Dark End of the Street - v4 (16 page)

Perfect patted his cheek and straightened the hat for Renaldo.

“All I needed. You boys are so kind.”

Perfect seemed to float as she skipped down the hall and out to the car where Jon waited.

W
oman seemed to give the ole boa constrictor who lived in his pants a good swellin’, Jon thought, as he watched Perfect emerge from the Peabody on Union and walk over to his car by the new baseball field. Lord, she had long legs like his old girlfriend Inga and had this self-confidence about her that made her seem more sexy than anything he’d ever imagined. Kind of like she always knew it’d be the biggest pleasure in his life if he ever got in her drawers and rooted around like a hog. But for some reason, Perfect treated him like the damned mental case at the family reunion. That kid that drooled in his wheelchair as everybody grabbed their potato salad and talked about grandpa’s drinkin’ problem.

She climbed in beside him and pulled off her shirt. She had on a pink bra with flowers. Man, her breasts were so full they just swelled. Tight little stomach with just a slash for a belly button. Man, oh man. If she wanted it here that was fine by him. He crawled over the gear shift feelin’ the ole snake gettin’ hungrier than hell before she slapped his face, pushed him back into the driver’s seat, and pulled on a fresh shirt.

“You touch me and I’ll have you back at that gas station from whatever Podunk town you’re from in two seconds. I don’t give a crap how many people you’ve killed.”

“Sorry, Miss Perfect.”

“That’s better. Now drive.”

“Where to?”

“Just drive, I’ll tell you. Head south.”

“Like Mississippi.”

“No, like Alaska. Yes, Mississippi. Now, go.”

She was checking her lipstick in the visor mirror as Jon dropped his gaze to his crotch to make sure nothin’ was showin’. She wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever known. She was it. She was that special woman that E always found halfway through the movie. And, at first, she always hated E, too.

If she was going to be his wife, he had some work to do. What would E do? Think. Jon pulled onto the highway headed south and ran his mind over some of those sacred scenes from Clambake. Shelley Fabares lookin’ for a rich man when all she really needed was E’s love.

Where was a guitar when you needed one?

THE LAST TIME I was in Oxford, Mississippi, I had to bail an old teacher of mine out of jail for exposing himself to a group of tourists at the home of William Faulkner. He said he was trying to finish a blues song he’d been working on for the last ten years when the group — retirees on a Southern Living tour — descended on the historic site on a day it was normally closed. He was so pissed off that they’d disrupted his peace that he thought it would be a fantastic idea if he unzipped his fly, pulled out his unit, and placed his National steel guitar between his legs. When this portly woman asked him if he could play her a little ditty, a dewy mint julip loose in her fingers, my blues-tracker mentor pulled the instrument to his chest and plucked away. Crazy old fucker was still laughing when I found him at the Oxford jail, explaining how the woman screamed all the way back to Ohio or Pennsylvania or wherever she lived.

I wondered where he was now as I turned off the highway and drove along Jackson and past the chain restaurants and superstores and corporate apartments that had descended on the small town in the last few years. I longed for even a decade ago, when my teacher and I would hit the back highways near Oxford, destination unknown, searching for blues men who’d disappeared into small towns across the state. The homogenization of a place so unique, so American, made me sick to my stomach.

I’d heard about a planned Super Wal-Mart that wanted to rape acres of nearby woods and a freakin’ Applebee’s that wanted to bring potato-skin cuisine to northern Mississippi, and even of the slack-eyed retirees that longed for three-hundred-thousand-dollar condos with five-foot setbacks along rolling acres of golf courses.

I knew that’s why I seldom came back. I wanted to remember the Oxford I once knew. Greasy biscuits at Smitty’s. Samurai films at the Hoka. Blues bands at Syd and Harry’s.

It had been years since I’d made it over to the Blues Archive for any work, but that was the first place I drove. I wanted to make the most of my time while I helped Abby. Maybe I could find out something about Clyde that wouldn’t have me going back to that asshole Cook again.

Earlier that morning, I’d left a message for Ed Komara, a friend of mine who ran the archive, and another message with a woman who worked at the Commercial-Appeal library. I knew the woman from hours of research at the paper’s morgue and had recently helped her get some B. B. King tickets through JoJo — a long-time friend of the legend.

In return, the woman said she’d pull any clips on Eddie Porter or Clyde James and fax them to Ed’s office at Ole Miss. I told Abby all this wouldn’t take too long and then we’d search for her cousin who she couldn’t seem to reach on the phone.

But a weird thing happened when we started talking about Clyde James and my work as a tracker. It was all Abby could talk about. She asked me about a million questions on the drive down and even had me play some of his music that I’d burned onto a CD.

“So this is what you do, look for these singers.”

“Yep.”

“And he was known? Famous?” she asked over my noisy muffler.

“Number-one hit in ‘sixty-six. Then, he just dropped out.”

Abby sat silent for a moment as we rounded the curve by The Grove and headed to Farley. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and sank it back through the loop in her Ole Miss hat. She wore the sweatpants and T-shirt like some kind of uniform.

“Can I help?”

“I think we just need to get you settled,” I said.

“I want to help,” she said, and nodded as if just making up her mind right there. The shadows from the oaks played over her face as we darted in and out of the sun. We parked on the street and went inside.

The university housed the Blues Archive in the old law library, a space a good size larger than where I worked at Tulane. At Tulane, we only had a small cluttered room for studying separated from the actual library, mostly dedicated to jazz. At Ole Miss it was almost all blues. Two floors that included more than 20,000 photographs (some the only ones in existence), 7,000 records donated by B. B. King himself, and even the financial documents of the old Trumpet Record Label. Posters, memorabilia, back issues of Living Blues, and old newspaper clippings.

As soon as we walked in the door, I saw a table by the staircase already loaded with magazines and manila files. A black woman in a dashiki nodded to me as she talked on the phone.

I recognized the familiar logo of Bluff City 45s with its fanned hand of aces, jacks, and jokers. A can of Community Coffee sat on top of the folders. It would be empty. Always Ed’s price for help. A Post-It note said he had to catch a plane to a conference in New York and call him if I needed anything else.

Abby sat down at the table and waited for me to pass her a file.

“Hold on, don’t you need to try your cousin again?”

“I used to help my dad with his cases. I’d go through depositions to find out any inconsistencies. He said I was better than any of his paralegals.”

“Well, this isn’t exactly like that. Really, it’s not too complicated. I’m just going to read through some articles and make notes of people Clyde worked with.”

“Why not ask people you already know?”

“Better to know everything for yourself.”

“They lie?”

“They do. And they forget.”

“Then what?”

“Then, after I get you settled, I’ll go back to Memphis and start my search again.”

“You really believe he’s alive?”

“Yep.”

Must’ve been about thirty seconds after I sat back down, after grabbing a couple of Cokes from a vending machine in the hall, that I sorted out the gold from the mud. Two articles on the Eddie Porter/Mary James murder investigation sent from the Memphis paper. A couple of shorts. The first dated March 1969. It quoted the police director, guy named Wagner, as knowing what happened to Porter and James but that he couldn’t press charges because “the south Memphis community wouldn’t cooperate.” There was no indication as to what the hell that meant. The second had more:

Memphis — The Shelby County District Attorney’s Office said it will not bring charges against a local singer in the deaths of two Negroes killed last year.
    Detectives had targeted Clyde James in their early investigation. His past criminal record includes burglary.
    James worked in a musical group that also featured victim Edward Porter. The other victim was James’ wife. A spokesman for the district attorney’s office said although James was at home at the time of the shootings, several people were questioned about the murder.
    The case remains active, he said.

I wondered how this small detail passed by Loretta. Shit. And no wonder Cook didn’t want to talk if he was close to Clyde. I put on headphones and placed a 45 on the turntable. “Pouring Water on a Drowning Man.”

Abby read through the clip, made a few notes on a legal pad she’d borrowed from the librarian, and waited for me to pass the headphones. I did.

“Like it?” I wrote on the legal pad.

She nodded and closed her eyes.

I continued to read through the bios on Clyde. Still the same. The early days with the Zion Ramblers, the crossover to secular music, and the first releases for Bluff City. Found a nice press release about Clyde, his relation to Loretta, and his early days as a bricklayer in south Memphis. Writer tried to tie in the manual labor with laying the groundwork for success.

I began searching through another pile and found a publicity shot of Clyde. He was smiling and wearing a sharp leather jacket. But the smile showed just a trace of an upright curve and the eyes seemed hazy and out of focus, like he’d been caught at an awkward moment. Like someone had intruded on his sadness.

I took off the headphones and looked back through a few magazines. Nothing. Small profiles. A few record reviews.

Abby passed me a yellowed piece of paper, holding the edge like you would a dead fish. She seemed afraid she’d tear the worn newspaper print. And, at first touch, I knew why: the paper was brittle and thin, almost translucent.

I unfolded the article and lightly flattened it smooth with my palms. Abby smiled. Proud of her find. Article was stamped on the back as coming from the Tri-State Defender, a black paper that was a subsidiary of the famous Chicago Defender. It was an editorial on the Porter-James murders called
FACING FACTS NOT EASY FOR SUPERSTAR
.

It’s been two years since someone took the life of a talented man and a beautiful young lady. Still, no one has been found guilty by those who call themselves our police. To those who’ve had previous experience with our local guard, they will recognize the apathy. But as one who knew Eddie Porter as few did — I was his pastor and the first to hire him to play organ in our little church — I’m enraged that perhaps the problem lies even further from police and into our own community.
    Porter’s supposed “friend,” soul shouter Clyde James, was home at the time of the attack. Still, Mr. James told police he didn’t see anything. Both his wife, who I’m told was carrying his child, and Porter were killed by gunfire. How does a man not hear gunfire in a quiet neighborhood on Rosewood Avenue? How does one not hear violence in one’s own home?
    I wanted to ask these questions myself to Mr. James, but it seems nobody can find the superstar. It seems that he’s been going from bar to bar leaving reality far behind. I’ve even heard rumors of drugs.
    If you read this, Mr. James, stand up. Tell what you know to Mr. Wagner and the police.
    I’m told on good authority that at first Mr. James claimed he saw two white men leave his house and drive away in a station wagon. Now it seems that he’s changed his story.
    Stand up, Mr. James. Stand up.

The story was written by a local preacher by the name of O. T. Jones and was followed by an advertisement for his Sunday sermon. A black-and-white rainbow had been crudely drawn over a church steeple. The motto read:
THE FREEDOM TRAIN NEVER STOPS
.

“He killed them, didn’t he?” Abby asked.

“You know, I don’t care. All this shit is telling us is maybe why he split. But I’m just trying to find him. If I were profiling him, I’d probably go back to Memphis and see if I could take a look at the Eddie Porter murder file. Tracker lesson number one: Use your public record.”

Abby was tearing the corners off a yellow sheet of paper. In my rush to make the most of a side trip from Memphis, I’d forgotten what this girl had been through. Her parents had been killed and I was sitting around discussing another pretty nasty murder like it was an old movie. I felt like a complete asshole.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“We need to go.”

I returned the records and clips to the librarian and watched her as she walked to the caged doors and locked away Clyde’s legacy. I looked up at the walls covered in old juke house posters and concert bills. Howlin’ Wolf. Little Milton. Even a musical festival in Memphis with a big picture of soul legend Rufus Thomas eating a hotdog bun loaded with a harmonica.

“My daddy never let me listen to this kind of music,” she said as we walked down a wide staircase, almost as if she were talking to herself.

I asked her why.

“Said it was an embarrassment to our state.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

She seemed surprised by the question.

AS WE WALKED under a tunnel of cedar trees, purple shadows dripped over the tin roof of the stables where Abby’s cousin, Maggie, worked. Abby scooted ahead in a brisk walk, but I lagged behind, watching a magnolia leaf fall in spindly patterns. The air was heavy with dust still lingering from my truck’s tires. Somewhere a woodpecker knocked the hell out of a tree while a squirrel foraged through a pile of bricks covered in green moss.