The Right To Sing the Blues (7 page)

“Stop that, will you?”

“Stop what?” she asked, putting down the brush.

“Never mind.” Nudger swung out of bed and padded barefoot toward the bathroom to shower. The hardwood floor was pleasantly cool to walk on.

“One egg or two?” she asked, as he passed her on the way to the door.

“I thought we’d have breakfast out.”

“I don’t mind cooking,” she said. “I still enjoy playing with the kitchen.” She had only been in the south St. Louis apartment on Wilmington a little over a month. Considering the roach palace she’d occupied downtown, Nudger could understand why she liked her new kitchen.

“Two eggs,” he said, and stepped over his wadded white

J. C. Penney underwear where he’d tossed it last night in the throes of passion. Fortunately he kept a complete change of clothes at Claudia’s.

In the spacious old tiled bathroom, he stood beneath the stinging needles of a hot shower and thought about Claudia. Her world had improved vastly since her suicide attempt only nine months ago. She had her job, the new apartment, a self-respect she’d thought was lost forever. And Nudger liked to think he was an incentive for her to keep on living. It was nice to be needed.

He began to lather his travel-tired body. The soap was perfumed and had the consistency of whipped cream, but it would have to do.

Nudger felt better after showering and dressing. By the time he walked into the kitchen, the fresh-perked coffee scent had honed his appetite. He sat down across the table from Claudia. She had his sunny-side-up eggs ready, along with black coffee, buttered toast, and three slices of bacon. Working woman though she was, Claudia liked to cook and was good at it. Nudger and his stomach appreciated this touch of domesticity in his otherwise unruly life.

“Are you going to see Nora and Joan today?” he asked, sprinkling too much salt on his eggs. Nora and Joan were Claudia’s thirteen-and eleven-year-old daughters by her unfortunate marriage. The girls lived with their father, Ralph Ferris, in north St. Louis County.

Claudia took a sip of coffee. “No, Ralph is taking them out of town this weekend. Or says he is. The bastard.”

Nudger smiled.
Bastard
. It was good to hear her refer to Ralph that way. Emotion out in the open. “In touch with her feelings,” was the jargon. Her psychiatrist, Dr. Oliver, would like that. Besides, Ralph was undeniably a bastard.

“I’ll spend most of the day reading my English Two class’s essays on Shelley,” she said.

“Winters or Berman?”

“What are you going to do today?” Claudia asked. She had learned to tune out his nonsense. She doused ketchup over her eggs. Nudger didn’t understand how she could eat them that way. Or even look at them directly.

“I’m going to see an old friend,” he said. “He’s not nearly as literate as your English Two class; he communicates best through a saxophone. But he does it oh so eloquently.”

Claudia looked up from her colorfully abused eggs and frowned at him. For a moment he thought she was going to ask him to elaborate, but she didn’t. She picked up her fork instead.

“Eat your breakfast,” she said simply.

Nudger did. Then he kissed her good-bye and left, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Ketchup.

Billy Weep lived in a second-floor apartment on Hodimont Avenue on the city’s north side. That wasn’t his real name, Billy Weep. Nudger had been told what it was one time long ago, but he’d forgotten it. He figured it didn’t matter. Not to him, probably not to Billy.

Nudger trudged up narrow dim stairs that reeked of stale urine, then knocked on the first door on his right.

He stood for a few minutes, then knocked again. Harder. There was a faint noise from inside that Nudger chose to interpret as an invitation to enter. He tried the knob, found the door unlocked, and pushed it open.

The one-room apartment smelled worse than the stairwell, but different. It had about it that unmistakable acrid odor of perspiration and futility that suggested illness. Nudger stopped and stood still, as if he’d been hit, when the heat and stench of the place reached him.

The curtains on the single window were pulled almost closed. Squinting in the dim light, Nudger saw an unmoving figure seated in a small chair alongside the window. For a moment he thought he’d walked in on a corpse, then the figure jerked slightly and turned a lean, silhouetted head to stare at him.

“Billy?” Nudger said.

“You askin’ or tellin’?” came a high-pitched, weary voice from the chair. It was a voice that had been made monotonal by pain.

“It’s Nudger, Billy. I used to come hear you play at Rush’s a few years back. We had some drinks together. I did some work for you once.”

“Few years back, shit,” Billy Weep said. “That’s been eight years ago I had you follow Laverne.”

Nudger thought about it. Maybe it had been that long since Billy had hired him to get the evidence he’d needed to divorce the wife he didn’t trust. It had been one of Nudger’s easier tasks, until a strung-out trumpet player had leapt out of Laverne Weep’s bed and tried to strangle him. Laverne had joined the struggle, wielding a high-heeled shoe like a club. Nudger had barely gotten out of there alive and still had scars from that night.

“Where’d you get my address?” Billy asked.

“The Musicians’ Association down on Fifty-ninth Street. I had to talk it out of them; don’t you want to be found?”

“Not these days.”

“Why not?”

“These days ain’t the old days.” A thin, almost twiglike arm rose against the faint light and pulled open the curtains. “Arther-itis,” Billy said, holding up his hands in the sunlight so Nudger could see them clearly. The long, slender fingers that had once danced on Billy’s alto sax keys were unbelievably contorted. Billy flexed the pathetic fingers to show Nudger that they wouldn’t meet the palms of his hands. “Arther-itis is a bitch, Nudger.”

Nudger tried to keep the pity from pulling at his face. It wasn’t only Billy’s hands that looked bad. The man himself couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds, most of that flesh-draped, protruding bone. Billy Weep, who had done magic on the sax, didn’t look now as if he had the strength even to stand up with the heavy instrument. Arthritis is a bitch, all right, Nudger thought. Time is a bitch. Eventually, for all of us.

He looked around at the steamy, disheveled apartment. He didn’t see what he’d expected, but then the place was still dim, even with the opened curtains. “You been drinking, Billy?”

“No,” Billy said, “not drink.”

Nudger walked over to stand nearer to the old, old man of fifty-two. “I’ll speak straight with you,” he said.

“You always did, Nudger.”

“You look like death not even warmed over. You killing yourself on something, Billy?”

“Maybe.” Narrow, bony shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. Billy turned to stare out the window and the slanted morning light fell across his harshly lined thin face. They were not good lines, not laugh lines. “It don’t make me no difference, Nudger. Shouldn’t make you none.”

Which was Billy’s way of suggesting that Nudger mind his own business. Which was what Nudger did.

“Ever hear of a piano player named Willy Hollister?” he asked. He looked past Billy out the window. Nice view. A boarded-up store next to an auto body shop that seemed to do most of its work outdoors. Three cars were up on blocks near the sidewalk, missing various fenders, hoods, and wheels.

“I heard of him,” Billy said.

A lithe young black man lowered himself onto a wheeled creeper and got himself comfortable on his back, then kicked his way under a car. Nudger waited. Billy’s mind was probably in the same sad shape as his hands; he might need time to think.

“White boy, wasn’t he? Blond?”

“Sounds like him, Billy.”

“He was a helluva player, that boy,” Billy said, still staring out the window, not seeming at all interested in what was out there. Not seeming interested in anything. The world was a rundown record.

“When did you last see him, Billy?”

“Oh, about four years or so ago. He did a gig at Rush’s, then he moved on someplace.”

“Kansas City?”

“Mighta been.” Billy slowly shook his head. “Truth is, I disremember, Nudger. But I do recall how that boy played and sang. We used to jam in at Rush’s and listen to him. He was a draw in them days, him and Jack Collinsworth and Fat Jack McGee. They all played at Rush’s.”

Nudger wasn’t really surprised. “You know Fat Jack McGee?”

Billy almost smiled. “Sure, ever’body know the fat man. Jazz be a small world, Nudger.”

“Who were Hollister’s friends while he played in St. Louis?” Nudger asked.

“No friends. Hollister kept to himself by himself. Except for that Jacqui.”

“Jacqui?”

“Yeah, spelled it with a
q-u-i
, said she was some kinda Indian. No chance, the way she looked.”

“Do you remember her last name?”

“James. Jacqui James. Not her real name, I suspect. But then neither is Weep my real name.”

“Tell me about her, Billy.”

“She was a lady in the old true sense, Nudger. She sang a bit, but not much,’cause she knew she didn’t have it musically. What she did have was Hollister.”

Nudger sat down in an ancient wing chair with perpetually exploding cotton batting and leaned toward Billy. “Where can I find Jacqui James?”

Billy laughed a weak, airless kind of chuckle that was almost a gurgle. He didn’t have much lung left. “Ain’t nobody can find Jacqui James. She just up and went one day. Nobody ever found out where.”

“What about Hollister?”

“What about him? He was heart-an’-soul wrecked by her leavin’ like that, Nudger. You could hear the pain of it in his music when he finally admitted to himself that she was gone for good. He played real blues then. The best blues played in them days was at Rush’s, but none better than Willy Hollister’s blues.”

“Then you think he really loved this Jacqui James.”

Billy’s wide bloodless lips curled up in the cruel light. “Ain’t no doubt he loved her, Nudger.”

“Do you think he might have had anything to do with her disappearance?” Nudger asked.

Billy shook his head slowly. “Naw, that boy wouldn’t have done nothin’ to hurt Jacqui. She just up an’ gone one day, Nudger. Jacqui was like that. Pretty girl, red hair and green eyes, heart like a cottonwood seed . . . driftin’ here an’ away in the easiest wind . . .

Nudger stood up. He had to get out of there, away from the heat and stench. He wished he could get Billy away, but he knew it was useless to try. He wondered what the frail, used-up jazz man was taking that had eaten him up so from the inside.

“Thanks, Billy,” Nudger put his hands in his pockets. “You, uh...?”

“I don’t need nothin’, Nudger. I thank you, but I don’t. Never did. I’ll continue on that way, if you please.”

Nudger smiled down at him. “Okay. And I was going to offer you an air conditioner for that window.”

Billy grinned a toothy, yellow grin at him. “Your ass, you was, Nudger. The landlord here don’t allow no air conditioners. Anyways, you could never even afford a down payment on your bar tab.”

Nudger spread his arms slightly in a brief, helpless gesture. “That hasn’t changed, except from time to time.” He moved toward the door. The man under the car across the street began banging a hammer in slow rhythm against metal.

“Poverty’s a disease, Nudger, an’ you only got the sniffles.” Billy waved a misshapen dark hand around in an encompassing gesture. “This here’s what you got to look forward to if you don’t straighten out your act. Let me warn you, this is what happens to everybody’s good old days.”

“I’ll hold that cheerful thought,” Nudger said. “Go easy on yourself, Billy. You deserve it.”

“Hey,” Billy said feebly, when Nudger had opened the door. “You still got that jazz-record collection of yours?

Nudger shook his head no. “I had to sell most of it. I could only save the best.”

“You save any of mine?”

“Sure I did, Billy.”

The contorted hand yanked the curtains closed again. “That’s right,” came the thin voice from the darkness, “you did say the best.”

The relentless banging of metal on metal was still coming from beneath the wrecked car as Nudger walked down the street to his Volkswagen and drove away. The hammer bounced once after each blow:
BANG-bang! BANG-bang! BANG-bang!
. . . sending up a flat rhythm. The weary, frustrated sound hung over the ghetto like a cold, inhuman heartbeat that Nudger could hear for blocks. A dirge for dead dreams.

He stopped at a hardware store and bought a cheap two-speed box fan and paid extra to have it delivered to Billy Weep’s address. It wasn’t an air conditioner, but it was all Nudger could afford at the moment and it would help, if Billy took the trouble to switch it on.

Nudger had spent some good hours at Rush’s listening to Billy Weep’s smooth and plaintive alto sax. It was time he gave something back.

When he left the hardware store he drove east on Olive toward downtown and the Third District police station. On a scrap of paper from the glove compartment, so he wouldn’t forget, he scribbled the name Jacqui James.

VII
I

need to know about a Jacqui James,” Nudger said to Hammersmith, in Hammersmith’s office in the Third