Long Black Curl

by Alex Bledsoe

  “I think that I’ll do whatever you tell me. Because I want to make you happy, if I can.”

  “What if I want to make you happy?”

  “Hm. I can think of a couple of ways that might happen.” She put her hands on his shoulders and firmly pushed him down to his knees. Then she draped one perfect, world-famous leg over his shoulder, her smooth thigh against his cheek.

  But even as he paid attention to Melanie, Jeff pondered and fumed over what the two Tufa had told him about Bo-Kate. Not only had she killed people, but she now wanted to destroy the careful balance that allowed the Tufa to continue to exist. She did have to be stopped. But how would he do it? He couldn’t just ask her to come back to him, not after the way things ended. And he didn’t want that. He wanted to put his hands around her neck and choke the life out of her.

  He also, he hated to admit, wanted to do to Bo-Kate exactly what he was doing to Melanie. Because no matter how much time went by in the human world, or how many beautiful women he seduced with his power, influence, and money, she was still the best he’d ever had.

  * * *

  At the Holiday Inn on Twenty-ninth Street, Bronwyn sat in one of the padded chairs noodling on her mandolin. She missed Craig, and her parents, and everything about her home, even though she hadn’t been gone twenty-four hours yet. She’d never felt like this when she was in Iraq, and put it down to one more thing the baby in her belly had changed about her.

  There was a soft knock at the door. “Bronwyn? It’s me, Junior. You awake?”

  She opened the door and let him in. She wore a man’s undershirt and flannel pajama pants, and the shirt didn’t quite cover her belly. He was barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Excuse me for sitting back down,” she said, and plopped heavily on the bed. “What can I do for you, Junior?”

  “I was just passing by on my way to the ice machine and heard you playing.” That wasn’t entirely the truth; he’d actually stood with his ear to her door until he caught the strains of her mandolin.

  “You can hear me in the hall? I’m surprised the front desk hasn’t called up with a complaint,” she joked. In a Yankee accent, she said, “‘We don’t allow that kind of redneckery, folks.’”

  “This is New York City, they’ll just send up some Eye-talians.”

  She laughed. “You might as well sit down, too. There’s nothing on TV, and I’m not up to wandering around Manhattan like a tourist.”

  “Me, neither, and I ain’t even pregnant.” He settled into one of the padded but uncomfortable hotel chairs. “How do you think it went today?”

  “Oh, fine. I can’t imagine he won’t say yes. Can you?”

  “Does seem unlikely.”

  “Then we can only hope he’s up to the challenge.”

  After a moment, Junior said, “Did you hear what Bo-Kate said the other day at the Pair-A-Dice? About her plans?”

  “I heard about it. I got there too late to hear it firsthand.”

  “It’s sure had me thinking. It doesn’t sound like it would be that bad, does it? Everybody making money, everyone having jobs. What’s bad about that?”

  “The cost.”

  “Changing the name of the town?”

  “Not that. It’ll cost us our identity. Junior, when I was in Iraq, I wasn’t a Tufa, I was just Private Hyatt. There was nothing special about me. I had a good job, and a secure future if I wanted it. If we change everything the way Bo-Kate wants, then yeah, we’ll all maybe be a little more comfortable and secure, just like I was. But we won’t be Tufa. We’ll be way too entangled with the world to ever ride the night winds again. There won’t be anything special about us.”

  “Then why does she want to do it?”

  “Because she hates us for what we did to her, and to Jefferson.”

  “And he doesn’t hate us?”

  Bronwyn said nothing. The question was unanswerable until it was too late. They had to trust him.

  “I reckon,” he said, “that’s something only Mandalay knows.”

  She looked at him seriously. “Junior, tell me. Do you really want to step in for Rockhouse?”

  “I know what you think, Bronwyn. It’s what everybody thinks. I ain’t smart enough, I ain’t sophisticated enough, I ain’t scary enough. But you’re all wrong. And you know, the proof’s sitting right here.” He patted his chest. “I got myself in on this trip without too much trouble, didn’t I? And this is some important shit.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “And you’re actually doing a good job, Junior. I’m impressed.”

  Junior could handle criticism without blinking, but he had no idea how to react to compliments. To change the subject, he nodded at her stomach and said, “How’s your little pea pod doing?”

  “She didn’t like the flight much. But she’s okay now. I think she’s sleeping.”

  He looked away, out the window that showed a view of another nearby building. “My wife’s pregnant, too.”

  “I know. I saw her at Rockhouse’s funeral.”

  “It ain’t bringing out her best qualities.”

  “It’s a hard thing for some women, Junior.” She winced and wriggled in the chair. “Ow. Guess who’s awake now?”

  “Did we make too much noise?”

  “Probably just me getting wrought up.”

  “I’m amazed my baby ever sleeps, then,” he said a little bitterly. “Loretta is always wrought up.”

  Bronwyn had no problem seeing Loretta acting that way. She’d always been a whiner, even when they were children, and it was doubtful that bearing a child had made her any nicer. “Sorry, Junior. Maybe she’ll stop taking it out on you when the baby’s born.”

  “She was doing it long before the baby came along,” he muttered.

  Bronwyn picked up her mandolin and began to pick, precise little notes that didn’t really develop into anything. Junior fished a harmonica from his pocket.

  “You don’t sing?” Bronwyn said.

  “Whenever I have a problem, I sing. Then I realize my voice is a lot worse than my problem.”

  He patted the harmonica against his palm a couple of times, then put it to his lips and blew soft, mournful wails in counterpoint to what Bronwyn played. If anyone had heard, they would’ve been moved to tears. But no one did.

  23

  “Tell me,” Jeff said seriously, “exactly what you expect me to do. I mean, exactly. I don’t want any misunderstandings.”

  They were in the hotel’s little continental breakfast café, seated at one of the faux-rustic tables. Bronwyn leaned as close as her belly allowed and said, “We want Bo-Kate stopped, and back out of Cloud County. However you need to do that. If it means killing her, that’s all right, too.”

  “Wow,” Jeff said. “That escalated quickly.”

  “It’s always been life and death.”

  “So how did she manage to get back in the first place?”

  “We don’t know,” Junior said. “She just showed up, with this black guy in tow, and the shit hit the fan. She cut off Rockhouse’s extra fingers, and he died that night. She gave them to Peggy Goins to show she meant business.”

  “Who’s the black guy?”

  “He seems to just be an assistant,” Bronwyn said. “He’s certainly not the one in charge. And he’s British, if that means anything.”

  Jeff sipped his coffee. He hadn’t touched his bagel. “Okay. As far as I know, as far as I can tell, I’m still banished. How do we fix that?”

  “It’s fixed,” Bronwyn said.

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “So I’ll be able to find Cloud County again?”

  “Like you never left.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  She shrugged. Truthfully, even though they weren’t 100 percent certain he would agree to help them, they had followed Mandalay’s instructions and asked the night winds to listen to them sing “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” an inane and obvious choice but one that
embodied the right spirit. Even in New York City they were heard and their wish accepted. She only wished every request could be that simple.

  “The question is, what will you do?” Junior asked.

  “First I’ll find her, then I’ll talk to her. Then I’ll make it up as I go.”

  “That’s not much of a plan.”

  “You haven’t given me much to go on. And you forget, I haven’t seen her in a very long time. I’m a different person now; I have to assume she might be, as well.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning that I don’t know how she’ll react when she sees me. She might kiss me, she might take a shot at me.”

  “That’s your risk,” Bronwyn said.

  “Yes, I understand that,” Jeff snapped. “And when this is over, whatever the outcome, I get to stay. Right?”

  “Yes,” Bronwyn said.

  “That’s it? No dramatic pause? No exchange of a surreptitious glance?”

  “No. You’re back. You’re a Tufa again.”

  “So … I can sing?”

  “Just like before.”

  He sat back, sipped his coffee again, then softly:

  As I wandered through the townlands,

  And the luscious grassy plains,

  Who should I meet but a beautiful maid,

  At the dawning of the day.

  When he finished, he sat silently for a long time. At last he said, “Well, damn.”

  “Welcome back,” Junior said.

  “I have some things I need to do today,” he said. “Loose ends to tie up before I leave. I’ll be in Needsville by tomorrow night, Thursday morning at the latest. Will my parents know I’m coming, or will I need to stay at Peggy’s motel?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bronwyn said. “Your parents passed away some time ago.”

  He said nothing, and kept the emotion off his face. “Well … it has been a while. My brothers and sister?”

  “They’re still around. They’ll be glad to see you.”

  “I’m not sure about that. But I have to start somewhere.” He handed them each a business card. “My cell’s on here. I’ll see you both down South.”

  When he was gone, Bronwyn took a bite of her eggs and said, “This is awful.”

  “He knows what he’s getting into.”

  “I mean these eggs.”

  Junior scowled at her. “Ha ha. Do you really think he’ll be able to stop her?”

  “I don’t know. We have to trust that Mandalay’s right.”

  “Yeah. We have to do that a lot, have you noticed?”

  “It’s the way things are. She’s never been wrong.”

  “Well, there’s that. But Bo-Kate killed Rockhouse. We never thought that could happen, either.”

  “That’s an even bigger reason to do what Mandalay tells us.”

  “So you think she is right?”

  “I think she knows more than we do, and so we can’t help but be wrong if we second-guess her decisions.”

  “That sounds a lot like the way Christians like your husband talk about their God.”

  Bronwyn smiled at the irony. “Yeah, it does. Guess a lot of things work in mysterious ways.”

  * * *

  “Hey, man, what’re you doing here?” Hector Jacob, leader of the band Meat Raffle, said as Jeff walked into the recording studio. The place smelled of dope and cheap wine, with a slight undertaste of fast-food grease.

  “Wanted to see how my favorite band was getting along,” Jeff said. The band was in its second week of recording its third album. Drug use was rampant but not affecting performance, and Hector’s tendency to get drunk by three in the afternoon was accommodated by having him record all his vocals first. Jeff nodded at producer William “Little Bill” Paul, the man who had quickly sorted out how to get the most from the band in the least amount of time.

  “We’re making the grade,” Hector said. “Getting ready to rehearse ‘She’s Like a Flower.’”

  Jeff knew that one from the band’s original demo. He stood before a PRS Custom 24 guitar in its stand and rested his fingertips lightly on the head. “Mind if I play along?”

  “Okay with me,” said Johnny Pigsty, the sullen guitarist.

  “You play?” Hector said, surprised.

  “I’ve been known to pick a song or two.”

  “Sure,” Hector said with a shrug. The rest of the band said nothing, but they all watched as Jeff shrugged the strap over his shoulder and plugged into the amp.

  “If you get lost,” Jeff said, “just go to G and wait for me there.”

  The drummer counted off, and the band slammed into the song, which was upbeat, cheery, and had an incredibly catchy chorus. Jeff found the chords easily and felt the eyes of the other band members on him, watching with surprise and appreciation.

  When it came time for the instrumental bridge, Hector said, “Take it, Jeff,” and Jeff did. His fingers slid expertly up and down the strings, squeezing high, rapid notes out of the instrument with the skill and dexterity of the best session guitarists. But there was something else, a desperate, plaintive quality that worked perfectly against the overall vibe of the song, adding a depth to the simple party tune that no one expected. When he nodded at Hector to begin the final verse, Jeff saw open mouths all around.

  The song crashed to an end, and as the last notes faded, Hector said, “Little Bill, please tell me you were recording that.”

  The intercom clicked open. “Sorry, guys, thought it was just a jam session. Damn, Jeff, I had no idea you could do that. Why have you been hiding it?”

  Jeff took off the guitar, put it reverently back on the stand, and took a deep, satisfied breath. He wanted to cry, but figured that would be even more difficult to explain. “I just putz around. I’m better at arguing with people than I am at playing.”

  “Then you must be the best arguer in the world,” drummer Cap Hathstone said. “Glad you’re on our side.”

  Jeff smiled. “Thanks for letting me jam, guys. I’ll let you get back to work.” He shook hands and slapped high fives all around, turned down an offered joint, then went into the control booth to speak to Little Bill. When the door shut, he said quietly, “You did record it, didn’t you?”

  “I record everything, you know that.”

  “Thanks for not telling them.”

  He shrugged. “I want to keep working with the bands you handle. And it wouldn’t be fair to put a solo on the actual album that none of them could play.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t that good.”

  “You’re telling me how to listen to music?”

  Jeff chuckled. “Can you send me a copy?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be out of town for a few days. Have to go home for some family business. Just e-mail it, and I’ll get it that way.”

  “Will do. Where’s home, by the way?”

  “Tennessee. Up in the Smoky Mountains.”

  “Beautiful country.”

  “It is that. Haven’t been back there in a long time, so I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Well, have a safe trip.”

  Jeff left the studio and walked down the crowded sidewalk with a lift in his step, whistling “She’s Like a Flower.” He hadn’t truly realized how hollow he’d been until now, when that space was once again filled by music.

  24

  The plane ride to Nashville had been uneventful, and the rental car was comfortable and rode smoothly up the interstate. Jeff sang along with Sirius’s Bluegrass Junction station and pondered what he’d learned.

  Earlier that day, after leaving the Nashville airport, he drove into the city. The enormous BellSouth Building, with its batlike silhouette, dominated the skyline. He merged from I-40 to I-24, then exited and crossed the Cumberland River into downtown.

  He found Bo-Kate’s office with no trouble. He casually entered the waiting room, where posters of various concert package tours lined the walls. There were all kinds: rap, country, pop, and has-beens. A black secr
etary with a big Afro sat typing behind the desk. “Yes?” she said coolly when she looked up.

  “Is Ms. Wisby in?”

  “I’m afraid not. Can I take a message?”

  “No, I was just in the neighborhood. Bo-Kate and I grew up together in Needsville, I thought I’d stop by and say hi.”

  “Oh, yeah, I can see the resemblance. Same hair and teeth.”

  He laughed. “Don’t let her know you said that.”

  “She checks in a couple of times a day. I can tell her you asked about her.”

  “Nah, that’s all right. What’s her assistant’s name? Jerome?”

  “No, Nigel. Nigel Hawtrey.”

  “Nigel, that’s right,” Jeff said, snapping his fingers as if it had been right on the tip of his tongue. “English fella, right?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No,” she said with exaggerated seriousness. “Bo-Kate takes him everywhere. A lot of what he does for her isn’t covered in the employee handbook, if you know what I mean.”

  “Really?”

  “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Hear what?” he said with a grin. He looked around at the office, all gleaming and new. “Looks like she’s doing pretty good for herself.” He noticed a framed tour poster on the wall, displaying the face of a young woman with a ’60s-style hairdo and extreme eye makeup. “Well, except for that whole thing with Naomi Barden.”

  “That was tragic,” she agreed. “But when a girl’s got demons, only she can chase ’em out. And she didn’t want to.”

  Jeff remembered the girl’s most successful song, an anthem for her right to keep partying no matter what. The chorus was:

  I won’t sober up

  I won’t dry out

  I won’t make amends

  I’ll always dance and shout.

  “But someone else will come along,” the receptionist said. “Bo-Kate has a knack for knowing who’s going to be the next big thing.”

  “That’s a good knack to have. Wish I had it.”

  “Me, too,” the secretary said, smiling at last.

  Jeff said, “Can I leave her a note for when she comes back?”

  “Sure.” She handed him a notepad, with Wisby Tour Management’s logo across the top.