Tishomingo Blues Page 3

  “Charlie, the police, the sheriff, they’re gonna ask me questions, you know that. The man worked for me.”

  “He ever talk about his life? Tell you the kind of snake he was, ready to give up people to get his sentence reduced?”

  “Why would you get me a guy like that?”

  “You wanted a rigger—you think you find riggers walking down the goddamn street? Did he talk about himself or not?”

  “He hardly opened his mouth.”

  “So you won’t have nothing to tell, will you?”

  “Except what I saw. They start asking questions—what if I slip up, say the wrong thing?” He could tell Charlie wanted this over with and was losing his patience.

  Charlie saying, “Listen to me. I’m gonna go inside and call nine-eleven. They’ll send out sheriff’s people and I’ll show ’em Floyd. I say I was out there looking for you and tripped over him. A homicide, the sheriff himself’s likely to come, get his picture in the Tunica Times making a statement. Floyd won’t be worth too much press. Before you know it it’s blown over.”

  “They would’ve shot me, too,” Dennis said, not letting Charlie off the hook, “and you know it. But I’m suppose to act dumb.”

  “What I heard, it sounded like they were playing with you, having some fun.”

  “You weren’t up there, no place to hide. Charlie, I saw ’em kill a man. I can pick ’em both out of a crowd and they know it.”

  Charlie was shaking his head, the best he could do.

  “Look, I told ’em you’re okay, you work for me. I told ’em you and I’ll have a talk and there won’t be nothing to worry about. Listen,” Charlie said, “you go on home. I’ll give you my keys and get a ride from somebody after.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “They know I’m good for my word.”

  “But what’d they say?”

  “That you better keep your mouth shut.”

  “Or what?”

  “You want their exact words?” Charlie showing his irritation now. “Or they’d shoot you in the goddamn head. You know that. What’re you asking me for?”

  “But I’m not suppose to worry about it. Jesus Christ, Charlie.”

  Now Dennis was looking at the T-shirt in front of him, LET’S SEE YOUR ARM, and got a whiff of cigarette breath as Charlie turned to him, saying in a calmer tone of voice, “I told ’em take it easy, I’d handle it. See, I go way back with the sheriff’s people.” Charlie glanced toward the hotel and went on in a quieter tone. “There was a time after I lost my ninety-nine-mile-an-hour zinger and left organized ball—this was a while ago—I ran liquor down from Tennessee to dry counties around here. Some moonshine too. There’s people can get all the bonded whiskey they want legally still prefer shine. Some take the jars and put peaches in ’em to set. This stuff I ran was top of the line, hardly any burn, ‘cept you better drink it holding on to something or you’re liable to fall and hit your head. I was pulled over now and then but never brought up, as I got to know the deputies on my routes. See, these boys aren’t paid much to fight crime and have to look for ways to supplement their income. There’s only so much house-painting they can do. All right, they get here they’re gonna recognize Floyd right away. They got sheets on him that tell of way more funny business’n I was ever in. What I’m saying is, they’ll have a good idea who did it. If they want to pursue it, that’ll be up to them.”

  Dennis said, “This is all about running whiskey?”

  “I won’t say all, no.”

  “Who are those guys?”

  “I’ll tell you in two words,” Charlie said, “why I’m not gonna tell you any more about it.”

  “Two words—”

  “Yeah. Dixie Mafia.”

  Charlie said come on, he was going to tell Billy Darwin and then make the call. Dennis said he had to get his clothes. Charlie didn’t like the idea of his going back out there. Dennis didn’t either, but said he wouldn’t have finished work and left his clothes there, would he? Charlie said okay, he’d give him time to get away from here before he told Billy Darwin and made the call. He said go on home, but don’t tell Vernice. Get her to make you one of her toddies.

  Dennis walked out across the lawn, his wet sneakers no longer squishing, to the tank with wavy lines and the ladder standing against the night sky.

  His clothes, his jeans, T-shirt and undershorts, hung from a bar of the scaffolding head high, but not in the way of seeing Floyd Showers lying face up in his suitcoat, a dirty brown wool herringbone, Jesus, the poor guy. Dennis took time to look at him, the third dead man he’d seen up close. No, the fourth. The one in Acapulco who hit the rocks, the two amusement park workers cut down by broken cables . . . He saw a lame horse shot in the head, brains draining like red Cream of Wheat. Floyd was the first one he’d seen killed by gunshot and even the ones who did it. He had spent the weekend in a holding cell with a guy who’d shot and killed a man in a bar fight, but that didn’t count. It was the time in Panama City, Florida, they went through his setup truck looking for weed or whatever, and the guy in the holding cell who’d killed somebody still wanted to fight. That mean ugly kind of drunk. Dennis had to punch him out—no help from the deputies—and bang the guy’s head against the cinder-block wall to settle him down. It wasn’t bad enough getting hit a few times, the guy a wildman, the guy threw up on him and Dennis had to wash off his shirt and pants in the toilet bowl. He remembered being a sight Monday morning, but nothing the court hadn’t seen before. When they let him go he said to a deputy, “I have to put up with all this shit and I didn’t even do anything.” The deputy said he’d put him back in the cell he didn’t shut his mouth.

  That’s why he had trouble talking to cops, they always had the advantage.

  Getting dressed he turned away from Floyd lying dead but kept seeing the two guys looking up at him on the perch. Then seeing the one holding a sword as he remembered what Charlie had said, Charlie’s tone, just for a second there, making fun of the guy. You oughta see him with his sword. And something about them dressing up as Confederates and refighting the Civil War. It reminded Dennis now of a poster he saw in Tunica, something about a Civil War battle reenactment.

  The lights were still on in the pitching cage.

  Dennis walked back to the hotel thinking he’d better not waste time. Duck through the back work area to the employee’s entrance. His setup truck was over at the far side of the parking lot. Go home and spend a quiet evening with Vernice. Work on what he’d say and how he’d act surprised when the deputies stopped by for him.

  There was a guy standing on the patio.

  A black guy. But not one of the help. No, a cool-looking young guy in pleated slacks, a dark silky shirt open to his chest, a chain, the guy slim, about Dennis’ size, the guy starting to smile. Dennis got ready to nod, say how you doing and walk past.

  The guy said, “I saw you dive,” and Dennis stopped.

  “You did? Where was it, Florida?”

  “No, man, right here. Just a while ago. I gave you a ten.”

  With the smile and Dennis turned enough to look out at the ladder. “You could see okay? It was pretty dark.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Tomorrow night it’ll be lit up.”

  “The way I’d have to be, go off that thing, lit with some kind of substance.” He said it nice and easy, his tone pleasant. “I’ve been noticing the signs in there, ‘Dennis Lenahan, World Champion, From the Cliffs of Acapulco to Tunica, Mississippi’ . . . Doing your thing, huh?” He offered his hand. “Dennis, I’m Robert Taylor. It’s a pleasure meeting you, a man with no small amount of cool, do what you do.”

  “I’ve been at it a while.”

  “Well, I hope you stay with it.”

  Dennis began to feel the guy was somebody, and said, “You were out here?”

  “Mean when you dove? No, I was in my suite.”

  Dennis said, “Looking out the window?” and knew it sounded stupid, the guy, Robert Taylor, staring at
him, then beginning to smile a little.

  “Yeah, as I’m getting dressed I happen to look out, see you up on the ladder, the two redneck dudes out there watching, I thought, Hey, maybe we gonna see a show.”

  Dennis said, “The two guys standing there.”

  “Yeah, looking up like they talking to you.”

  Dennis said, “Yeah, they were watching,” and right away said, “They wanted to see a triple somersault.” Dennis shrugged, telling himself, Jesus, relax, will you, as Robert Taylor kept looking at him with his pleasant expression.

  “You waited till they left. Man, I don’t blame you. Dangerous occupation, you don’t do it for free.”

  The guy wasn’t exactly smiling—it was in his tone of voice, mild, sociable, giving Dennis the feeling the guy was somebody and he knew something. “I’m paid by the week or the season,” Dennis said, “but you’re right, you can’t put on a show for anybody happens to come by.” He paused and said, “Like those two guys. I never saw ’em before in my life.”

  He waited for Robert to pick up on it, mention he saw them around or coming out of the hotel. No, what he said was, “You did perform for Chickasaw Charlie.”

  And the two guys, Dennis hoped, were left behind.

  He said, “Yeah, well, Charlie’s a good guy. You try your arm over there?”

  “I threw some,” Robert said. “But I think that radar machine the man has favors him. You know what I’m saying? Except I don’t see how he’d work it. You know, set the speed up for when he throws. So I give him the benefit, say fine, this old man can still hum it in—till I study what he might be doing.”

  “You’re staying here a while?”

  “Haven’t decided how long. Came down from Detroit.”

  “Try your luck, huh?”

  “We got casinos in Detroit. No, you have to have a good reason to come to Mississippi, and losing my money ain’t one of ’em.”

  He let that hang, but Dennis wasn’t going to touch it—as much as he wanted to know what the guy was up to. He didn’t like the feeling he had. He said, “You know Charlie pitched for Detroit in a World Series?”

  “Uh-huh, he told me. Went in and struck out the side.”

  “Well, listen,” Dennis said, “I gotta get going. It was nice meeting you.”

  They shook hands and he walked off, reached the door to go inside and heard Robert behind him, Robert saying, “I meant to ask you, you don’t stay at the hotel, do you?”

  Dennis held the door for him. “I’m at a private home, in Tunica. I rent a room.”

  Robert said, “I thought you might be staying in town. You ever run into a man name Kirkbride?”

  “I’ve only been here a week.”

  “Walter Kirkbride. Man has a business over in Corinth, makes these mobile homes aren’t mobile. They called manufactured homes, come in pieces and you put ’em together on your lot, where you want. There’s one called the Vicksburg has like slave quarters in back, where you keep your lawn mower and shit. There’s one, a log cabin—I know it ain’t called the Lincoln Log, this man Kirkbride’s all the way Southron.” Robert telling this to Dennis following him along a back hall.

  Dennis said, “If he lives in Corinth—”

  “I forgot to mention, he’s putting up like a trailer park of these homes near Tunica he calls Southern Living Village. For people work at the casinos. Kirkbride stays in one he uses for his office.”

  “You want to see him about work?”

  Robert said, “I look like I drive nails, do manual fuckin labor?”

  With a different tone, sounding like a touchy black guy who believes he’s been disrespected, and it rubbed Dennis hard the wrong way. Shit, all he was doing was making conversation. He didn’t look at Robert as they came to the employees’ entrance; Dennis pushed through the glass door and let Robert catch it, coming behind him.

  Outside on the curb Dennis turned to him in the overhead light. He said, “I’ll believe whatever you tell me, Robert, ’cause it doesn’t make one fuckin bit of difference to me why you’re here. Okay?”

  He got a good look at the guy now in his pale-yellow slacks and silky shirt that was dark brown and had a design in it that looked Chinese, the shirt open to his chest, the gold chain . . . the guy giving him kind of a sly look now saying, “So you come alive, the real Dennis Lenahan, huh?” Robert’s mild tone back in place.

  “We out there talking I feel you hanging back. I’m thinking, a man that puts his ass on the line every time he goes off, why’s he worried about me, what I saw? Ask was it from my window. Did I get a good look at the ones watching you.”

  “I never asked you that.”

  “It’s what you meant, what you wanted to know. How much did I see of what was going on. One thing I did wonder about—the man that was working for you all day? I see him finish up. I go in the bathroom, take a quick shower, I come out he’s gone. Now those redneck dudes by the tank are talking to you. I’m thinking, what happened to your helper? He didn’t want to see you dive?”

  Dennis said, “You know who he is?” feeling his way, but ready to give up the two guys if he had to.

  Robert shook his head. “Never saw him before.”

  “Then why’re you asking about him?”

  “I thought it was funny he seem to disappear.”

  “You don’t do manual labor,” Dennis said. “You want to tell me what you do?”

  It brought Robert’s smile back, Robert taking his time before saying, “You think I’m the man, huh? Not some local deputy dog, you think I might be a fed, like some narc sniffing around. Hey, come on, I’m not looking into your business. I saw you dive, man, I respect you.” He said, “Listen, I bet I’ve been in your shoes a few times. You know what I’m saying? I think we both had our nerves rubbed a little. You ask me am I looking for work and I jump on it, ’cause I don’t seek employment. Any given time I got my own agenda. Like I ask if you know this man Kirkbride.”

  Dennis said, “You’re talking, man, I’m through.”

  “You want to get a drink?”

  “I’m going home,” Dennis said, felt the pocket of his jeans and said, “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m suppose to take Charlie’s car. He forgot to give me the keys.”

  “You going home, I’ll drive you.”

  “My truck’s over there,” Dennis said, looking across this section of the lot where the help parked, rows of cars and pickup trucks shining under the lights, “but I can’t leave it where I’m staying, Vernice has a fit.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Robert said, “that’s a big ugly truck. Come on, I said I’d drive you.”

  Dennis hesitated. He needed to get away from here but didn’t want to walk around to the front and run into Charlie, and maybe sheriff’s people arriving. He said, “I’d appreciate it. But could you get the car and meet me by my truck? I have to get something out of it.”

  No problem.

  He couldn’t tell the year of Robert’s car, new or almost, a black Jaguar sedan, spotless, shining in the lights, rolling up to Dennis still wondering what the guy did.

  They kept to themselves driving away from the hotel, leaving behind the neon Dennis didn’t think was as tiring as amusement park neon; this was quiet neon. He began to relax in the dark comfort of leather and the expensive glow of the instrument panel. He closed his eyes. Then opened them as Robert said, “Old 61. Yes.” And turned right onto the highway to head south.

  He said, “Down there’s the famous crossroads.” He said, “You like blues?”

  “Some,” Dennis said, starting to think of names.

  “What’s that mean? Some.”

  “I like John Lee Hooker. I like B. B. King. Lemme think, I like Stevie Ray Vaughan . . .”

  “You know what B. B. King said the first time he heard T-Bone Walker? He said he thought Jesus himself had returned to earth playing electric guitar. They cool, John Lee and B.B., and Stevie Ray’s fine. But you know where th
ey came from? What they were influenced by? The Delta. The blues, man, born right here. Charley Patton from Lula, lived on a cotton plantation. Son House, lived in Clarksdale, down this road.” Robert’s hand reached to the instrument panel and pushed a button. “You don’t get off on this you don’t know blues.”

  The sound came on scratchy, a guitar setting the beat.

  Dennis said, “Jesus, how old is it?”

  “Recorded seventy years ago. Check it out, that’s Charley Patton, the first blues superstar. Listen to him. Rough and tough, man. Hits you with it. He’s doing ‘High Water Everywhere,’ about the flood of 1927, changed the geography of the Delta around here. Listen to him. ‘Would go to the hilly country but they got me barred.’ Turned away by the law, the high country for whites only. They made songs out of what was going on, their life, how they were getting fucked by the law or by women, women leaving ’em. All about man and woman, about living on plantations, on work farms, chain gangs . . . This man, Charley Patton, his style begat Son House and Son House begat the greatest bluesman ever lived, Robert Johnson. Robert Johnson begat Howlin’ Wolf and all the Chicago boys and they put their mark on everybody since, including the Stones, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton . . . Eric Clapton use to say, you don’t know Robert Johnson he won’t even talk to you.”

  Dennis had to think, trying to recall if he’d heard of the man Robert Johnson.

  Robert Taylor still talking, telling him, “Thirty-seven miles down this highway past Tunica you come to the famous crossroads . . .” He paused and said, “Shit.”

  Dennis saw high beams coming at them, headlights and the wailing sound of law enforcement on a dark country road and a pair of sheriff’s cars blew past, going toward the hotels.

  Robert looked at his rearview mirror. “I know they not after me. How about you?”

  Dennis let it go, turning to watch the taillights until they disappeared.

  “I expect sooner or later I’ll be pulled over,” Robert said, “driving around in an S-Type Jag-u-ar ’stead of out in the field choppin’ cotton.” He glanced at the mirror again, then touched the button to turn off the blues.