Tuesday, 30 June 2009

• A MINOR BLUES, CHAPTER TWO

   

  
  I got too much of nuthin', can't handle any more
  I got too much of nuthin', can't handle any more
  Now the sheriff wants to see me, he's a knockin' on my door

  Too Much of Nuthin' --D. Partlow

  Not a bad picker, Jack, thought, but Barney Fife could sing Spoondog
  under a table. The pitch wavered, his voice cracked like a 13
  year-old's, and there was little emotion to match the lyrics. The
  tune itself was a standard blues, must be hundreds of songs like it.

  Jack pulled out the CD marked 'Spoondog', put in the one marked 'Field
  Recordings, Clarksdale, MS., 1933'. He forwarded past 'Pick' Bayles-Got
  a Solution, I Just need a Glass, past Jonah Wails' Wailin' Again Blues,
  and let song #3, If Trouble Knew Me, by one William Geddie, play.

  If trouble knew me better, I wouldn't be in chains
  If trouble knew me better, she wouldn't cause me so much pain
  Once trouble gets to know me, I think we could be friends

  I never looked for trouble, it just seeks me out
  I never looked for trouble, but trouble's all about
  I swam in trouble's waters, and got hooked like a trout

  Oh trouble, why do you do me so doggone mean?
  You and luck gang up on me, I got nobody on my team
  Cut me some slack, trouble,give me a another chance
  I wish I'd never met you, I wish I'd stayed in France

  As bad as the recording was, probably done in a cotton field, Jack could
  feel Spoonbill's pain, his weariness, his longing for a better place.

  Two days Jack had spent in the library in Hattiesburg. There he had
  found a treasure trove of information, which is how he had learned of
  Delano's mentor/father-figure. The historian had let him burn some songs
  and interviews onto several discs. He had even found a photograph of the
  two, Geddie (no mistaking that nose) playing guitar, and Delano, maybe
  nine or ten, dancing. Both were smiling as a well-dressed black man
  dropped a coin into the open guitar case. There were several whites in
  the crowd, including a young boy about Delano's age.
   ------------------------------------------------

  October 19, 1930

  Hey boy look at your shirt
  It done got smeared wit' Miss'ippi dirt
  Hey boy, where's your shoes
  gon' blister dem feet, dancin' dese blues

  Delano sang his part

  Dat's okay Spoon, I don' care
  feels so good i'se walkin' on air

  It was a good day. They were back in Euclidean, after working the cotton
  fields up towards Kosciusko. Sheriff Tully was nowhere to be seen, the
  October air was cool, even at three in the afternoon. The after-church
  crowd was feeling generous. There was even a yankee photographer there
  taking pictures as they performed. Spoonbill was glad he had relented,
  and let the boy sing some. In spite of, or maybe because of his atonal
  voice, people were charmed. Their tips had near about doubled
  wherever they played of late.
  Reverend Martin threw a quarter into Spoonbill's guitar case. It
  bounced once, and disappeared into a tear in the lining. A crumpled
  dollar followed. Spoonbill followed the dollar's arc back to the hand
  from which it was thrown. It was Frank Hatton's hand. The boy never said
  much, but he was always good for a buck or two of his daddy's money.
  More changed clinked and rattled in the case. It was raining money.

  "Bless you, young man. Thank you sir. Ma'am, thank you so much. Boy! Say
  Thank you, like I schooled you." On cue, Delano said, "Thank you, like I
  schooled you". The crowd laughed. From the edge of the gathering, Grandy
  remarked, "Lookee dere, Spoon's dog lernt a new trick". Another round of
  laughter. Spoonbill started picking out an old 'track lining' song he'd
  learned on the work farm. It was a good day.

  -------------------------------------------

  Jack hit the pause button, started to talk, then decided to wait until
  the road straightened long enough to pass the tractor in front of him.
  The green-and-yellow behemoth had kept him below thirty for the last ten
  minutes. He got his chance and hit the rented Grand Prix's accelerator,
  felt that satisfying push of G-force pressing him into the seat, and glided
  around the International Harvester, the chains on the discing attachment
  rattling as the old machine bounced down the road. Money was no object,
  she had said, she being one Melissa Harshbarger, his client du jour. Du
  month, actually. Jack had figured when he talked to her earlier, with
  his latest progress report, she might be inclined to call him off the
  case. Happily, she was still willing to spend her estranged hubby's
  money on this snipe hunt, this search for a secular grail.

  Jack had called his client an hour ago, while there was still a tower to
  receive his signal. He explained to her his doubts about the likelihood
  of Partlow's residing under the oak trees of Upper Pulaski County.

  "The guy I talked to said it was a closed casket ceremony, naturally. No
  relatives, no friends, just a minister and two mourners from the local
  A.M.E. church. The cemetery records were destroyed several years ago. I
  couldn't find any mention in the archives of the town paper, and no
  coroner's report." I did find a death certificate, unsigned, at the
  County Hospital, no attending doctor or administrator mentioned. Cause
  of death was listed as accidental burning." He listened for a moment. "I
  agree, Ms. Harshbarger, one man dying two deaths by fire is weird.
  Sorry, Melissa it will be. Yes, I am on my way there now. I will call
  you once I find out anything either way. You too, Melissa. Good day."

  Jack tried to picture Melissa as they talked. He saw her sitting at the
  same barstool, swirling a swizzle stick in a cocktail glass as he gave
  her his latest report. A green sundress to match her eyes, emerald
  earrings. Open-toed sandals with glittery stuff on the straps. He
  wondered if she was handling the break-up of her marriage well, if they
  might get to have another drink together....

  
  THREE WEEKS EARLIER....

  Jack had seen nicer houses, but never from an interior vantage point.
  The foyer was as big as his office, the living room as big as his parent's
  yard. As Mrs. Harshbarger walked across the marble floor to greet him,
  the sound of her footsteps echoed off the walls and the three-story
  ceiling. The maid who had let him in disappeared without a sound. "Gotta
  be the shoes.", Jack thought inanely.

  "Mr. Moonlight, I'm Melissa Harshbarger. I'm so glad you could come on
  such short notice." Jack took the proffered hand, which could have been
  designed by Fabergé, in his, which in comparison could have been one
  tossed aside by Dr. Frankenstein.

  Jack looked around once more before replying, "No problem at all. I
  never miss a chance to play a little handball."

  Her laugh was spontaneous and unaffected. "Father had mentioned you
  were a bit of a smart-ass. I see he had you pegged."

  "I'm sorry. Did I know your Father?"

  "You testified in a case in which he was a defendant. Westberry v.
  Hatton. Apparently, it was your testimony that cost him quite a sum."

  Jack remembered the case. It was actually Westberry v. Hatton, et.al.
  One of the et als was Puma Pharmaceutical Sales, and they had sold Dr.
  Hatton a batch of Mexican knock-offs of a cancer drug that were of
  insufficient dosage. Jack had been hired by the plaintiff's lawyer to
  follow the paper trail back to Mexico, and prove the drugs were not part
  of a legitimate shipment. He had done so, and when he testified, the
  defense tried to discredit him by bringing up Jack's predilection for
  wagering on the horses. Not only did Jack fail to be discomfited, he
  knew for a fact that the lawyer questioning him used the same bookie.
  When Jack mentioned that fact, plus the name of the horse, Fairweather's
  Friend, on which they had both lost a bundle, the poor guy was
  visibly shaken. When Jack got dismissed, he asked audibly if the
  rattled attorney had heard any good tips lately. The courtroom burst
  into laughter, except for the defense table and the judge, who pounded
  his gavel and got the proceedings back on track. But it was over. Two
  Puma executives went to jail, and Dr. Hatton, though cleared of criminal
  liability, was found negligent, culpable and several other expensive
  words.

  Later, in the cafeteria, Judge Hammell thanked Jack for giving him a
  chance to bang the gavel. "But don't give me another in my courtroom,
  understand?"

  
  "So why recommend me?", Jack asked his prospective client. "I wasn't
  that funny."

  Again with the laugh. "Father said if I ever needed a good PI, to call
  you. He said you followed the trail that his lawyer's investigators
  could not. Had they done their job, there would have been a settlement
  reached out of court, less embarassment, and much less costly." A little
  glow left her face as she continued. "Father died two weeks ago. And now
  I find myself in need of your services. Come with me, please."

  Jack followed her into a den of sorts. He wasn't sure of all the names
  rich people used for rooms that the unwashed rabble had no need for. But
  there was a bar, and Jack was waved toward a pair of stools. He took
  one, and checked out the single-malt selection while Mrs. Harshbarger
  settled her sophisticated self into the other. She slid a letter in his
  direction, indicating that Jack should read it.

  "Sorry for your loss of your Father. I have lost a good friend. I would not
  be writing this had Dr. Hatton not saved my life. More to follow.

  Yours sincerely,

  Delano, although your father may have referred to me as
  Spoondog."

  Jack looked at the return address. Atlanta, Georgia. A P.O. box.
  He looked at the postmark. Hattiesburg, Ms. He looked at Mrs.
  Harshbarger.

  "Has more indeed followed, Mrs. Harshbarger ?

  "Please. Call me Melissa. I am divorcing, and will be taking my name
  back. And no, more has not followed."

  "Who, or what is Spoondog?"

  "A dead man, Mr. Moonlight. That much I know. Or thought I did."

  And she explained that her Father had known the struggling musician
  since childhood. That they had met once or twice over the years. Dr.
  Hatton had told his daughter little, except that in some way, he owed
  the man more than he could ever repay.

  "Once Father cried, Jack, when he was talking about Delano. He was drunk,
  which was a rare enough occurrence, and said that we all owed this man.
  He never explained what he meant, and he never mentioned him again."

  "And he's dead, or presumed so."

  She held up three fingers. "Three times he's died. The last time
  declared so by my Father. That was in 1955. I wrote to the Atlanta
  address. The account had been closed."

  "What do you want from me, Melissa?"

  "Find him, Jack. Money is not an issue. I want some answers, and I
  can afford to get them."

  Jack was intrigued, and also thirsty. He looked at the bottles lined up
  so beautifully, soldiers with their buttons polished, shoes shined,
  ready for inspection, willing to die for the cause, whatever it was. "
  Shall we seal the deal over a drink?"
  -----------------------------------

  
  Jack's audience was good at listening, but not much on feedback, so he
  put the recorder back in his shirt pocket, and gathered his thoughts.
  Spoondog was Euclidean's only celebrity, due to his one hit, "What's My
  Name?", an upbeat boogie recorded live somewhere in Georgia. Jack
  figured Spoon's fame might have cemented otherwise forgotten facts of
  his life in the minds of some of the older residents of the small town.

  
  The sign was so small Jack almost missed the turn. No 'Welcome to
  Euclidean', Home of the Least of the Delta Blues Singers. No 'Voted Best
  Barbecue south of Memphis' sign. Just 'euclidean 12 miles' on a post
  that pointed ambiguously toward either of two forks in the road.
  Furthermore, there was no gas station, nor a promise of one in either
  direction. Jack had passed the last chance for gas a good 45 minutes
  earlier, as the needle dropped under the quarter-full mark. Maybe a more
  economical, less fun car would have been the choice of a more
  economical, less immature private eye.
  ----------------------------------------------

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