Reader's note: here is a link to all chapters that I have so far placed online.

Chapter VI

"Delano figured Spoonbill wanted to go quickly?" Jack asked the old man
when he stopped to take a drink from the bottle of spring water. Tobias
nodded as he drank.

Then Jack remembered what else he had brought Tobias, at Burnside's
suggestion. He pulled the half-pint of Wild Turkey out of his briefcase.
"Let me top that off for you, fella." He looked to make sure Nurse
Register, or any other busybody, wasn't watching. Nope just the old guy
in the next bed, and he wasn't a snitch any more, if he ever was.

Jack passed the open bottle under Tobias' nose before tipping a
healthy slug into the water bottle.

"Yes indeed, no doubt at all RL sent you, young man." Tobias took a long
drink from the newly-fortified water. The man was near eighty, and Jack
worried that maybe he wasn't supposed to be partaking of alcohol. But
then again, the man was near eighty.

"I don't get to do much drinkin' in here. What family comes to see me is
religious. Not that I ain't, but a man got have his faults, right?
Otherwise, we are presuming to be too Christlike, is my feelings. Isn't that so,
Mr. Moonlight?"

I never heard it put quite that way, Mr. Plimsoll. But it makes sense,
of a sort."

"Please, call me Tobias.", Tobias reminded his visitor.
"Please, call me Jack."

"Well then Jack, I suppose we are ready to continue the sad tale of
Delano's incarceration."

"I was told that you were wrongfully convicted, Tobias." You had to have
been awfully young when you were in Cummins."

"Yes, Tobias said. "I was young. And no, I was guilty as sin. I did
have a temper as a young-un, and I did beat that bastard barber near to
death."

Jack started to ask for details, but he knew the clock was ticking.
Thirty minutes had come and gone. The staff's laxity toward their
charges worked in his favor, but it couldn't last.

"Now, the 38 years at Parchman Farm? That was a miscarriage of justice.
I was the closest black man to the scene, and the sheriff needed to find
a culprit. They told the lady that I was the man who raped her, all she
had to do was say so in court."

Jack shook his head, it was a story similar to many he had heard over
the years.

"Those wonderful people at the Innocence Project, plus some local state
lawyers, won me my freedom." Funny thing is, Jack, that the state was
working to free me at the same time. I went blind two years ago, my
arthritis got too bad to do work of any kind at Parchman. The state
tired of paying my medical bills, so it was looking like I would be free
by now anyhow. At least this way, with a wrongful conviction suit going
forward, Mississippi will end up paying for my care after all. Should I
live long enough to win it, that is. My lawyer is helping some, and she
assures me that there will be a settlement soon."

"It's funny that me and Delano got to be so tight, Tobias mused."

Jack thought he had missed something, then realized Tobias was talking
to himself.

"What did you mean by that, Tobias?"

"We both signed confessions to things we did not do, Jack ."
-----------------------------------------

Summer, 1941

Delano had time to grieve between beatings. The first came at the hands
of Tarver and his driver. Even though the man who shot Spoonbill said
that Delano came from up the street, and was nowhere near the residence
he fired at the crazy black man. For his part, Delano held no ill will
towards the shooter. Spoonbill was looking to die, it seemed. Delano
just wished his friend had waited until Delano was far enough away not
to hear the shot.

It took two days for the police to figure out what to charge Delano
with. They settled on trespassing and attempted burglary. Had Delano
been a local, had someone to vouch for him, he might have walked.

Once the charges were filed, the detectives went to work convincing
Delano that accessory to murder was the alternative to confessing to
the trumped-up charges. A few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder
later, Delano conceded their point. Then he was sent to hospital, taped
up, cleaned up, and made ready for his plea date.

On Tuesday, August 12, 1941, Delano saw his new home for the first time.
It was to be the last time he saw it from the outside. He was looking
through a slit in the canvas cover of the transfer truck, saw flat
fields of crops, then a guard tower. Neither prisoner to which he was
chained, both white men, a pair of bank robbers, indicated any
curiousity. They had only talked to him once, to see if he had a
cigarette. They laughed when he said he had given up the habit years
ago. "So did we.", said the one named Earl. "For the next five years."

That was the extent of integration at Cummins. Once he was processed.
Delano was walked, still in chains, to Block "D". The guards unshackled
him, one handed him a blanket and sheet. Another slid open the door, and
yet a fourth kicked him in the back, through the door, which shut behind
him with the dreaded clang heard in so many prison movies. So began
Delano's stay in Hell.

He picked himself off the floor, looked around. He was in a room about
80 feet long and 20 feet wide. Six-inch gaps every ten feet, between the
walls and the roofline offered some daylight and the promise of cold
winter nights.
There was a double row of bunk beds with thin matresses, all unoccupied.
He had been told by a trustee that he would be assigned to a work detail
in the morning, and for now to enjoy the silence. "The men will be back
at dusk. Your block boss is Bull Red. Best give him what he wants, cigs
if your family sends any, extra biscuits from dinner, but.." He looked
at Delano's relatively slim build. "He may want sumpin' extra from you."

"What you mean?", Delano imitated the trustee's whisper, sure that the
guards would hit them if they were overheard. But Delano knew what the
trustee meant. Spoonbill had made him aware that some men were to be
avoided, not to accept favors from them, not to hang around them, and
not to back down from them. "I won't always be there to protect you, boy.
That's why we're gonna teach you the sweet science, the pugilistic arts.
There's some people you cain't win over with a song."

Towards dusk, Delano was sitting on the edge of a bunk that had no look of
occupation when he heard commotion outside. The door opened, men started
filing in, some started talking with one another, but they all got quiet when
they saw Delano sitting there. Some filed past him, one or two shook their
heads as they passed. The door clanged shut, and Delano saw the one who
had to be Bull Red take a piece of paper from a guard who passed it
through the bars.

Delano made him for a Redbone, a people of complicated ancestry also called
Melungeons, who inhabit a portion of Southwest Louisiana. They are part
Caucasian, part Indian, and part Negro. Most Redbones, like the one who was 
walking towards Delano, had copper-hued skin, high cheekbones,
and straight hair. Few were as bulky as Bull Red, neè Timothy Clark,
but, as with him, English names were more common than French by a wide
margin.

Only one or two had gone into the shower room at the far end of the
dorm; most waited to see how this was going to play out. Delano was
curious as well, he made a quick calculation of pluses and minuses as
Bull Red walked towards him.

Delano was five-ten, Bull was a few inches over six feet. This was a
plus, Spoonbill had taught him that punching upward gave one firmer
footing. But the big man had a reach several inches longer than his. A minus
for sure. Delano weighed one hundred and sixty pounds the last time he had
used a scale. He probably had lost weight since his arrest. He estimated Bull
Red to be close to twice that, not all of fat by a long shot. Another for the
minus column.The fellow was walking slow, but he seemed to be sure-footed,
not lumbering like a poorly-toned fake wrestler. Delano called that as an even,
as he was tired of minuses.

Delano figured he was faster, due to Spoonbill's constant training and
demanding exercise regimen. He had kept it up in jail, as soon as his
injuries allowed. Two hundred push-ups, then fifty one-handed with each
arm. He had worked his way up to five hundred sit-ups the day they came
to put him in the truck. He had found a fellow in jail who would practice
sparring with him, letting Delano hit his hands, while Delano let him
try to punch his face. It was the closest thing to fun he had experienced
since Spoonbill's  death, and he hoped now that it made him faster than the
adversary-to-be who was now standing in front of him. Delano had risen to
his feet in a show of respect, also so he could move faster.

 Bull Red spoke, reading from the paper that looked tiny in his hands.
"Spoondog? Roosevelt? Spoonboy? Which do you prefer, slim?"

"I prefer Delano."

"I see, and you picked this bunk for yourself, did you?"

"It was unoccupied..." Suddenly, Delano was flying across the room,
grabbed and thrown before he saw the movement. So much for the speed
advantage, he thought as he banged into a bunk on the opposite row and
two beds down from his first choice.

"I choose who sleeps where on this block. That's my bunk, and that's
where you will sleep tonight. And I prefer to call you Pussy." Again he
was standing inches from Delano,

"Is that what you called your Mama?" Damned if the man didn't blink, and
Delano punched upward, hitting Bull in the jaw. A piece of the giant's
tongue flew out of his mouth, trailing blood and spit. Delano followed
through with a left to his nose, savoring the crunch as his fist sunk
in the meaty face.

It wasn't over. Delano left arm was gripped by a vise disguised as a
right arm, and he was pulled into Bull's chest, They were face-to-face,
and Delano could see that he had shaken off the effects of his surprise
attack. The contorted face, blood spewing down his chin split into a
broken-toothed grin as Delano wriggled in his grasp. Bull Red pulled his
left arm back in preparation for a powerful roundhouse that could surely
put him in the same dimension as his mentor. The larger man turned to the
wide-eyed crowd. "Guess I'll be screwing a corpse tonight, ladies."

Delano hadn't been sitting on the bunk all afternoon. From tales heard
around hobo campfires, he had learned that improvised weapons could be
made and hidden in walls, ceilings, floors, bed frames, and bodily
orifices. Lacking the availability of the latter, or a desire to conduct such a
search anyway, Delano started feeling and scanning the former, checking
every corner and surface of the concrete-block walls. He was rewarded when
he found a tiny discolored circle in the cement where four blocks met. With
his fingernail, he scraped away the powdered concrete dust some enterprising
convict had used to cover a hole large enough to hide a sixteen-penny
nail. And that was what Delano pulled out of its hiding place. The
nail's business end had been sharpened almost to invisibility. He filled
the hole back up with dust and cement scraped up with the weapon. The
resulting patch would never pass close inspection, but he figured it
would be good enough for the encounter he was sure would ensue when the
crew returned from the fields.

He placed the nail in his right armpit, under his tight t-shirt,
thanking the Lord for the prison system's careless regard for sizing.
Now, in Bull Red's grip, he wriggled it loose, felt it slide down his
shirt, and into his hand. He slipped it between his middle and ring
finger, the broad end of the head firmly against his palm, as he had
practiced for most of the time since he found it. Just as Bull turned
back from his aside to the audience, Delano punched it into the man's
fat neck with all his might. He heard air hissing out of the wound as he
was dropped, and the light-skinned ogre fell back, vainly plucking at
the nail. His windpipe had been pierced, and blood ran out of his mouth
and nose at an even faster pace than before.

Delano took careful aim, and kicked the son of a bitch in the crotch to
great effect. He decided against kicking the nail further into the man's
nasal cavity. Turning to the open-mouthed crowd, he spoke calmly.

"The name is Delano. Not Spoondog, not Spoonboy, not Spoon anything. Do
not call me Roosevelt. Now someone call the guards, this poor man has
fallen and hurt himself."

Voices could be heard outside, getting closer. Delano motioned for two
of the closest witnesses to help him pick Bull Red off the floor. He dipped
his fingers into Bull Red's neck wound, flicked blood on their shirts, and
whispered, "We all got a little messy helping him."

"I didn't see nothin' boss. Mind if I call you boss? My name's Tobias,
and I hate to be called Toby". Delano suppressed a laugh as the guards
swarmed in.

CHAPTER IV

"But where were the black people? Ain't no town in the south, not today,
not ever, that lacked a colored section, a shinetown. It was a good
show, but Mayberry was a white man's fantasy, is all I'm sayin'."

If one had to be arrested, there were worse places to do time than
Audie's front porch, where the two new friends had settled after a fine
dinner of red beans and rice, pork chops, and fresh-picked greens. The
men had graduated to Kentucky bourbon, Jack's with a splash of water,
Audie's darkened with cola. The current topic of discussion was one of
many the two had started, one blending into the next.

Sherry, Audie's wife, an ample and handsome woman, clearly enjoyed the
company. Jack's presence was a respite from the emptiness of the nest
since their only child, a son, had left for basic training a few weeks
earlier. Of course Sherry had shown off his graduation photos. He was
clearly a Boulware, maybe a little less stocky.

They were sipping the whiskey, respectful of its power, enjoying its
smoothness. Jack was feeling as good as he ever had, and suggested he
might move to Euclidean, become Barney Fife to Audie's Sheriff Taylor,
After his sentence was up, that is. Obviously, Audie had honed his
opinion of the Andy Griffith Show over the years, and Jack's reference
was his cue to deliver it.

"I remember one episode," Jack replied, "That had a black guy in it."

"Yeah, he was passin' through Mayberry, I remember that one. All I'd
ever do in that cracker town". That seemed exceedingly funny to both
men, and Sherry poked her head out the door to see what was so funny.
She had changed clothes, and looked ready to go somewhere.

Jack conceded. "Okay, you aren't Andy. I'm not Barney, and Sherry is
much prettier than ol' Aunt Bea."

"Well, you just come for dinner any time, handsome. Honey, we are still
goin' to Leon's?" It was a question, and not, at the same time.

"Yes, yes, my sweet magnolia." Audie's W.C. Fields was, though
recognizable enough, atrocious. "Jack, for your benefit, I am initiating
a program of rehabilitation, starting with some community service. You
may find the following coupla' hours useful as background in your
current endeavor as well."

Jack was up for anything. "What have you got in mind? And, by the way,
outside of hassling tourists, do you ever do any police work?"

"Matter of fact, insolent one, this is an investigation in progress on
which we will soon embark. "Leon Whittington, a cousin of Sherry's
Momma, has been rumored to operate an unlicensed establishment, at which
liquor is served in copious amounts, and people smoke, drink and dance
with abandon." Audie heaved his bulk out of the rocker, slapped Jack on
the shoulder and his wife on the rump as he walked past them into the
house. "Go take a shower while I get my uniform on, you white people
have a funny smell."
---------------------------------------------

"This is a pre-fab home", Audie shouted into Jack's ear. "The owner
finishes the interior after the builder erects the exterior and roofs
it. I wish I could have seen the fellow's face when Leon asked him to
save the sawdust."

Jack chuckled appreciatively. All Leon had finished was the bar and the
bathrooms, He had added no interior walls, just a post here and there to
support the roof and the occasional patron. The bar ran most of the
south side of the structure, stopping at the restrooms. The band was set
up on a foot-high platform 10 foot deep and 15 foot wide. There was
seating for 20-25 people, including the barstools, two of which Jack and
Audie occupied. Sherry was at one of the tables with some girlfriends.
The rest of the building's floor space was devoted to dancing, and one
more person could not have been shoehorned onto it without committing
an act of frottage. As it was, some of the dancers appeared to be
flagrantly delicting without a thought as to who might care.

"I wanna know how in the hell Leon got R.L. Burnside to play in his
gin joint to begin with." Jack noticed, too late, that the music had
stopped when he was halfway through the remark. Several faces turned in
his direction, none white, none friendly. From the stage, R.L., one of
the last of the Delta-style blues artists, spoke into his microphone.
"Go on and tell him, Sheriff. It's okay deppity, I remember my first
beer."

Jack turned suitably red in the face, pointed at his drink, waved his
hand as if swearing off booze forever. This got the crowd laughing with
him, not at him anymore. From behind the bar, Leon said, "No one takes
the pledge in my place of business.", and poured Jack another shot of
Glenmorangie. People returned to their tables, forgot about the
Sheriff's strange choice of drinking companions. "Besides", Leon
continued, "I opened this bottle just for you, and I'll never get another
customer with such distinguished taste in single-malts. It gets drunk
tonight or I have to finish it before it goes stale."

"Leon here did a stretch with RL, Jack. A long time ago. Mr. Burnside
plays here when schedule and proximity allow."

Jack was familiar with Burnsides' music. He also knew that the bluesman
had done time for murder. He remembered a quote attributed to RL years
after his release. "I didn't mean to kill nobody...I just meant to shoot
the sonofabitch in the head. Him dying was between him and the Lord."

"Ten years my junior, and Leon here schooled me, kept me alive in that
place." R L had come up behind Jack while Audie and Leon were talking.
"Didn't even ask for no booty, not that he would've got any."

"Shit, them hard boys din't ask, they took." This was Leon weighing in.
The two old friends punched each other, fairly hard, too, and Leon made
his way down the bar, filling some glasses, denying more to others whose
bearers had clearly reached their limit.

"Mr. Moonlight here is on Spoondog's trail, RL.", Sheriff Boulware
informed him.

RL cocked an eyebrow. "How many cemeteries have you checked out?"

"One so far.", Jack answered. "I couldn't get permission to visit
Cummins."

"Can't say you want to, son. A bad place now, worse back in the day."
Burnside paused, looked Jack through and through, measured him, and came
to some internal decision. "You stayin' for the last set?", he asked.

Jack looked at Audie, who nodded in the affirmative. "To serve and
protect, Mr. Burnside."

"I know someone who might know something. Come see me after the set, we
can talk while the boys pack up." He looked at his watch. "Time to round
up the band, gents. Get them to playin' for y'all, before they get too
stoned and forget how." The elder Delta statesman shook Jack's hand,
then Audie's, and headed for the back door. Jack watched him go,
thrilled as a girl who got to kiss Elvis. He noticed a few people in the
place looking at him, but when he made eye contact, they nodded or
smiled. Getting chatted up by Leon, Boulware, and Burnside had earned
him some cachet. It was a good feeling, a good night all around.

Just then a man came up to Audie and told him there was a fight out in
the front yard. Audie excused himself quickly. "Got po-lice work to do,
Jack. Have fun, I may haveta take somebody to the hoosegow or the
hospital."

"I'll go with you", Jack offered.

"No", Audie said over his shoulder. "Low profile, whitebread." And he
strode out the door, shifting to cop mode as he went.

Leon came over with the bottle, but Jack put his hand over his glass.
Leon understood, he knew Jack was looking to lose his buzz so he wouldn't
look a fool in front of RL later. He gave Jack a coke instead, and then
went over to the bandstand. Leon pulled the mike close to his lips.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. He's got time for one more set, and he promises
you that it will be a doozy. Welcome back the Last of the Delta
Bluesmen, Mr. R. L. Burnside and the Sound Machine!"

The applause was quickly drowned out as The band struck up Burnside's
best known song outside of Mississippi, "It's Bad, You Know", and
couples began filing out onto the dance floor. Sherry walked over to
Jack, grabbed him by the hand, and practically pulled him off the stool.
"Looks like my date left me, handsome. Shall we dance?"

"Sure thing, babe. I cut a mean moonwalk."

"Don't you dare moonwalk, Mr. Moon-light." But she was laughing. They
found a reasonably unpopulated space, and began to dance.
The room was still spinning a bit. Jack was feeling good, just loose
enough to get into the groove. Tentative at first, he watched the other
dancers for pointers, and then went to work. Bobbing and weaving,
counter-pointing Sherry's steps, he got a smile from RL as he sang, "My
baby asked me why. I done went and tol'her. My baby asked me why..."
When the song ended, they went straight into Willie Dixon's "Wang Dang
Doodle". Some in the crowd just bobbed in time to the music, in front of
the bandstand. They joined in when RL when got to the lines, "We gonna
romp and stomp til midnight, we gonna fuss and fight til daylight".

Jack whooped, and did his Michael Jackson. He pulled it off, and Sherry
laughed in spite of herself. She turned her back on Jack, and did a rump
twitch that sent one cheek skyward, then the other. "You could beat a
drum with that junk, lady.", Jack yelled in her ear.  The band slowed
down the tempo with a song about a girl named Mattie. Leon cut in on
Jack, took his cousin in his arms. Leon's barback, a girl named
Coquetta, joined Jack, and they swayed in time. Jack could feel the
sweat soaking through her shirt as his hand on her back guided them in a
circle. After the song, she kissed his cheek and went back behind the
bar. He was in love with her until another gal grabbed his arm, and the
bassline to "Let My Baby Ride" got the sawdust on the floor to shaking.

Audie walked back in. Jack saw dirt-stains and mud on his shirt, but
Audie gave him a thumbs-up. Sherry went to her husband, visibly fussing
over the mess. They conversed, and Audie let Jack know with hand signals
that they would be back to get him after a change of clothes.

The set ended with a medley from Burnside's "Ass Pocket Full of
Whiskey" album. "This one is for my new friend Curious Jack," He
announced, referring to Jack's faux pas earlier. Jack wasn't ready to
stop boogeying, but too soon the music ended, the house lights
brightened the room and Burnside was callingJack over. "Got a pen?",
He asked the star-struck gumshoe. "Good. Let'sget in the van, turn up the
air. Goddam, its hot."
When Jack walked back in, the place was almost empty. Leon and Coquetta
were cleaning up, and Jack had the first solid lead so far in the case.
He jumped on a stool, Leon took the time to pour five fingers for Jack,
who then proceeded to drink and chat up Coquetta until Audie yelled at
him from the doorway. Coquetta gave what even a drunk would know was
a "nice try" look, and he stumbled off towards the front door.

In the car on the way back home, Audie was finishing up his story about
turning a knife back on some drunken fool. He had waited for the
ambulance to take the victim to County Hospital before he and Sherry
came back for their guest.

"Don't Leon ever get in trouble with the neighbors?"

"Hell Jack, that was a slap fight, the shit outside of Leon's. "We
weren't halfway to the house when I got the call about trouble at the
honky-tonk 'cross town. "You crackers cut each other up more'n we do.
Never did get my shirt changed, something a sober de-tective might have
de-tected."He looked back in the rear seat. Jack had passed out.

"Sherry, he throws up in my car, he's sleepin' on the lawn, hear me?"

 FRIDAY NIGHT, September 6, 1935
 
"He's got strength and and one hard head, that's all. You got the speed
and the stamina, son. Wear him down, stay away from that right, watch
when he tucks his left arm in close to his chest, that's when he's gonna try
a roundhouse like the one that split your cheek".  Grandy struck the cowbell,
signaling the start of round six, and Delano bounced out of his chair.
In the opposite corner, Horace Boulware did the same, a little less
bounce, a little more deliberation. He came at Delano at an angle,
protecting his punished left side. Out of the corner of his eye, at the
edge of the crowd, Delano saw Angela Beauchamp, the reason for tonight's
festivities.

Spoonbill saw where his young partner was looking. He yelled out,
"Fight now, pussy later!"  Horace charged, Delano dodged, took a hit on
his upper arm, then tagged Horace in his pained left side. It was a solid hit,
and Horace staggered. Delano pressed his advantage, repeated the blow.
Horace dropped his guard, and Delano pasted a right on the bigger boy's mouth.

The crowd roared when they saw the blood, even the two deputies who had
happened on the scene were cheering Delano on now. A sprinkle of dust
fell from the rafters of the barn, mixing with the smoke-filled air.
Horace spit out a tooth, his eyes started to regain their focus. Delano
almost hated to do it, but Angela's lips were waiting, along with the
rest of her fine black body. He layed a right against Horace's ear, and
the big boy went down.
"Spoondog! Spoondog!" To Delano's ears, the hated nickname never sounded
so good. He raised his arms triumphantly, got locked in an embrace by
Spoonbill, then lifted up onto two sets of shoulders, from where he could see
Angela cradling Horace's head in her bare arms. She didn't spare a
glance for the victor, for whom she was supposed to be the spoils. His
supporters turned him around, and he saw the deputies ushering a white
boy out of the barn. It was Frank, Doc Hatton's boy.  Spun around again,
he saw Horace getting helped to his feet, looking lost. Angela gave
Delano a look as if he had just slapped her Grandma. Delano was let down
to his feet, but nowhere near as fast as his heart had been.

"You should have seen yourself, boy. Jack Johnson would be proud of
you." Spoonbill had seen the reversal of fortune as well. He gave Delano
a drink from his flask. The crowd was calming down, some were settling
their debts, others were denying theirs. As soon as the deputies left,
there was bound to be more fighting, and more work for Doc Hatton in the
morning. Spoonbill dabbed at Delano's cheek with an iodine-soaked
kerchief.
"There's other women, son. Look at Shondelle over there giving you a
once-over. She respects a winner. Get cleaned up, I'll keep her busy
till you get dressed."
Delano shook Spoonbill's hand off his shoulder, walked outside, ignoring
the congratulations of the men in his wake. It was a hot humid night,
but cooler out here by about ten degrees than inside Gandy's barn. He
didn't want Shondelle, who was at least five years older than him, and
used one time or another by most everybody in the barn, including the
deputies.

"You smoke?" It was the Hatton boy, come out of the shadows, offering
him a cigarette from the pack in his hand. Silently, Delano took it ,
thanked him. Frank lit it for him, one for himself. They stood there
for a minute. Frank broke the silence. "You sure were good in there,
Spoondog."
"Better'n Horace was all I had to be. That ain't no big thing".
"Shit, you looked like Joe Louis in there, knocking out Primo Carnera two
months ago. Same number of rounds, too. "

"How you know I looked like Joe?"

"I seen him in the newsreels. At the movie house in Picayune". That guy
with the nose taught you to fight?"
Movie house. Picayune. Delano had never seen either. They were from two
different worlds, him and Frank. He had only read about other places,
never seen an ocean. He knew Frank and family had just come back from
Biloxi after a two-week stay on the beach. Frank was still a white boy,
but his face had a little color now anyway.

"Yeah, what he knows, anyhow. He boxed some in the army. In France."
He said the name of that mythical country as nonchalantly as possible.
"When he wasn't consorting with French women, he was fighting."

"Are they different? White women and Negro women?"

"Shit, I don't know. Spoonbill says they all pink inside." They both
laughed when this worldly observation caused Frank a choking fit.

Spoonbill appeared out of nowhere. "This ain't good, young Frank. Your
Daddy will tan the rest of you, finds out out you been hangin' with the
coloreds."
"I just hope the deputies don't say nuthin'. I know your people won't."
Spoonbill nodded agreement. The blacks probably knew the family trees
of the town's whites better the whites themselves, most of whom couldn't
be bothered to learn colored folks names, much less who was kin to
who. And blacks sure didn't share gossip with anyone not of color.

"No, we won't. But you best run along anyhow."

"Could you teach me to box like that, Mr...."
"Spoonbill is fine, son. I'm used to it. And what would Doc Hatton say to
that?"
He doesn't pay much attention to what I do. As long as my grades are
good, he wouldn't notice if both my eyes were swelled shut."

"Spoondog here needs a sparring partner, one who cain't hurt him none.
Right now, you fit that bill". Spoonbill said with a laugh and a long pull
from his flask. Want some?"

Frank took the flask, started to wipe the rim. Aware of both Spoons
looking at him, he put it straight to his lips and took too big a sip.
Gagging and choking back tears, he passed the hootch to Delano.

"Was it the whiskey made you gag?" Spoonbill teased, "Or the nigger
spit?'

"Both", Frank replied, getting a laugh from Spoonbill and a playful
punch from Delano.

"Okay, you get up tomorrow morning before church, and every day 'fore
school next week, you run to that lake of yours, and back. Every day,
you run that stretch. Then on Saturday, meet me an' Spoondog here at the
barn. We'll see what we can do wit' you. One more thing", The older man
said as he plucked the pack of Lucky Strikes from Frank's shirt pocket.
"That was your last cigarette, for both of you. Hear me?"
---------------------------------------------------

Jack finished his pulled pork sandwich, chased it with a long swallow of
beer from the plastic glass, and listened to Audie Boulware wrap up the
tale of his uncle's fight with Spoondog.
"He married Aunt Angela, they had three kids, a bunch of grandchil'ren,
he still dwells on that fight to this day."

"So I know now why he dislikes Spoondog, I guess. Doesn't explain why he
rejects the possibility that the man didn't fake his death somehow."

Jack had met Audie when he limped into town, the Grand Prix starting and
stopping as the last of the gas sloshed in and out of the fuel pump. He
saw the resemblance between the proprieter of the town's only service
station and Horace, even with the thirty-five year age difference. The
round face, widow's peak hairline, wide shoulders, thick fingers, were all
giveaways. For his part, Audie was curious about a white man that
could pick out black kin. He was even more curious about Jack's quest,
which prompted the meal at Ace's Up B-B-Q, on Melissa's nickel. Now they
were on their second pitcher and Jack's second sandwich, the big man's
third.

"Wishful thinkin', I guess, Jack. Hell, I've heard people say that they have
seen Spoon since then. And then there's the rumor about some record he
made in '53 or '54."

Jack hadn't heard these rumors. "What was the name? Any idea?" Audie
replied while topping off both cups. "Don't know the name, don't know
the label, just heard tell it was his best ever."

That was a low bar, Jack thought to himself. He changed the subject.
"What about his kin? Any left around here?"

"Never was none but his Mama's stepsister. No one knew who the Daddy
was, his Mama died birthing him. All the aunt did for him was give him a
last name and a bed. All this is before my time. I heard stuff as a kid
from Uncle Horace, and old man Grandy before he died. I remember hearing
how Delano was smarter than the teacher the state sent to town to teach
us Negroes how lucky we were."

It was Audie's turn to ask a question. "I guess he's alive, you say he
sent a letter to Doc Hatton's boy. Here it is, 2000. That makes him
eighty, eighty-one. Where do you suppose he is? And how did he know
Frank had died?"

Jack had wondered about that himself. "Maybe he's internet savvy, maybe
he and Frank stayed in touch. After all, he knew Melissa's married name
and address. I haven't got that angle figured out yet. I still have a Georgia
connection to check out. That P.O. box in Atlanta, and Spoon's big hit
was recorded in Augusta. I will be headed that way soon".

Jack drained his cup and got to his feet, listed toward the restroom
sign, talking louder than he meant to as he went. "A matter of fact,
Brother Audie, I need to get goin', fin' me a motel."

When he returned, he saw a fresh pitcher on the checkerclothed table,
which Audie was picking up with exaggerated care.

"Whoa, Br'er Audie! Thanks, but I've gotta hit the road, man. I'm
jailbait already."

"Truer words never passed a pair of lips, son. Thusly, you are not driving
anywhere tonight." Audie set the pitcher down after filling both cups, a
commercial-perfect drip of foam running down the side of each.

"Sez who?"

"Sez br'er Sheriff, boy." Audie flashed the badge pinned inside his
wallet, then slid it back in his hip pocket. Now, sit down, and let's finish
this pitcher."

Someone has to write my first novel, it may as well be me. This idea has been fermenting in my brain for a couple of years. It is now either ripe or rotten, but that is for my readers to say. A single-sentence synopsis might read as follows: A dedicated but mediocre musician records the greatest album never released.    Or: Jack gets paid to eat barbecue and listen to the blues. Nice work if you can get it.

(I'd Rather See) The Witch Doctor

(with apologies to David Seville, nee Ross Bagdasarian)

I asked to which doctor
am I allowed to go
A DVM from Pakistan,
so said my HMO
He was away, so his P.A.
attended to my woe.

He said that

(Chorus)
You've not met your deductible
By cash or card, your bill is payable.
Checks are bad, c-notes acceptable,
Though we like smaller bills
Yes, yes, the pain's unbearable,
and it's theoretically treatable
if you're fiscally responsible,
Pay the bill, then get a pill .

I inquired "Which, doctor,
credit or debit card?"
The P.A., well, he seemed to take 
my sarcastic tone quite hard
"The doctor was called away today
by a grave emergency".

He said that

(Chorus)
Doctor Satterjee was late, you see,
with this month's country club fees.
Also, he wanted to be
the first one off the tees.
(repeat)

Now you've been keeping care from me
and all of your other patients
like it's the gold a greedy miner hoards
We lose more time in waiting,
offered fewer and fewer treatments,
because less care is what an HMO rewards.

It matters not to switch doctors 
you call upon today
In the USA, the AMA
tells them all just what to say.
The time's nowhere near 
that this land here
will switch to single-pay-er.

(Chorus)
PPO's and HMO's and
Big Pharma company kickbacks,
the lobbyists for the AMA 
are watching our MD backs.
We're organized, incomes are high
And accountants get our taxes back.
Unity is the golden key
and it's what the patients lack.