The Devil's Music

by Stephen Mertz

  Stomper gazed at the front door which his son had slammed, seeming even more tired than before.

  “Damn. Looks like ol’ Stomper is gaining a career and losing a son. Damn...”

  4

  Stomper wouldn’t go anywhere that night.

  “I ain’t going nowhere until me and that bullheaded son of mine square things between us,” is how he emphatically put it.

  It had been a fast hustle from the dust-up outside of Leon’s to the wordless drive with Isaac to meet Stomper. Isaac had observed sullenly when I’d popped open the armory reserve from the safe bolted to the Lancia’s trunk. Okay, it was going to be one of those cases with some roughhousing. Maybe worse. Hadn’t looked that way at the start at Carl’s apartment, but the bruises I’d sustained felt like they’d be aching for a few days and I didn’t want any more of them. So the short-barreled Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum went into the holster and the shoulder rig went under the light jacket. Then had come the hookup with Stomper and me being drawn into his story. Ace sleuth that I am, I hadn’t up until now bothered to note much about this place Isaac had directed me to.

  It was a guy’s crib, kept squared away but not immaculate. Pair of sneakers in this corner. A man’s 10-speed bicycle leaned against that wall. The home entertainment center included TV and an impressive Quadra phonic sound set up for turntable, cassette and eight track. Nearby were shelves with albums and 45s, the orderly witness indicating they were most likely organized alphabetically. A framed photograph of a pretty black girl occupied a place of prominence on an end table.

  I said, “This is Isaac’s place. He’ll be back.”

  Stomper glared at me with a flash of irritability.

  “Did you hear me call him bullheaded?” He sank back onto the couch, a portrait of despair. “He could be gone for days.”

  “I’m all of a sudden in this from left field,” I said. “Your son needs a little time to process it, is all. It’ll get through to him sooner or later that he and I want the same thing and that’s whatever’s best for you.”

  “A lot of what Isaac says makes sense, you know.” His sad eyes peered at me, appealing for understanding. “A man and his son, they’re bound to butt heads every once in a while. That’s only natural, I reckon, especially when the son is strong-willed and so’s the daddy.”

  “I’ve never been a parent,” I said, “but it sounds like a tough job.”

  Stomper said, “His sister, Lucille, she likely won’t never speak to me again because of the way I deserted my family and especially her mama when Florence done got sick. I don’t push Isaac no more than he can take. I owe him that for him standing by me all these years and offering to put me up like he has while I get back on my feet in this town. Him and his pals, tell you the truth, they don’t much care for the white man. They don’t want no handouts. They call it black pride. The idea is a community takes care of its own. That’s what Isaac tells me, any rate. Shoot. We could’ve used thinking like that down South back in the Jim Crow day. Fact of the business, things can still get dicey south of that ol’ Mason Dixon line.”

  I said, “A lot of things could change for you, Stomper, if things fall into place the way we expect them to. That includes your family troubles and who knows, women have been known to change their mind. A reformed Pop who’s making something of himself again is strong inducement to patch things up with a daughter. I’m just saying.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I reckon that’s the way I see it too. Truth is, after all I’ve been through and now that I’m back, I just want to make folks happy. I just want to get along. And most of all, I want to make music again. Way I’m looking at it, Kilroy, is best take care of that last thing first. By which I mean take on the offer this friend of yours is making and could be everything else will fall into place for me and for my children.”

  I said, “It sounded to me like Isaac isn’t against your comeback, just the way we go about it. I read you as a man who wants to get back in the game, Stomper. Am I right?”

  He blinked and, with a small smile, the suggestion of enthusiasm replaced resignation in his expressive eyes.

  “You’re right. Why don’t you call that friend of yours?”

  I did as he suggested. I called Carl Hensman from a wall phone in the basement flat’s minuscule kitchenette. When I told Carl the news, it sounded over the connection like he was going to have a cardiac arrest. Then I put Stomper on and they talked for nearly a half hour.

  What did they talk about?

  In the realm of music, what didn’t they talk about?

  There is a linkage, a dance if you will, between the passionate music fanatic and the artist that the average music listener might not understand. I’m not talking about tastes in music. Some people like country and some people like rock and some people like jazz. No, I’m referring to the music collector/fanatic whose passion for the music of their choice far transcends the interest of the average, casual listener whose music listening is mostly limited to while in the car or out at night. The collectors and scholars I’m referring to way too often fall into the category of “nerd” and “geek,” and often with considerable justification.

  But not always. Sometimes such fanatics go on to become producers, discovering great talent. People like John Hammond, who discovered Bessie Smith and Billy Holliday and Bob Dylan. Or sometimes they become musicians if there like Mick Jagger and Keith Richards and go on to make their start their own band to play the music they love. Me, my life has pretty much followed a “real life” orientation but my love of music like the blues runs deep and may likely run in my blood. I remember my dad recalling hitchhiking 60 miles to Milwaukee with some buddies, when he was in high school to search out a “black and tan” second floor joint, that catered to blacks and whites, where Count Basie was playing. Some of us just love music more than others.

  Stomper drew his phone conversation with Carl to a close by informing Carl only that he had a “personal problem” and that he wouldn’t be able to get together until tomorrow, Sunday. They agreed on a 10 A.M. hookup at a nearby Denny’s.

  I stayed with Stomper that night, sitting up with him in his son’s apartment, sharing a bottle of whisky and listening to him talk about the good old days.

  My ears perked up at mention of Jimmy Reed, a famous blues singer. By the time Stomper encountered him, Jimmy Reed would have been on the tail end of a long career of radio and jukebox hits delivered in a slurred, down-home style that had been big with both white and black audiences. His songs like Big Boss Man, Baby What You Want Me to Do? and Bright Lights, Big City were recorded by everyone from Elvis to the Stones. It was widely known that his famous slurred delivery was the result of too much whiskey and too much dope.

  Stomper was saying, “Whoweee, that night was a mess, and yeah, man, it was snowing big time. Jimmy Reed was supposed to go on at 9 o’clock. I had my boys set up at the club at 7:30. I was on guitar and had me a cat on drums and a boy what played bass. The record covers always show Jimmy playing a guitar, but they told us he’d only be strumming some and I’d be handling most of the guitar work. That was okay with me.

  “So we’re sitting around, me and the fellas, shooting the breeze. Folks showing up for the show even with the snow and all. Jimmy Reed, he could always draw a crowd. The tables were filling up. But no Jimmy Reed. Then about 8:44, a taxi drops the cat off, and the driver comes in demanding his fare and he ain’t cool about it because Jimmy had puked and passed out in his cab. And Jimmy Reed? He’s raggedy as hell, man. His shirt was buttoned wrong. He smelled like a distillery. And he didn’t have no guitar! That’s right, the boy was drunk as a skunk and he wasn’t carrying no axe. Man, it was sure ’nuff a stone mess.

  “See, the owner of the place, who booked the gig, he’s on my case to sober Jimmy up. Well now, we are already running late with a full house. Getting that man sober wasn’t so easy. My bass man and the drummer, they was scrambling around trying to find a guitar for him to play. Me, I’m getting Jimmy so
bered up with all the coffee I can make him drink. And Jimmy, he don’t like being sober.”

  Stomper was still spinning his yarns when I drifted off to sleep about three AM, feeling vaguely pleased with myself for my part in rediscovering a blues legend...

  5

  Isaac didn’t show up that night.

  By the time Stomper and I departed for our get-together with Carl at a little past nine the next morning, you could see that it was weighing heavily on the Stomper’s mind. It was one of those perfect Denver, Colorado mornings. Temp was in the lower 70s. Not a cloud in the sky and that sky was a healthy cobalt blue. Even with the traffic and the general hustle of the city, there seemed to be a clean freshness to the morning.

  Yeah. Seemed to be.

  In appearance, Stomper had aged years during the night.

  But then, I probably wasn’t looking too hot myself. I felt like hell. But one of us had to man up. I might have taken a few bumps last night but Stomper looked like he was carrying the weight of his whole life on his shoulders.

  I said, “I can see what you’re feeling, Stomp.”

  He nodded. “I’m feeling what you’re seeing, my brother. The blues ain’t nothing but a good man feeling bad.”

  I said, “My reading is that you and Isaac could maybe use some time apart from each other while the two of you process what’s going on. I saw that photograph of a girl. His girlfriend?”

  “That’s right. Michelle. She’s a real nice girl. Going to be a fine woman for my boy. Goes to night school three times a week and holds down the job working the perfume counter at some big store downtown.”

  I was steering the Lancia into the half-filled parking lot of a Denny’s, trying my best not to run over any of the preadolescent boys on skateboards who were working a lot.

  I said, “Have you tried calling her?”

  “Calling Michelle? Heck, I don’t have her number. Isaac never gave it to me and I never asked.”

  “Well, there you are. He’s with his lady.”

  Stomper actually wrung his hands.

  He said, “Aw man, I just don’t know. I hope you’re right.”

  So did I, but I didn’t give any indication to Stomper that I was anything less than confident.

  Inside the Denny’s was the midmorning lull that usually comes between breakfast and lunch. The waitress seated us at a booth away from the windows, which was fine with me considering that I was with someone who had already taken fire even if it was years ago. As I was still getting my feel for this thing, it was too early to dismiss Stomper’s paranoia.

  Carl showed up right after we were seated. He looked great, duded up for the occasion all in white: pressed white shirt, white sports jacket, matching white slacks and shoes. A spiffy first impression presented for the bluesman he so admired.

  Stomper Crawford and Carl Hensman, worlds apart in lifestyle and upbringing, became fast friends the moment they met, drawn together by a mutual, deep love of and commitment to the blues as well as by the knowledge on Stomper’s part that Carl not only could but would help. Those two don’t always go together. Not in the world of Stomper Crawfords.

  Carl had to hear the whole story straight from Stomper’s lips and you could tell that the tale fascinated him. Stomper’s story was, for sure, the stuff of blues legend. Playing the clubs and juke joints. Building a reputation until that was stolen from him years ago when he witnessed what had seemed to be a professional murder. And now he was back.

  I figured Stomper was safe enough with Carl for the time being. I had kept my eyes open and no one had followed us to the restaurant. So after our meal, when the two of them started talking business, I excused myself and slipped out of the booth. They continued conversing enthusiastically, apparently having forgotten that I existed. I went to the payphone in the restaurant entranceway, out of their range of hearing. I had a couple of calls to make.

  The first was to Detective Joe Gallegos, my one and only connection on the Denver Police force. Joe and I had crossed paths on a couple of my investigations and somehow we became friends. A private investigator is obliged to obey all the applicable rules and regulations or risk losing his license. The authorities don’t always appreciate a private citizen meddling in their business, even if you’ve got a PI ticket.

  I’ve provided Joe with pieces of information that had come my way which helped him along with investigations he was conducting and he’s repaid those favors with tidbits of information that I wanted or needed from time to time in my work. I knew it was a longshot, but I was hoping this was another of those times.

  I opened with, “Feel like opening an old case for an old friend?”

  His immediate response was, “Who’s the old friend?

  “Why, who could it be but me?”

  “I was afraid of that. We know each other, Kilroy. Friends? That’s stretching it.”

  “Ah, we’re grumpy today. Are we forgetting those Bronco tickets I scored for you and your nephew to that big game?”

  Joe emitted a sigh that was much too weary for the relatively early hour.

  He said, “Okay, sometimes we’re friends. What do you want?”

  I said, “It could be something for you. Cold cases can become hot cases, no? Solved cases become promotions. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “I say again, what do you want?”

  “An unsolved murder. Nine years ago. Happened in the Five Points, nine years ago. Guy got his throat cut in an alley.”

  Joe snickered. That’s the only word for it. He snickered.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Amigo, would I waste your time kidding about something like this?”

  “I don’t know. Would you?”

  “No, I would not.”

  “That’s good.” Another sigh and I could see him reaching for a pad and a pencil. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

  “A joint called Leon’s,” I said. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Then it’s probably more than what I’ll find. Jeez, Kilroy. Nine years. An alley kill in Five Points. That’s mighty slim. That’s next to nothing.”

  “I know. That’s why I am trying every angle I can. Thanks, Joe.”

  My next call was to Teddy Bostwick.

  Teddy’s a stringer for The Rocky Mountain News. He can on occasion be a source of useful information in cases I find myself involved in. As with Joe, I’ve reciprocated by passing along news Teddy could use in his job on the paper. Each of us considers the other a reliable resource.

  Our conversation was pretty much a replay of the exchange I’d just had with Joe, except it was more amicable. Teddy doesn’t mind being friends with a private eye. But the outcome was pretty much the same. Teddy would see what he could come up with from the News morgue files but he wasn’t optimistic and neither was I.

  An additional thought crossed my mind before we terminated our brief conversation, and I gave voice to it.

  “So, Teddy. Do you like music?”

  “Music?”

  “Yeah, you know. Music. Rock ‘n’ roll. Jazz. Country-western. What kind of music you like?”

  “I don’t.”

  I said, “Huh?”

  Teddy said, “I mean, I like the National Anthem but, you know, I’m a busy guy, Kilroy. Who’s got time for music? Why do you ask?”

  I’d been thinking of Stomper. I’d been thinking of getting him a mention in The Rocky Mountain News with the help, and maybe the byline, of my pal Teddy Bostwick. Now I was thinking that maybe wasn’t such a hot idea, or at least now wasn’t the time to bring it up.

  I said, “It was just a thought. Forget it. Get back to me soon as you find anything on what we talked about, okay?”

  “Will do,” he promised. “Uh, what are you working on, Kilroy? A cold case murder, eh? Uh, that doesn’t sound very promising if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I’m trying to help a friend,” I told him. “Thanks, Teddy.”

  When I got back to
the table, Stomper and Carl were just finishing their breakfast. I made quick work of a ham and cheese omelet while they filled me in on what they’d managed to put together so far.

  “It’s going to be great,” enthused Carl. “We’re going to re-record the songs on those old singles of Stomper’s that most people have never heard except for collectors, but Kilroy, here’s the big news. Tell him, Stomper.”

  A few minutes of speaking with Carl had done wonders for Stomper Crawford. Although not quite as animated as Carl, Stomper appeared rejuvenated with a fresh glow in his eye.

  “What my man Carl is referring to,” said Stomper, lowering his voice as if sharing a deeply held confidence between them, “is while I been on the road all these years, I’ve been writing songs about what I’m feeling, about the things I’m seeing in the people I’m meeting in things like that there. They’s just lyrics right now but set to music,” Stomper gave an earthy chuckle, “dog if we ain’t gonna set the world on fire. Ain’t that right, hoss?”

  Carl was beaming, happier than I’d ever seen him.

  He said, “That’s right, Stomp.”

  I saw no reason to restrain the chuckle I sent in Carl’s direction along with an arched eyebrow.

  I said, “Hoss?”

  He ignored that.

  With me having finished my breakfast, we stood to leave the table, Carl drawing out his wallet to leave a tip as he turned toward the checkout station with the ticket that had come while I was on the phone. I saw no reason to interfere, and shortly we strolled out into the sunshine and the kids skateboarding across the parking lot.

  Stomper was saying, “First thing we got’s to do is make contact with Olga James. Isaac went and found me her telephone number. That leaves Shorty Long, my bass man. That cat could walk that bass thang and that ain’t no damn lie! But it could take some hunting to track him down. I been gone a long while.”

  I said, “Then maybe I should be the one to do the leg work and track Shorty down, me being a detective and all.”