The Devil Take the Blues: Chapter 2

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I've had the blues all night

I'll be glad when the mornin' comes

I'm gonna have a talk with some gypsy

See what evil have I done

?

?

Train en route to Azoma

Frank

The music cut through the morning’s silence like a saw through wood, jagged, and gut-wrenching. Above the roar of the wheels against steel, someone played a harmonica, low, twangy, and full of fire. I twisted around in my seat, craning my neck towards the front of the train, where the music poured. They improvised, taking old songs that I had heard, but cutting and ripping them open into new ones, squeezing them for their juices, their inner sap, and distilling it all down to a heady new brew.

The dining car rocked; the music grew so loud and hot that sweat broke out on everyone’s forehead. One woman felt the first stirrings of desire she had ever had since she was a teenager, and a man looked ready to cry with shame because he had never made anything so beautiful in his life.

I have to have that music.

?

I strode to the front of the train, tracking down the source. Not easy on a rocking, bumpy ride. The first-class carriage was situated as far away from the smoke spewing, coal burning engine. I crossed the mail, then baggage cars, until I reached the first boxcar behind the locomotive. My eyes briefly glanced at the sign which read, “Part.,” short for “partition car,” which only meant to partition whites from blacks. Technically, I was the owner, but I had to bow to state laws, or else I risked the overarching rule of noninterference too much.

As soon as I pushed open the door, my eyes swept over the piles of luggage. No seats here, just makeshift ones out of trunks and suitcases which were piled nearly to the ceiling. The only light that illuminated the dust motes that danced to the rhythm of the song sliced through the tiny windows on either side of the carriage. Those same windows let in the same amount of ventilation—that is to say, none— yet a stream of ash flew into my eyes; I took notes from this environment for my next rendition of the Underworld.

Almost as soon as I opened the door, the music stopped. Dark brown faces looked up at my white one. It was my current disguise.

“Don’t stop,” I implored.

The young man who had wrenched the harmonica from his lips gave me a wary look, a deer locking eyes with a wolf. He had a wide, smooth forehead, with surprisingly plump cheeks which would have made him appear boyish if not for the close-cropped beard that accentuated the strength of his chin. His skin was a russet brown, suggesting Native ancestry, and he kept his fuzzy, charcoal hair nearly as close-cropped as his beard. He sat in the middle of two other men dressed in suits that were sooty from the road but still as slick as you please. Their coats had been carefully laid aside next to their fedoras and bowlers, a wise choice, given that wearing wool would have made the crescent stains under their arms even more prominent.?

Still, he held the harmonica to his lips to oblige. When the young man blew out the last note, I slowly clapped my hands thrice.

“Bravo,” I said. “May I see that?”

A few glances askance at his traveling companions, but he handed it over to me; the harmonica was so hot that it glowed a soft red, and I was in danger of getting blisters on my hands. It wasn’t any different than any other harmonica until I turned it over. An old friend’s name was carved on the side, and I smiled. Oh, this was too perfect. Now I had to have this instrument. This harmonica was different, and I doubt this savant knew what he kept in his pocket; it was quite unique, indeed. Such a delicious, ferocious longing nearly bowled my bowler hat off. Of all the musicians in all the world, and I run into him. This harmonica was as good as mine. She owed it to me, at the very least.

I need to visit her.

In my spare time, when I am not betrayed by dear friends who I helped—the ingrate—I escorted the souls of the recently-ceased-cerebral activity across The Threshold. I wasn’t the only one, mind you, but I was the best. And that—that—nearsighted ball of maternal sentimentality thought she’d pull a fast one on me and keep me confined for eternity. Ha.

Sorry if I’m speaking too rapidly. I was pickled in pure poteen for eighty years, and I haven’t had anyone to talk to.

With a reluctance that bordered on religious, I handed the harmonica back to Angelo. And set a plan into motion.

“I have an axe myself. What’s your name?”

“Angelo Davis,” he said. “Thank you kindly. May I ask who you are?”

Others had given me many names through the years. Nergal. Yamaraja. Nija. Shaitan. But I gave them a name of my own choosing.

“You can call me Frank Charbonneau.” I had a much longer name, but I would get to that hence.

“My grandmother is Cajun, too, Mr. Charbonneau,” said Angelo. “I can hear it in your voice.”

One of his companions, who had ebony skin with eyes like almonds, nudged him, but Angelo simply spread his hands as if to say, “Well, it’s the truth.”?

“Is she now?” A smile danced across my lips. “And your confidantes?”

“This here’s Sam and Eddie Walker.” Angelo gestured to either side of him.

Sam had slicked back his hair in dark waves, with a pomade that smelled strongly of sulfur, coconut oil, and beeswax. Madame C.J. knew her business. Eddie was the one who had nudged Angelo. He greeted me with a deep voice with the power of one who could make a trumpet holler above the din of a jazz joint. Or in this case, a screeching train.

“You all are musicians,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” said Angelo. “We’re traveling around the Chitlin Circuit to make our fame and fortune.”

Eddie cleared his throat. They did not trust this senseless white man who had come bursting into their space; that was fine. I wouldn’t trust me, either.

I glanced around. “Pretty shabby back here. Hot enough to roast a hog. Dark, too. Seems to me that it would get mighty lonely back here by yourselves.” Soot grabbed my throat and refused to let go. I hacked out a cough. “And as I love good conversation, I’d rather not be interrupted by cinders in my chest.” Unless they were from hemp, of course.

“What can we do?” said Angelo. “Can’t change the law.” He held up the harmonica and waggled it between his fingers. “Music helps.”

The harmonica beckoned me. Their music was what I searched for. I had roamed, not knowing what it was I had needed until I heard it. The Sound. The thing which would cure, or at the very least ease, my loneliness of existence, of wandering the vast plains of the universe. I played a few instruments myself—a mean fiddle, if I don’t mind myself bragging, which I do not. I knew good music when I heard it. I knew talent when I heard it.

“How about this,” I said. “It’s a long ride, and I could use some company. And you three look like you could use some vittles. You come up with me to my car. There’s plenty of space.”

More glances.

“Not wanting to be offending you, Mr. Charbonneau, but we don’t want any trouble.” Eddie folded his arms across his chest.

All of the men, including Angelo, remained seated. The train rocked and shook so hard that it was a wonder that their bones hadn’t rattled right out of their bodies.

I waved a hand. “None shall be. Come.”

I have to have that harmonica.

The one who had freed me from that impenetrable, suffocating, maddening bottle of golden malt had had music playing in the background, which the discerning, clever Reader will note means that she loved music, so I scoured the Earth for music to enchant her. Music that would emancipate us both. She freed me from captivity, and therefore, I loved her. Or it was simply fate that it was her. I suppose it could have been anyone; you will ask why her and what makes her different? Nothing. Nothing makes her different except she was the one to open the bottle, if incidentally. She, unknowingly, chose to be my companion and therefore, I had to win her heart. I could have just pulled a few heartstrings, but where’s the fun in that?

The only thing that stood between me and this creature of minorly tragic appearance (nose a bit broad, a gap in her teeth, hair curly like the toenails of the dead, but sometimes the best songs are set in a minor key) and a southern savior of this humble unearthly wanderer was her sister. Now, I could not help her poor, doomed sibling. Her fate was certain, my next guest of honor. Her sister was doomed from the get-go, so if I could offer my lovely liberator a carrot, she wouldn’t mind the stick so much. I’d escort Angie? Agatha? in due time. Fate did not necessarily mean the absence of free will. We’re all just passengers moving about the cabin of a train fixed to the track of time.

Slowly, Angelo rose to his feet, brushing off the dust of the road. After a moment, Sam did as well, followed by Eddie. Once they took up their jackets and hats, they followed me, past the other travelers, who whispered and pointed. Let them. The world would be a new place in one hundred years, anyway.

Once we were situated in my cabin, I pulled out a deck of cards. “Now then, anyone inclined toward Hold ‘Em?”

“What are the stakes?” asked Eddie. He wore a black, pinstriped suit with a collar so starched it would stand up on its own.

“How about starting pot is five dollars,” I said.

“Five dollars!”

“Jesus Christ, five dollars is a lot of money.”

“Don’t bring him into this. But I’ll make it sweet for you. If I lose, I’ll give you fellas a place to wail. I’ll pay you triple what you would normally make.” They don’t call me Old Scratch for nothing. “You see, I’m something of an afficionado myself. It just so happens that I am looking for the best new music. I’d like to get started with my own record company, but I need to generate a little attention first. How about it?”

Angelo peered at me, as though trying to place where he had seen me before. Only in nightmares and in between shadows.

“You a straight player?”

“I always follow the rules.” But my, what curved paths they take. Of the very few rules I follow (laws of gravity, thermodynamics, and spacetime be damned—sorry Newton, you celibate, eyeball-stabbing screwball), one of which was not to directly interfere. At this particular juncture, you may be wondering about the exact rules of my world, my abilities. The only hint I’ll give you is this: we have a strict policy of non-interference if we manifest in physical form. It’s against the rules for me to shove someone in front of a speeding car. However, I can kick a ball, which a child will chase after, darting into the middle of the road. Of course, her mother will run to push her out of the way and at the very last second…the car will swerve to hit a bystander.

In the best games, the only way to learn the rules is to play. So try to keep up.

Angelo nodded and set the harmonica on the table to the side. Sam did the honor of dealing. My first two cards were a 6 of clubs and a 6 of diamonds. Not bad but not great. Eddie’s nose wiggled slightly; so he had a garbage hand, then. Angelo revealed nothing.

Sam burned a card, then placed three cards face up: Ace of clubs, King of Diamonds, and a two of hearts.

Eddie made a sound of disgust in his throat. “Fold,” he mumbled. He glanced over at Angelo’s hand, and his pupils dilated. Whatever he had, it was much better than my lowly 6’s.

Angelo confirmed my suspicions when he bet the pot. He slapped down a $20 bill, a good sum of money. I kept my face impassive, but I had to do something. But sometimes doing something was doing nothing, so I called. The next card that Sam placed on the table was a 3 of spades.

God damn it. Worse and worse.

Angelo leaned back, and his shoulders relaxed. He placed two twenties on the table, and my back started itching.

“Don’t get too big for your britches, Angie,” murmured Sam.

Then, I knew what to do. My muscles were coiled like a cobra, but was I going to let this two-bit player beat me? (I’m sorry, Angelo, you’re only a two-bit poker player; you play my harmonica quite well.)

I pulled out my wallet and slapped two hundred-dollar bills on the table. “I’m all in.”

Angelo blinked. “Fine by me.”

“Now, now,” I tutted. “If you want to win the whole pot, you’re going to have to toss in that harmonica to cover the difference.” I smiled. “Only fair.”

Angelo’s throat apple quivered like William Tell’s. He placed the harmonica in the middle of the table, our faces distorted in the silver.

We were at, in poker patois, at a showdown. We would both lay down our cards, then Sam would turn over the final card. I was a gentleman, so I let Angelo go first. He lay down an Ace of Hearts and a King of Spades. Eddie grabbed his shoulder and said, “Hot damn, you got it. You got two pair of the best.”

Angelo raked his eyes over me, a sybarite and indefatigable rake, just as even then he raked the pile toward himself, just as Sam was wondering if he, as the dealer, should have taken a rake. Angelo gloated because a pair of Aces and a pair of Kings was usually good enough to beat whatever garbage hand the other player would have had.

Usually.

“Wait,” I said.

Here came the river; the river will always get you. Sam laid down the final card. A six of hearts. My two sixes smiled up at them, and they nearly ate their hats in (righteous) fury. I plucked up the harmonica from the table. My harmonica. If it truly kept him company, then perhaps it would do the same for me.

Damn it felt good to be a player.

“You cheated,” accused Sam.

“Nothing of the sort.”

??????????? Not the best form but far from cheating.

“Do not look so discouraged,” I said. “I’m more of a bargain-maker than a gambler. Tell you what. Since you fellas put up a good fight—”

They didn’t, but human egos were so preciously fragile.

“I’m willing to make a trade. I’ll keep the harmonica, but I still want you to play at the joint.” I loved a good music joint, with flowing liquor and tea-smoking cats. They would bring the music I needed to attract my companion. “Where were you going to stop?”

“Azoma.”

“Perfect.” I could still call on my old friend. “And I’ll still pay you triple, if everyone is as good as your man, Angelo, here.”

“We’re better,” said Sam.

That earned a laugh from me. “So how about it?”

Sam gave me the stony, infinite look of an angel atop a cathedral. “And have you fleece us yet again? Absolutely not.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“If you want to book us, we’ll need payment. In advance.”

“Of course, I would expect no less from professionals like yourselves.” I lifted out my wallet and gave them every last bill that was cradled in its leather depths. Even showed them its empty belly when I was done. “What does everyone play?”

Once bills were firmly in pockets, Sam held up his hand. “I play the trombone,” he said. “And Eddie wails on the trumpet, if his hand ain’t halfway up a skirt.”

“Just ‘cause you can’t get none don’t mean you gotta sling mud at the rest of us.” Eddie’s face was perfectly neutral as he picked up his cards and stored them for now.

“Wherever did you learn how to blow—”

The sliding door burst open. Two gentlemen clothed in the uniform of the railway marched up the aisle, disbelief and indignation oozing from their faces. They walked right up to our table and stared down at the men as if they were no more than cockroaches.

“Boys, you ain’t got no place being here,” said one. “Leave. Now.”

My traveling companions looked terrified.

“Didn’t you hear me? This is the whites-only car. You can’t be here.”

This was not the more literate and dignified north. This was the gateway to the south, built on years of blood and human bondage, suppressed dignity, and ignorance parading as highhanded religion. Humiliation vied with anger among the players.

Now, I love feeding off of good ole rage as much as the next creature of flesh, but I hate good conversation interrupted.

The players rose, and I reached out and stopped Angelo with my hand on his arm. The two officers of the train raised their eyebrows at my gesture. I addressed the buffoon in front of me, blocking my view of the endless azure sky behind him.

“I know you possess what passes for manners in your backwater, no-account home,” I said. I did not even lift my eyes. “But these gentlemen will stay at my behest and you will apologize for disturbing us.”

The fat, overgrown man, full of corpulence as he was of hate turned a quite delightful shade of red. Really, I thought he might explode, and that would be so grossly entertaining to watch.

But someone had to bring me my coffee.

“You can’t order us about, like the help. The conductor says that you have to move back.”

I laughed, a dark, joyous sound. Oh, how I loved humans and their presumptuousness, as if they knew anything about the next person, as if they didn’t know that I was the prince over darkness, the lord over right and wrong. I created right and wrong, the nitwit; I created the first balance of power, helped to tip the scales back into humanity’s favor! I relished their idiocy over who could sit where, whose skin color looked the best, when they would all look the same rotting six feet underground, the same shade of earthworm shit.

I stood up. “Dear gentlemen, I can and I already have,” I said. I reached into my jacket pocket for my wallet. I loved the way the morning sun had warmed the leather until it smelled like the earth and sweet hay. I took out a card, crisp and white and presented it to them. I was tempted to fling it at their faces; I was no stranger to anger, but a gentleman was as a gentleman did.

“Tell me, then, who am I?”

A trick question, of course. They would have no idea who I was, even by reading that lying little card. They scanned over my name, and when they read my title, their eyes grew hard as boulders.

“Speak up,” I said. “What does it say?”

Angelo and the others were silent, their eyes volleying back and forth like it was a fierce game of tennis. The other passengers were holding their breath.

“Owner and proprietor of Black Diamond Railways,” the man mumbled.

“Wonderful! You do know how to read,” I said. “Apologize to my friends, and we’ll forget this little mess ever happened.”

I never forgot.

“Sorry.” He couldn’t have spit with more venom.

I clapped the man on the shoulder. “Now, please leave us and only return when you have brought coffee. Black. And a tray of those delightful lemon cookies. And a menu for the rest of these gentlemen.”

The two men looked ready to throw a fist at the wall, and I imagined they would do just that. Imagine, coloreds sitting in our car, sitting with the owner!

My car, you mean.

They scurried off, and I re-took my seat. The players seemed to be afraid, wondering what exactly they had gotten themselves into.

?“I love a good party. Keeps me young,” I said. I couldn’t help but laugh at my own joke, until tears ran down my face.

Poor Angelo, Sam, and Eddie simply thought white folks were crazy.

“Ah, here’s our coffee now,” I said when the cart arrived. I could taste the rich bitterness already.

As the forgettable man poured our coffee, we entered into the deep South.