cigar dropped from Henry’s shirt pocket when he leaned down. He’d been passing them out for the past two months, ever since Lettie had given him his first son, Monroe. At first Henry told himself that the boy’s unusual complexion was because he was a baby and they always looked funny. The truth crossed his mind once or twice, but he beat it back. He couldn’t allow it even though it was staring up at him from the crib every single day. But when he saw the picture of Lettie, the obvious came to mind, and he knew what he had to do.

  Henry knew the first time he’d laid eyes on Hamp Doogan that he was trying to pass. He wasn’t trying to pass in society or anything, that wouldn’t work here, but from the moment Hamp stepped
off that train from up north, Henry said to himself, octoroon. Not that he cared. Hamp was just providing a service, and he always paid his tribute to the law. So for a long time, it didn’t matter. Mattered now, though.

  “I asked you a question, boy! Where’re the others?”

  Hamp could hardly breathe after that second kick. He wanted to explain, wanted to swear, there weren’t any others, but he figured Henry wouldn’t buy it. He’d seen the one, knew there were others, had to be. Hamp was fucked. The only good chance he had was his gun, but he’d left that in his car. Still, he had no intention of dying on his hands and knees on a gravel road in the middle of the night, so he grabbed Henry’s ankles and yanked them out from under him. The gun fired into a tree as Hamp scrambled to his feet and took off running toward the highway.

  Henry struggled to get up, his slick shoes slipping on the gravel as Hamp put distance between them. He was just about out to the highway when Henry righted himself and got off his first two shots, catching Hamp with both. They spun him around and tangled his feet, and he stumbled, face-first, onto Highway 61. As he lay there, struggling for breath, he could feel the lifepulsing out of his body just as sure as he could hear Henry LeFleur coming his way.

  BUDDY AND THEM played until two, then it was time to pack up and hit the road. They had five hours to get to Memphis to catch their train. Roads and the law being what they were, it was going to be close. They were putting the last guitar case in the back of Pigfoot’s old Packard when Lamar Suggs skidded into the parking lot kicking up a cloud of dust. “Hey now,” Suggs said, leaning out his window with a six-toothed grin. “Y’all just gittin’ here?”

  “Eve’nin, Mr. Suggs,” Buddy said. “No, sir. We fiddna leave.”

  He reacted like Buddy had just spit at him. “The hell you say.” Lamar opened the door abruptly and got out. He wasn’t anything to be afraid of physically. He was a scrawny bit of white trash, but he advanced on Buddy with a finger aimed at his face. “Listen to me, boy, I didn’t drive back down here from Memphis in the middle of the night for the fun of it. We gone cut a few sides ’fore anybody goes anywhere. That’s just the way it’s gone be.” He waved a bony hand at the club and said, “Now c’mon, get your stuff.”