Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  “Up here, too,” he said. “They’re saying the jails are full. And mostly with children. I’ve got James with me and we’re watching the news right now.”

  “Let me talk to him.” When James got on the phone he said he still wished he was down there fighting. “Let me fight this one for you,” she said. “Believe me, I’m afraid you’ll have plenty of opportunities to fight for yourself when you’re a little older.”

  They talked a bit longer and before he put Red back on the phone James said, “Leah?”

  “Yes?”

  The line was silent. She almost thought he’d hung up until she heard him say, “Be careful, okay?”

  She nodded into the receiver, too choked up to speak.

  Early the next morning Leeba was back at the Sixteenth Street Church, gathered with others around the radio to hear Shelley the Playboy reporting the weather. “So okay now, babies, better wear your raincoats today . . .”

  Leeba knew the code by now and that meant Bull Connor was going to use those fire hoses on them. As they left the church Leeba fell into line with the others, inching their way toward city hall. The sun was beating down, glaring in her eyes. Step by step, she was clapping, singing and marching with the other demonstrators.

  About a quarter of a mile up the road they came to an impasse, standing face-to-face with swarms of riot police, dozens and dozens of white shirts standing two and three rows deep. Their dogs were pulling their leashes taut, waiting for the command to attack. She saw officers rapping their clubs to their open palms, anticipating Bull Connor giving the signal so they could start clobbering people.

  They were singing “We Shall Overcome,” drowning out Bull Connor’s voice coming over a loudspeaker. “I’m warning you niggers to go on home. You have no license to be here parading. Now break it up.”

  The singing continued, their voices so loud that Leeba didn’t even hear Bull Connor give the order. But all it took was a split second for the fire hoses to be turned on. She didn’t know what hit her. It felt like a million knives stabbing her, sinking into her skin. The force caught her off guard. She swallowed a mouthful of water, making her gag. That water was still blasting. It went up her nose and in her eyes. She heard the screams but couldn’t see through the rush of water pounding her face. Her feet had no traction; the water pushed her around like a dry leaf on a windy day. She slipped and fell, bit her tongue, a metallic taste filling her mouth. As soon as she got back up she was sprayed down again and rolled along the street. She managed to get back up and crouched down alongside a building, trying to shield a young boy with her body.

  Finally the force of water moved off her and an eerie calm surrounded her. That was when she felt the sting of her injuries. She checked to make sure the people around her were okay and as she turned back around she saw the attack dogs charging toward them. Vicious barking. All teeth. The incisors sank in through her pants, clamping down to her bones. A riot policeman grabbed her by the arm and dragged her, pulling her along before he shoved her into the back of a paddy wagon.

  They were plastered up against one another, some bleeding, everyone soaked from the fire hoses. When it wasn’t possible to fit another demonstrator inside they slammed the paddy wagon door shut. It was dark, hot, hard to breathe, and Leeba began a claustrophobic panic until she heard a child’s voice cutting through the commotion, singing, “Ain’t Nobody Gonna Turn Me Around.” Another voice joined in and another and another until everyone was singing and suddenly it wasn’t so bad. They let the music get them through it.

  When they arrived at the jail Leeba and the others were ushered past the reporters and cameramen and guards. If she thought the paddy wagon was crowded that was nothing compared to the cell she was crammed into. It was hot and packed, cockroaches crawling down the wall and over her feet. People were lined up in the back, taking turns using the one toilet, clogged and overflowing. They had every reason to be miserable and frightened. And yet, there was not one tear, not even from the youngest among them. Everyone was together, defiant, proud. They sang more freedom songs. They knew their purpose. They showed no fear. Leeba had never seen such a display of courage. They’d been blasted with water hoses, bitten by dogs, beaten with clubs, and whatever blood and torn clothing they had, whatever bruises and pains, they were worn like a badge of honor.

  Leeba grew to admire and love those children, their spirit and the spirit of the other adults in the cell, too. She lost track of how long she’d been locked up. She had no idea what time it was. What day it was. She was too invigorated to sleep, too caught up in the movement, so that when one of the guards came and undid the lock and threw open the door she wasn’t sure what to do. No one else knew, either.

  “Go on. Move on out. Clear out. Your bail’s been posted. Go on home.”

  Leeba inched her way out of the cell, watching the children become children again, running, scampering, scattering out of the jail. Leeba moved slower, more cautiously. She had no idea who had posted their bail until she turned the corner.

  “You motherfucker you.” Leonard smiled. He was standing there with Phil. They both held their arms out to her.

  FIFTY-SIX

  • • •

  “Roll Over Beethoven”

  LEONARD

  Leonard sat at his desk at WVON fighting to stay awake. He was tired as all fuck. He wanted to stop or at least slow down, but he didn’t know how. He had no shutoff valve. Even though they’d signed some new artists, like Buddy Guy and Koko Taylor, he was losing interest in the record business and now his obsession was the radio station.

  It was June and the ratings had just come out. WVON was the number one station in the Chicago market, beating out WGN, WLS and stations with fifty times the power and reach. He never could have predicted this for his little 1,000-watt station. And now with all the commotion down South, the station’s role in the civil rights movement was getting bigger. Leonard had watched the news coming out of Birmingham with tears in his eyes. He knew people on the front lines. Not just Leeba, but people like Ralph Abernathy and Reverend King. Sure, he and Phil had given money to the NAACP and CORE and they’d bailed hundreds of kids out of those Birmingham jails, but as far as Leonard was concerned, WVON was his most powerful weapon in the civil rights struggle.

  He got up to get more coffee, sidestepping his way down the hall. The station was growing and they were packed in like sardines. The previous owner had left so much crap behind that was just eating up space—old office equipment, old reel-to-reels, the piano. He decided to make arrangements to move it all over to 2120. They’d store it there until he figured out what to do with it all.

  In the meantime, he still had a record company to run, and later that afternoon Leonard and Phil were across the street at Blatt’s sitting in their booth with Chuck Berry. He was finally out of prison and looking a little rough around the edges. He’d lost weight, his face showing every angle, but even so, Chuck was still one pretty-looking motherfucker.

  Leonard and Phil were going back in the studio with Chuck to record the songs he’d written while he was in jail. Leonard especially liked “No Particular Place to Go” and “Nadine.” But so much had changed in the music scene since Chuck had been away and Leonard worried if his sound would still be able to compete.

  “What’s happening with the Beach Boys?” asked Chuck. “What did the lawyers say?”

  “They’re working on it,” said Phil.

  “Well, I sure hope so,” said Chuck. “They stole my song. All you have to do is listen to those two songs side by side and you’ll see. ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.’ is ‘Sweet Little Sixteen.’ Note for note. It’s my song and they stole it.”

  Phil placed a calming hand on Chuck’s arm. “We know it is. Our lawyers know it is. They’re working on it. It’s just gonna take a little time.”

  “Right now we got a bigger problem,” said Leonard. “It’s called the Beatles.”r />
  “Vee-Jay’s gotta be kicking themselves for letting those mop-tops get away,” said Phil.

  Chuck’s brow furrowed. “What happened with Vee-Jay and the Beatles?”

  “You ain’t been keeping up with the business?” said Leonard. “Same thing that happened with Elvis.” Leonard sympathized with Vee-Jay Records. They blew it with the Beatles just like he’d blown it with Elvis. And in his case it was all because of that fight he had with Sam Phillips over Ike Turner’s bus fare.

  “What happened,” said Leonard, “was a few years ago the guys from Vee-Jay went to England and EMI over there sold them the rights for Frank Ifield. And to sweeten the deal, EMI threw in a new group called the Beatles.”

  Phil shook his head. “They were given the golden goose and didn’t even know it.”

  “So Vee-Jay releases the Beatles’ first single—‘Please Please Me’ and the motherfucker tanks. So did the single after that—‘Ask Me Why.’ Vee-Jay still had another dozen or so songs from these guys sitting in the can, but they couldn’t afford to release any more losers so the songs just sat there, collecting dust. Eventually the Beatles wanted out of their contract and Vee-Jay said, ‘Hell yes. Go. Take your lousy music and go.’ So they did and a year later they get snapped up by Capitol.”

  “And the rest,” said Phil, “is history. Here we are, it’s 1964, and we’ve got this thing called Beatlemania.”

  “And that’s what we’re up against,” said Leonard.

  “I’m ready,” said Chuck. “I’m ready.”

  As they were leaving Blatt’s, Leonard eyed Chuck head to toe. He didn’t look ready. Chuck had always prided himself on being a sharp dresser, but styles had changed since he’d been locked up. Leonard’s number one star was still walking around like it was 1958. All those checkered and plaid shirts were passé. Now the look was longer collars, wider ties, and men wore sports jackets with a pair of slacks instead of suits.

  “Come with me, motherfucker.” Leonard put his arm around Chuck’s shoulder. “You and me are going on a little shopping spree.”

  • • •

  Chuck needed a new wardrobe, all new threads, but he didn’t need to get them at Saks Fifth Avenue. Leonard knew it was foolish, but he couldn’t help himself. Even after all these years.

  Shirley was still working there, still in the jewelry department. Leonard was glad she hadn’t seen him walking in with Chuck looking so raggedy. First thing Leonard did was whisk Chuck off to the men’s department.

  The salesclerk knew Leonard from his previous spending sprees and recognized Chuck Berry right away. He brought out all the latest fashions. Chuck was a flashy guy on and off the stage and Leonard knew that. Chuck was looking for red suits, purple suits, loud shirts and shiny Stacy Adams shoes. He didn’t go for the kind of classic, conservative clothes they sold at Saks.

  Chuck looked at a price tag and balked. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” said Leonard. “I’m paying for all this.”

  When they got Chuck suited up in clothes that were all wrong for him, Leonard wanted to parade him over to the jewelry department and have Shirley show them Rolex watches.

  “You’re buying me a Rolex?” said Chuck, giddy with disbelief.

  “Nothing but the best for you. Consider it your welcome home present.”

  They went to the jewelry department, all those sparkling cases, not a fingerprint on the glass. Shirley was behind the counter, ringing up another sale. Leonard stood off to the side and waited until she was finished before he and Chuck went over. He said hello and introduced her to Chuck.

  “I’m a big fan of your music,” she said before turning her focus back on Leonard. “You’ve done so well for yourself, Lenny. You must be very proud.”

  “What would your father think now, huh?” He laughed. “Give him my regards, will ya?”

  “Leonard,” she said with a pinched expression, “my father’s dead. He died over seven years ago.”

  Leonard slapped his forehead. He felt like a clod and apologized, wishing he could dart out the door, forget this moment ever took place. But Shirley had already let it go and kept talking, chattering on while Leonard wrestled with his embarrassment.

  “Do you remember the first time I brought you home to meet my father?” she asked with a smile.

  He remembered. The problem was that he never forgot. Shirley was smiling at him now, leaning forward on the counter, reminiscent of the girl he’d once dated. Once loved. In many ways she looked the same and it wasn’t that she was such a beauty. She wasn’t nearly as attractive as Revetta. But Shirley had come to represent something to him. Something unobtainable. Through the years, he knew he could have had an affair with Shirley. The spark was still there in her eyes, but Leonard never pursued it. That wasn’t what this was about.

  Just then he wasn’t sure what this was about anymore. He hadn’t realized it until that moment standing there with Chuck, but after all this time he finally got it. Something had just shifted inside him; at long last he saw the absurdity of it all. What the hell was he doing? He’d just dropped almost a grand on clothes that Chuck would never wear and now he was going to drop another grand on a watch, and for what—to impress Shirley? Her father had died seven years before and he was still doing this shit. Still trying to show her and her dead father that he’d made it. Before her old man died he knew Leonard had made it. Everyone knew he’d made it. Leonard Chess, poor Polish immigrant, little Jew boy, dirty kike, had made more money than he ever could have imagined and he wasn’t finished yet.

  The whole shopping spree hadn’t been for Chuck. It had all been for Shirley and a dead man. Suddenly Leonard understood that none of it mattered. He was good enough for Shirley. In fact, he was too good for her and not good enough for Revetta. He had a wife who loved him and put up with his nonsense. He had three kids who had grown up when he wasn’t looking. Revetta always knew, always said that he was killing himself, missing out on his own life, and for what? For this? He realized how far off his aim had been. A wave of utterly depleting exhaustion came over him. It was as if all the long hours, the miles on the road and the sleepless nights had caught up to him. He was tired, man. It was time to go home. All the way home.

  “C’mon, Chuck,” he said, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Hey, wait. Wait a minute—what about my Rolex?”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  • • •

  “Rollin’ Stone”

  LEEBA

  The radio was on in the bedroom. Leeba was listening to WVON as she stepped into a pair of Capri pants and zipped them up the back. She pulled on a black top and went to the mirror, where she slipped a white headband over her hair, which she’d recently had straightened. Twenty-three dollars to end a lifetime of longing. Now that she had that fine, silky hair she realized she preferred her natural curls. It’ll grow out, she told herself while she clipped on her white hoop earrings and applied a thin sheen of pale pink lipstick.

  The current show was wrapping up and then Red would come on. The Inside Man had one of the largest listening audiences. Red and the other deejays on WVON kept black Chicago informed on the issues. Red called for prayer vigils and peaceful demonstrations. His listeners trusted him and his was one of the opinions that weighed most heavily with them. He had civil rights leaders on his show, like Reverend James Bevel, James Farmer of CORE and Reverend King. And when he wasn’t talking about the movement he was playing records and taking requests over the air. Red Dupree truly had become the Voice of the Negro.

  Leeba was about to leave for work when she heard a commotion outside. Looking out the window she saw a moving van idling out front of their apartment. The doorbell rang a few moments later and a man standing at her threshold in a green uniform and cap said, “You Leah?”

  “Yes.”

  “We got a delivery. Mr.
Chess said to bring it to you.”

  “What?”

  “I got a delivery. Mr. Chess wants it over here.”

  Leeba gazed out at the van, puzzled and annoyed. Leonard hadn’t said a word about a delivery. What did he think—that she was his storage locker just because she and Red had a bigger place now?

  “Where do you want it?” asked the deliveryman as the telephone rang.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She ran toward the kitchen to answer the phone and called back to him, “Just put it anywhere.”

  She caught the telephone on the seventh ring and as soon as she heard the lawyer’s voice her pulse jumped. For a long time she and Red had accepted that they couldn’t adopt James or be his foster parents, but out of the blue, two months back the lawyer Leonard had hired for them years before had contacted Leeba. He said there was a new organization handling adoptions for the state now: DCFS, the Department of Children and Family Services. He thought DCFS would be more lenient than the Department of Public Health in their fight to adopt James. Overnight their hope was reignited, their dream given a second chance.

  “I’m calling,” said the lawyer, “because I just spoke with the caseworker from DCFS.”

  Leeba cleared her throat and sat down at the kitchen table. A cool sweat had broken out along the back of her neck. “Well?” she asked, twisting the telephone cord about her wrist, pulling it tight.

  “I’m sorry, Leah. They still feel that James would be better off being raised by two parents of the same race, meaning the Negro race.”

  Leeba released the tension on the phone cord and squeezed her eyes shut. Her mouth went dry.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but the court thinks James would benefit from being adopted by a couple that can provide an environment that will promote his culture, his heritage, his—”