The Green-Eyed Dick

by J. S. Chapman

  “See that in your crystal ball?”

  She set out a porcelain teapot and matching blue-and-white teacups. “Your great-grandfather came to me in a dream. One more thing, miss smarty-pants. Don’t trust the green-eyed dick.”

  I tried not to look shocked, but there was no getting around my mother’s uncanny gift. “The green-eyed dick,” I said haltingly, “is dead.”

  “The other green-eyed dick.” She carted over platters of egg rolls, fried rice, and shrimp chow mein. “And whatever you do, don’t go to your father for the gun.”

  “Daddy doesn’t own any guns, much less deal in them.”

  “But he associates with bad men who do,” she said, doling out the egg rolls.

  I picked up my chopsticks. “How come you and Daddy never got a divorce?”

  She slapped down her spoon and stared at me. “Now you ask? After all these years?” Her mouth twisted the way it always did when she tried to make the truth sound like a lie. “Because,” she said, pouring sweet-and-sour sauce over her egg roll, “I’d soak him for everything he’s got, and he’s not about to let that happen.”

  “You can see a lawyer.”

  She never lost her appetite over anything, and she wasn’t about to lose it now. Her chopsticks plunged, grappled, and delivered a tasty morsel to her mouth. “What could an attorney do?”

  “Sue him.”

  “Now why would I want to do that to your father? Why would you want me to?”

  “Don’t you want to get a divorce?”

  “Truthfully? I like the way things are. I like being Mrs. John Grenadine.”

  “Do you still carry a torch for him? Is that why?”

  “Everybody carries a torch for John Grenadine. Even you.” She shrugged. “And anyway, I like it when people call me Mrs. Grenadine. ‘Mrs. Grenadine, would you like me to wrap this for you?’ ‘Mrs. Grenadine, can I call a cab for you?’ ‘Mrs. Grenadine, can I wipe your ass for you.’ You wouldn’t believe how many speeding tickets I’ve gotten out of.”

  “It’s been eighteen years since you left him.”

  “But twenty-nine years of blissful matrimony. Besides, being a divorcée carries a stigma I don’t want to be associated with.”

  “Being separated is better?”

  “Don’t get snippy with me, young lady. I’m your mother. I was there when you were born. Which reminds me ....” Lifting her teacup, she offered a toast. “Happy birthday, Iris sweetheart.” We clinked teacups. “And don’t tell me how old you are. To me, you’re still Sweet Sixteen. And I’m still whatever age I am.”

  Chapter 10

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, the Charleston Club didn’t particularly stand out. A vertical sign spelled out Charleston in white neon letters, and Club ran horizontally across the bottom in smaller blue letters. The building was situated in an area where most shops and businesses were owned by whites but the patrons were predominantly Negro. Originally, the area had been dubbed Jewtown, because if you weren’t jewed down on a price, you weren’t breathing. The coloreds put their own stamp on the neighborhood. Between the two great wars and into the booming fifties, wave after wave of musicians, migrating from the South in search of a better life, hit town and infused Maxwell Street with the downhome notes of pure Delta blues.

  Inside the club, cigarette smoke and candlelight infused the room with a sultry moodiness that took you out of the ordinary and placed you into the extraordinary. Music thrummed with a rhythm you heard with your ears but felt in your soul. The postage-stamp bandstand accommodated a singer, an upright piano, a drum set, and a few other musicians. The venue was intended for an intimate gathering, less of a saloon and more of an overcrowded living room filled with like-minded folk who appreciated blues, jazz, ragtime, and swing. Indispensable was the presence of a talented set of pipes, usually in the form of a pretty songstress. Tables ringed the stage in a random semi-circular arrangement. A dance floor had been roped off to the left. A bar with stools and standing room was tucked inside an alcove where a bartender dressed in white shirt and bowtie served up high-octane fuel. Even with ceiling fans whirring, the club was sweltering. Only a few white faces were sprinkled among the black ones, but race pretty much melted into the background and nobody felt out of place since everyone came for the music.

  The club was jamming to the velvet-throated voice of Ella Fitzgerald, an exclusive two-nights-only engagement by a performer who had gotten her start in clubs just like this one. Even if everyone bought her records and paid top dollar to see her perform at ritzy hotels and posh theater venues, she often went back to her roots, those small dives and intimate clubs where it all began. Outfitted in a floor-length sequined affair that accentuated the deep color of her skin but made her pop out of the shadows like a beacon, she was belting out her latest hit, I Can’t Give You Anything but Love Baby. A piano player tickled the ivories with a fluid touch. Improvising with dissonant B-flats and C-sharps that seemed to be in perfect harmony, Ella swung her arm to the beat and snapped her fingers in synch with the driving notes of the bass fiddler.

  I squinted through the indigo atmosphere and searched for a familiar face. Starr sidled beside me. He was the one familiar face I didn’t care to see. “Following me?”

  “Don’t have to. I can read you like a roadmap.” One thought came to mind. If he was here, the sting wasn’t coming down tonight, just as I figured. Maybe tomorrow night. Or maybe never.

  I spotted the magnolia blossom at a table upfront and waved. Elvis flagged me to join the party. A bevy of broads with shapely legs and ruby lips made nice with him and his band members. Most notable was another individual I hadn’t expected to see here. She was gay, bubbly, vivacious, scantily dressed, and pleasingly plump.

  Suspicious, I gazed up at Starr. “Who invited her here? You?”

  He tugged at his fedora, obscuring the pale green eyes that were already unreadable. “Couldn’t, since you didn’t invite me.”

  Decked out in a silvery-gray suit and tieless white shirt, Elvis untangled himself from the bodacious redhead lassoed around his neck and stood up. “Glad you could make it, ma’am.”

  “Name’s Iris.”

  “Iris,” he said, and brushed a welcoming kiss across my cheek.

  “Bet you didn’t know Iris Grenadine is really a man in drag,” Monica Seagraves said, her words slurry and eyes unfocused.

  Ignoring her, I introduced my sidekick. “This is Richard Starr.”

  “Her father’s John Grenadine,” Monica went on. “You know ... the Mafia lawyer.”

  “Elvis Presley, sir.” He signaled a cocktail waitress, motioned for everyone to sit, and held out a chair for me.

  As I sat with graceful ease, Monica’s chair inexplicably went out from under her. She squawked like a duck. Scotty helped her to her feet. She was a lot of woman to handle, made worse my flailing arms and a rotten disposition. Ignoring her antics, I crutched chin on fist and dreamily stared into Elvis’s seductive eyes. “I’d love to hear you sing.”

  Starr pantomimed a gag. My backhanded thump knocked the wind out of him.

  Monica reclaimed her chair and hiccupped. “Don’t think I don’t know,” she said. “Don’t think everybody at the paper doesn’t know why they hired John Grenadine’s daughter.”

  “As soon as Miss Fitzgerald finishes up, we’ll be spelling her awhile,” Elvis said.

  Ella sang the last note of the final chorus and took her bows to jubilant applause.

  “To keep Arezzo’s name out of the headlines,” Monica said. The table jolted and a drink spilled into her lap. She yelped and sprang to her feet. “Fucking bitch! Did you see what she just did?”

  Hisses spewed our way. Elvis signaled his boys.

  “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off me!” Scotty and D.J. suffered more than a couple of smacks and slaps before turning over their obstreperous charge to the club bouncer. With little further ado plus a hiccup, the tipsy broad was ushered outside and hopefully thrown in the g
utter, but more likely bundled into the back seat of a jitney and sent on her way.

  Ella took her second bow. As the applause wound down, she spoke into the microphone. “I’d like everybody to give a warm welcome to a newcomer. His name is Elvis Presley. He’s a talented kid with a bright future. So let’s hear a round of applause for Elvis and the Blue Moon Boys!”

  The foursome took up their instruments and hustled onstage. The applause was tepid and the welcome unenthusiastic. The guys looked toward each other for support. It was now or never. Elvis grabbed the microphone and started to speak. An ear-splitting shriek from the feedback loop bounced off the walls. Everybody covered their ears and rolled their eyes. Amateur hour. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, his voice booming over the mic. After positioning an acoustic guitar over his hips, he picked out a riff, tested the mic, and spoke in dulcet tones. “This is from our new record on the Sun label. Hope you like it. And it goes like this ....” He nodded toward the boys once, twice, three times. On the downstroke of his guitar strings, Elvis began to sing That’s All Right, Mama. On the same beat, the guys jumped in.

  Miss Fitzgerald wended her way through the press of fans, bestowing autographs and kisses. She stopped at our table. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Please, Miss Fitzgerald,” I said. “We’re big fans.”

  She pointed her finger between Starr and me. “You’re not monkeys, either of you? Music critics? Sees no, hears no, digs no music?”

  “Oh no, never, not us,” I assured her.

  Elvis caressed the microphone, his voice tentative, his vocal chords warbling, his manner shy. He gazed down at the stage, fearful of looking directly out at a sea of boredom. Chairs scraped. Glasses clinked. Knives and forks clanked. Patrons talked and laughed among themselves.

  Ella moved her body back and forth, snapping her fingers to the beat.

  Several bars into the song, Elvis found confidence. His lips pouted, his nose flared, his body shook. He strummed the guitar with his body and not just his fingers. He jiggled his torso and swiveled his hips. The beat of the drums played up his gyrations. Incapable of restraining himself, he put every drop of energy into the music. The crowd began to respond. When his legs jittered, the women went wild.

  “Ooh,” Ella said, swaying to the rhythm. “I like.”

  By the middle of the song, Elvis had won over the audience. His voice found strength. His tremolos vibrated with urgency. The room stilled, all eyes fixed on him. They were witnessing the emergence of a new star. One woman pretended to swoon amid laughter from her friends. When Elvis finished, whistles and applause chased him back to the table.

  Ella attacked him with a buxom hug. “On which railroad track did you learn to move like that, honey?”

  “Move like what, ma’am?” he said, fingering sweat from his brow. He had reverted into the homespun boy of his upbringing, self-effacing and modest.

  She imitated him, throwing out her hips. “Like that, sugar.”

  “I was so scared, ma’am, just about peed in my pants.”

  Starr feigned a yawn and stretched. “Sorry to be a party pooper.” Over protests, he shook hands all around.

  My radar went up. I watched him make his way out of the club. Then I scraped my chair back and made my excuses. Elvis thanked me for coming and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. Ella grabbed my hands, exclaimed how pretty I was, and begged me to come back tomorrow night. I promised I would try.

  When I finally got away and burst outside, Starr was gone. There was only reason I could think of for him to make such a hasty exit—the sting that wasn’t supposed to happen tonight—or so I assumed. Pennyroyal. He would know. Or someone down at the precinct. The stationhouse was only five minutes away. If I broke a few traffic laws, I could be there in three minutes flat.

  Chapter 11

  CREEPING INTO THE dark, I left friendly laughter behind. The night spoke to me. What it said wasn’t good.

  When I arrived at the club, the street had been hopping. Safety in numbers had made me complacent. This wasn’t the best of neighborhoods in daylight. In the wee hours, it was dark and creepy, especially for a woman by herself. A foul breath urged me along. Though tempted to take a shortcut back to the car, I hugged the sidewalk where the street lamps shined brightest.

  Gabby, giggly, and wobbly on high-heeled shoes, two gorgeous girls dressed in bright, flashy colors approached. When they saw me, they grew quiet. Probably they were as suspicious of a lone white girl as I was of them. They melted into the shadows, taking their jovial banter with them. I was alone once again.

  Farther on, three men came up from the rear. Their jabbering and chuckles steadily increased in volume until they were almost on top of me. I sped ahead. They kept pace. Someone across the street slid home a window and engaged the latch. Not far off, a door creaked open and immediately banged shut. My companions faltered but only for a few seconds before closing the distance.

  I sniffed liquor on their breaths and sensed the ill intent on their minds. One of them pulled abreast of me and murmured something suggestive, only to fall back and laugh with his buddies. Another swept a hand across the nape of my neck. I twisted away and said, “Don’t.” They sensed fear in my feeble voice, liked it, and guffawed. The third grabbed my arm and just as quickly let it go. I pulled in defenses, muscles contracting and fists clenching. The first man returned and matched his long-legged swagger to my hurried stride. Showing his teeth, he told me I didn’t have to be afraid. Him and his buddies, he said, were only having a little fun. They didn’t mean no harm.

  Fear told me otherwise. Fear and gut instinct said they were up to no good. The beat of my heart quickened. So did my step.

  He stayed with me. Told me how pretty I was. Admired the color of my eyes. Wondered where my man was. My man, I said, was getting the car. He didn’t believe me for a second. He remarked on the shape of my nose, not like his nose, which was squashed in the middle. He held up a paper bag with a bottle of gin tucked inside. Did I want some? I shook my head. He asked what was I doing out here all alone. This was a bad neighborhood, he said. I shouldn’t be here, he cautioned. He’d take me home, he offered. I shook my head and pulled in tighter. He laughed. Then he raised a fist in the air, angry with someone else and trying to articulate his rage, but without words, only with anger. Eventually, he slipped back.

  I took an unsteady breath, fearful of what might come next. Looked for help. Searched for a squad car. Tried to work up spit so I could scream if it came to that. It came to that, but I didn’t get a chance to scream because suddenly they surrounded me. Their number wasn’t three. It was five. They hustled me around the corner where it was darker and scarier, and crowded me against the brick wall of an abandoned storefront, its windows soaped out and interior pitch black. Their hands were all over me. I tried to cry out. Tried to resist. But my mouth was full of cotton, my arms wet noodles, and my wits disengaged.

  The angry one locked his hand around my arm so hard, I cried out. He slapped his other hand over my mouth and stifled my screams. I wrenched away, kicking him in the shin, and he whacked me across the face. I didn’t see the blow coming and didn’t know what had just happened. I only knew that my head snapped back and I tasted blood inside my mouth. My head exploded. I felt sick to my stomach. I think I cried, at least it felt like tears streaking down my cheeks even though I hadn’t made a single sound of lament. After that, I became a play toy in their grasping, grappling, spiteful hands. Their fingers were everywhere, poking and prodding. They laughed the whole time as if they were on a carnival ride, thrust their faces close to mine, and grinned maniacally. One of them squeezed my breasts two-fisted and commented on how small they were.

  Now I was mad. Damned mad.

  I let out a long, keening shriek that cut the night with a cutting edge. I swung my purse from side to side, the maddened twists and turns cowering them away from the building and out toward the sidewalk, where a street lamp burned bright. “Looking for a piece of the action!” I ye
lled, baring my teeth. “I’ll give you a fucking piece of the action!” I reached into my purse and grabbed a non-existent revolver. I shoved the tip of my index finger against the leather and took aim at their bellies, one after the other, straight down the imaginary sites of my imaginary gun. They raised their hands and stumbled away, afraid yet laughing nervously, unsure of whether to take me seriously or run like hell.

  I rushed toward the biggest one, the one who let the others do the dirty work for him. He recoiled, tripped over the curb, tumbled into the street, and pushed out his hands. “Watch it, lady. Those are my balls you’re aiming at.” He fell onto his ass. I aimed pointblank at his prick. He was sweating bullets, sweating the same way I was sweating, trembled the same way I had trembled, but trembled no more. He wet the front of his pants and sniveled like a crybaby.

  I retreated. The adrenalin receded. I swept my eyesight across a lineup of young faces. They were just kids. Juvenile delinquents. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. And scared shitless. They ran, stranding their buddy, cowards all. “Come on,” they cried out. But their friend couldn’t budge, not when I was getting ready to squeeze off a shot ... just one ... that would make him a eunuch.

  He shook his head. “Don’t, lady. Pl-please don’t do it.” I stood down. His eyes opened wide. Was I really letting him off? Or about to turn him into a soprano? He balanced himself back to his feet and pushed his hands down on the air, as much to keep me calm as to reassure himself. Then he ran as if the devil’s handmaiden was chasing him.

  I would have, too, except I couldn’t move a muscle. I collapsed like a popped balloon. My mind shut down. I found myself slumped on the pavement, legs in a tangle and snot running from my nose. I wiped it away. Hysterical laughter followed, I couldn’t say at what. Shock ebbed. Reality crept back. The secondhand ticked, ticked so loudly I thought my watch would explode. Eventually, I crawled on hands and knees, and gathered up the scattered contents of my purse. When I was done reclaiming everything that was mine—including pride—I pushed to my feet, took a girding breath, and walked down the sidewalk, a little shaky but head held high.