Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  TWENTY

  • • •

  “Rollin’ and Tumblin’”

  LEONARD

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Evelyn asked.

  Leonard had his back to her. He was looking out the front window, watching the guys load their amps and guitars in the back of Muddy’s Cadillac. They’d just finished rehearsing a new song, “Rollin’ and Tumblin’.” Leonard had wanted to lay it down at Universal and release it after Christmas. Now he wasn’t sure.

  “Well?” Evelyn called to him. She was seated at her desk, hands folded.

  Leonard didn’t know how to answer her. Her news was still sinking in. She’d just told him that she wanted out of the business.

  “Let’s face it, Leonard. You and I are horrible business partners. If we stay in this together we’re going to end up killing each other.” She undid her hands, opened her desk drawer and began removing items and setting them into a box: an engraved fountain pen, a tube of lipstick, a letter opener. “I’m married now,” she said. “Art and I want to focus more on distribution than producing. Besides—and believe me, I never thought I’d say this, but I think you’re more cut out for this business than I am.”

  Leonard tried not to smirk. Even with Evelyn and her fifty-one percent, everyone still looked to him for answers. What do I record next? Why isn’t my record selling better? When are you putting another ad in the trades?

  “So what happens now?” he asked.

  “I’ll sell you my half of the company.”

  Leonard didn’t respond right away. He had to play his next move just right. He let a moment of silence pass. “What makes you think this company’s worth anything? We didn’t get the bank loan; we can’t finance the operation. This label’ll be shut down within a month after the next round of bills hit.” He was setting her up, acting as if he had no interest in buying her out.

  She reached for a cigarette and took her sweet old time lighting it. He could tell she was jockeying for position, too, keeping him waiting. What a game.

  “Look,” she said, “we both know that Muddy hasn’t written his last hit. Neither have the others. Those artists are under contract with Aristocrat. This company is still worth something.”

  He knew she was right. They were growing a winning roster of talent. Sooner or later one of them would have another big song and the money would come rolling in. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you what—I paid ten grand for my half of this company when I came on board. I’ll pay you another ten grand for your half.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Leonard!” She laughed. “You need to sharpen your pencil.”

  She threw out a number. He countered. They went back and forth a few more rounds and Leonard told her he’d have to think about it.

  When he left Evelyn that day Leonard went straight to the Macomba Lounge. It was three in the afternoon. A few of the regulars were already hunched over the bar, but otherwise the place was quiet. The lights were turned up and Leonard could see all the blemishes, the stains on the carpet, the cigarette burns on the floor, the banged-up walls where the paint was chipped and cracked.

  Leonard sat with Phil at the far end of the bar, two glasses and a bottle of scotch between them. It was one of the few times that Leonard drank, but he needed to that day. If he couldn’t come up with the money to buy out Evelyn that meant he’d pretty much pissed away the last three years of his life.

  Leonard flipped open the lid on his Zippo and lit a cigarette before snapping it shut with a loud clack. “Evelyn might as well be asking for a million dollars.”

  Phil adjusted his hat, shook his head. “I don’t know what the answer is. We already tried to sell this place once. We couldn’t give it away, remember?”

  Leonard nodded. It was true. The brothers had tried to unload the club before, but got no takers. The building was falling apart. The roof leaked. The plumbing was shoddy. They needed to have the place rewired. None of it was worth their while. Even if they could have sold the club afterward, they never would have recouped their investment.

  One of the bums at the other end of the bar called to them, holding up his empty glass, swaying back and forth. “Hey, how ’bout another one?”

  “Hey, how ’bout you payin’ for it this time?” said Phil.

  • • •

  Leonard left Phil a couple hours later and headed for home. He’d recently moved his family out of the old Lawndale neighborhood and into a better apartment on Drexel Boulevard. Coming up the sidewalk, he looked at the turrets along the roof of their building. It was a larger apartment than what they’d had before. Marshall had his own room now instead of having to share with his sisters. And Revetta, his Revetta who never asked for a thing, now had a larger kitchen than her mother, with a separate dining room.

  Revetta had decorated every inch of the place—her grandmother’s plates displayed along the wedge in the kitchen, knickknacks on the built-in bookcases, pillows on the davenport that matched the green chairs in the corners. He knew what it did for her to have her mah-jongg games and her Sisterhood and Hadassah meetings there. He couldn’t take that away from her, tell her that he’d failed, say they had to pack up and go back to Lawndale. No, he couldn’t do that.

  As soon as he made it through the front door, the kids abandoned their marble game on the living room rug and charged toward him.

  “I didn’t expect you home for supper.” Revetta leaned in to kiss him and pulled back, her brows knitted together. “Were you drinking?”

  “Just one,” he lied.

  “Why? What’s wrong? Did something happen?” She looked at the children. “Go—go to your rooms until I call you for dinner. And pick up those marbles.”

  He walked her over to the davenport and told her about Evelyn leaving the company. She listened carefully as she always did and when he was through talking and had ground out his fifth or sixth cigarette she folded and unfolded her arms.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked. “We’re a month behind on rent as it is.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe my father—”

  “You can’t borrow any more money from him. Lenny, you haven’t even finished paying him back everything you borrowed the last time.”

  He leaned forward and dropped his head to his hands. He felt Revetta’s breath on his neck and her fingers sifting through his thinning hair. He closed his eyes, taking in her touch. Dear, sweet, beautiful Revetta. What did he do to deserve her? And how was he going to take care of her and the kids? What about Phil? And Leeba? What about the guys like Muddy and Sunnyland Slim? They were family to him now, too. He was everyone’s protector, always had been; and now he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t see his way out of this one.

  The Macomba wasn’t the answer. There was no way to make a decent living there without killing themselves or, worse, getting themselves killed in the process. He didn’t want to go back to the liquor trade—those people were even worse than the thugs at the club. What else was there? Leonard had gotten a taste of the music business. He liked it, thought he could do well in it—especially without Evelyn standing in his way. He sat with his head in his hands.

  “I know you’re probably not going to want to discuss this,” she said, “but I spoke to the lawyer again today. He says you still didn’t sign the papers.”

  “Now?” He raised his head, glowering at her. “You’re bringing this up now? Your timing stinks.”

  She pulled away from him, stood up and crossed the room. “I just don’t understand why you won’t sign it.”

  “’Cause I don’t want to sign my death certificate.”

  “Signing a will is not a death sentence. It’s called being responsible. Being smart.”

  Being smart was not giving himself a kenahora and tempting the evil eye. His mother taught him that. She was even more superstitious than he was. Spit three times to ward off bad luck. No sh
oes on the counter, no hats on the bed, no opened umbrellas indoors, no buying a crib or even a diaper or uttering a “mazel tov” before a baby was born.

  “Leonard, you have a family now. You need to have a will.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  • • •

  “I Be’s Troubled”

  LEEBA

  On a bitter January afternoon just after New Year’s, Leeba and Red stopped into a drugstore on Wabash and Adams so he could get a pack of cigarettes. It was nice and warm inside so they took time to browse, giving themselves a chance to thaw before facing the blustery cold again.

  When they turned down the first aisle Leeba noticed the owner, a white man with a bad toupee, was following them around, casting a suspicious eye on Red. Leeba tried to ignore him until another white man came up to her, cutting right in front of Red. “Ma’am, is this Negro bothering you?”

  Leeba was dumbfounded. All she could do was shake her head. “No. No, he’s not bothering me.” Choking back her rage she stormed out of the drugstore.

  “It’s okay,” Red said, following her outside.

  “No, it’s not. That owner was watching you, acting like you were going to steal something. And that—that other guy . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought. She was sick of whites trying to save her from her boyfriend. Why couldn’t anyone just accept at face value that they were a couple?

  She had gone into this relationship knowing it would be challenging. But three months later she was just beginning to understand how difficult it would really be.

  It was starting to snow now. Big wet flakes that hit the pavement and spread. She glanced over at Red, his hands stuffed in his pockets, collar turned up, teeth gritting against the snow and cold. “C’mon.” She gestured toward the El platform overhead. “Let’s go back to your place.”

  Red’s kitchenette was dark and cold. The furnace was on the fritz so the radiator sat idle. With their coats still on and the lights still out, Red brought his hands to her face. There was the shock of cold fingers followed by the heat from his kisses. She wrapped herself around him. They didn’t make it to the mattress. The counter along the kitchenette would do fine.

  Their love was still new and the sex was urgent, hungry. The thing she looked forward to more than anything else. This, too, was unfamiliar. This kind of craving. Now she understood Aileen and Muddy for she, too, was one of the lovestruck.

  Afterward she pulled on her clothes to ward off the draft and made them each a cup of tea. She stood near the stove, stirring a spoonful of honey into the mugs, and he came up behind her.

  “I love these little blue veins,” he said running his hands over her pale skin.

  She set the spoon down and glanced at the backs of her hands, having never noticed them before. Now they were something to marvel. She leaned back into his chest, her spine straight, shoulders back. She’d been that way, standing taller, owning her height, since he’d come into her life.

  They drank their tea, standing side by side near the stove. It was warmer there, farther away from the window. Leeba couldn’t have been happier. She was in love. And grateful. Crazy, gushy grateful because she never thought this would happen to her.

  Leeba rinsed the teacups in Red’s sink and set them on the drain board to dry. She went over to him and looped her arms about his waist. One last kiss before she let herself out, ignoring the stares from his neighbors.

  • • •

  About a week later Leeba and Aileen went to the Macomba Lounge. Muddy’s band was playing that night, getting ready to go on when they walked through the door. The usual drug dealers were parked on their bar stools doing business and the prostitutes were working the room, too. The guy who worked the rib pit in back was bringing out slabs of barbecue. Leeba and Aileen hadn’t made it past the bar when Little Walter rushed over.

  “What’re you doing here, Aileen? You can’t be here.”

  “What are you talking about? I came to see Muddy.” She started toward the stage.

  Little Walter grabbed hold of her arm. “I’m telling you, you can’t be here. Not tonight.” Little Walter craned his neck toward the bandstand. “Muddy’s woman’s here.”

  “I’m Muddy’s woman.”

  “You know what I mean, girl. His wife’s here.”

  Leeba knew anything could happen now. Aileen got that look in her eyes. The storm was rolling in. She went to Aileen’s side. “C’mon. Let’s just go. We’ll—”

  Aileen pulled away. “I ain’t going nowhere.” She stared Little Walter down. “I’m not gonna be the only one in misery tonight. Let him look out from that stage and see me sitting here, like some big bad secret about to come out.”

  Walter was bewildered. “You crazy, woman, you know that.”

  Leeba watched him walk back to the bandstand shaking his head. A stool opened up at the bar and Aileen sank down and ordered a gin straight up.

  The band started playing and Leeba hung back with Aileen, watching Red on stage in a dark suit and tie. He was seated on a cane-back chair off to the side. Muddy was sitting front and center, a pint of Old Grand-Dad parked near his stomping foot. Amazing he hadn’t knocked it over. They were playing “Rollin’ Stone.” Red, strumming steadily, set the rhythm that the drums, harp, bass and Muddy’s slide played into. The crowd was clapping, swaying back and forth.

  Aileen slithered off her bar stool and slinked over to the telephone booth to make a call. Leeba watched her leaning against the door, fingers splayed against the glass, nodding to whoever she was talking to on the line.

  She was so focused on Aileen that at first Leeba didn’t pay any attention to the two women nearby, one on either side of her. They didn’t say anything as they moved in closer and sized her up. The men in the club didn’t make Leeba nearly as uneasy as the women. Being the only white female in the room usually didn’t faze her. But now she was self-conscious and caught herself trying to compensate for her privileged skin color. She turned to the women and smiled. Neither one smiled back and Leah Grand was Leeba Groski once again, the sting of their rejection reminding her of the kids on the playground snubbing her because of her accent, because of Eli’s shoes, because she ate stuffed cabbage leaves for lunch instead of peanut butter and jelly. Even after all this time, it still affected her and made her burrow into her old self.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” said the woman on her left.

  “Just came to hear some music, that’s all.” She looked at Aileen, who had returned to the bar.

  “We saw you talking to that harp player.” The other woman folded her arms across her chest. “Is he your man?”

  “Walter?” Leeba could have laughed. “No. No, I’m not with Walter. He’s just someone I know.”

  She sensed where this was going. They wanted to make sure she wasn’t there for any of their men. It was one thing to lose a good man to another colored woman, but to a white girl—that was unacceptable. Leeba wanted to shout it from the stage that she was there for Red Dupree, but she couldn’t say a word.

  The two girls were still at her sides and Leeba knew they wanted to make her so nervous that she’d leave. They were doing a good job of that, but she wouldn’t abandon Aileen. Her friend was going to fall hard and Leeba would have to pick her back up.

  Muddy and the boys were in the middle of “I Be’s Troubled” when Red looked out at Leeba and her heart ripened. There was a secret language between them and she knew he was every bit as lost in the wonder of them as was she. So unlikely they were. So forbidden. And yet so right. Oh, how she loved the striking contrast of their skin and the way his body fit around hers when they lay together on their sides. How they shared their love of the blues. How he saw the world as music: the spines of books lined up on a shelf were piano keys to him, the finials on a fence were guitar frets.
And oh, how he made her laugh, made her melt. All this and more flashed between them with just a glance. And in the midst of this private moment Leeba heard a familiar voice.

  She looked over her shoulder and there was J.J. That must have been who Aileen called. Leeba watched her perk up, making a big show of smiling and wrapping her arms around him, kissing him long and hard on the mouth. J.J. was eating it up and Leeba could see Muddy getting irked by the display. She could hear it in his voice, in his playing. His vocals grew tighter, scratchier, his guitar licks fiercer, sharper.

  When the band finished their set, Red swaggered up toward the bar, people clasping him on the shoulder, shaking his hand as he made his way through the crowd. Leeba felt the girls next to her watching him coming closer.

  Red leaned in to her, all that stage heat coming off him. He whispered, “Been thinking about you.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

  She was so focused on Red that she hadn’t realized Muddy was there, too, talking to Aileen. “Entertainment supposed to be up on stage,” Muddy said. “But I see you putting on a real show down here.”

  “None of your business what I do,” she said.

  “What’s your point, woman?” Muddy said to Aileen. “What you tryin’ to start?”

  “She’s with me now, see.” J.J. stood up, eye to eye with Muddy. “You got somethin’ to say, you say it to me.”

  “Ain’t nobody talkin’ to you.” Muddy turned toward Aileen. “What you tryin’ to do? You tryin’ to make me jealous—with that clown?”

  “Who you calling a clown?” J.J. muscled in on Muddy and that was when Muddy snapped, shoving J.J. so hard against the bar that a half dozen bottles and glasses went flying. Muddy had his fist drawn back when Red grabbed him from behind.

  “C’mon now,” Red said, holding Muddy back.

  J.J. was still pushed up against the bar, afraid to move.