The Devil Take the Blues--Chapter 26

Chapter 26

The latest crave, the country′s rave is

jive, jive, jive,

This modern treat makes life complete:

jive, jive, jive!

All the jive is gone!

All the jive is gone!

I'm sorry, gate, but you got here late,

All the jive is gone!

-Andy Kirk

?

Beatrice

Night was falling, and the scent of wild mint and sugar cane hovered in the air. I made my way to the cabin in the woods. Frank had been especially cryptic about tonight, but satisfaction did bring the cat back, so I hopped to. Besides, some part of me was violently optimistic. The hex would take care of whoever was planning on killing her. That’s why I went to Remy. That was why I solicited his help. Surely…

I waded through the long grass, and burrs and stickers clung to the hem of my dress. The trick to getting them off was to lick your fingers, then gently pry them off. If only all thorns could be pulled out with nothing more than a wet touch.

When I entered the joint, it was already swinging, and people were cutting a rug on the floor. Music blared from a horn, and the odor of sweat was almost comforting. The joint appeared different to me now. Not because of any change in décor, for Frank had not altered one single detail. No, it was in the change of crowd. Now there was a mix of folks, black and white, even though most couples stuck to their own kind for dancing.

But there was still more than that. The knowledge of the change that music could bring. When I first stepped into this place, I had merely wanted to please my little sister. And my fate had led me to a man who I now wished desperately was there. Before, it had seemed hot, hopping, the coolest place to go to in this town, a place to get away from troubles. But after having been to real clubs, with real musicians, in real theaters…well, it made this place seem dingy, derelict. Decrepit. I saw it for what it really was: just a cabin out in the woods where people drank moonshine and rotgut and pretended that they were hot stuff. On a small enough stage, everyone is a major player.

In imagining those real theaters, I thought of Angelo’s and my hands intertwined on the bed, against white sheets of a hotel, our breaths mingling, his sweet scent clinging to me as fast as I had clung to him.

When I glanced the stage, something leaped unbidden in my chest.

I saw him. Angelo. His lips were lifted to a trumpet, long, elegant fingers teasing out notes; he was making it wail. The crowd was losing themselves in the rhythm that pulsed through the hardwood floor. It was so loud that it took over the beat of our hearts and the throb in our minds.

But no. I blinked. It wasn’t Angelo. Just my mind playing tricks on me.

I was glad Angelo left. Nothing could have happened between us, anyway. Even if this whole town found enough humanity to accept our union, I would never let it happen. I could not fall for someone. I refused to. I had seen what love had done to my grandmother, and I wanted no part of it. Love was insane and made you into a fool; I could not abide relinquishing control in such a manner.

Dozens of conversations mixing with the clink of glasses on tables, and laughter echoing from the rafters. It would all turn to screaming within the hour.

Frank was behind the bar, bobbing his sweaty forehead in time to the music. He lifted a cigarette to his mouth, the smoke piney, earthy.

“Got another?” I asked.

Frank extended a tea cigarette to me. I inhaled, looking at him. He seemed to be in hog heaven; surrounded by people, good, loud music, laughter. Was that all it took to please a devil?

“Frank,” I said. “Thank you for helping me. For…you know.”

Frank glanced up, and the smile left his face. “I just hope it makes a difference,” he murmured, almost too low for me to hear.

“It does. You saved Agnes. Not directly—” I said, when he opened his mouth to speak. “But I know you did. I know you want to do the right thing.”

He leaned on the bar with both arms. “I always want to do the right thing. However much you think the contrary. Now, enough sentiment. Tonight will be a night of…celebration.” If I didn’t know better, I would have thought Frank sounded almost…severe when he said that. He stuck his cigarette back in his mouth. “Now, I need some pretty lady to man the cash register. Who do I know could fill such a need?” An undercurrent laced his words. For the first time that Frank wanted to flirt with me, I wanted to flirt back. Perhaps we could fulfill each other’s needs.

I winked at him. “I do know a thing or two about cash handling.”

Frank gestured to the machine, as I walked behind the bar. He kissed me on top of the head. “I’ll be right back.”

Frank left; I no longer worried about every move he made. He came and went; disappeared and re-appeared. As people came up, I accepted their pennies.

“Don’t y’all have something stronger?” said one man, holding up his glass.

I shrugged, bewildered at the man. Stronger than moonshine?

I held up a bottle and shook it, the clear liquid sloshing around. “This is the only thing I got.”

“Damn laws.” He plunked down a few cents. “Give it to me anyway. Y’all used to have the good stuff.”

When I opened the cash register, a different sort of silver caught my attention. Stuffed in between the slot for bills was a harmonica. I pulled it out, now oblivious to the ringing of music around me. When I turned it over in my hands, I inhaled sharply. They were only four words, but they set my heart to galloping.

To Angelo, from Shirley.?

I threw the harmonica back in the register and slammed it shut. Opened it again. Pushed it shut.

Don’t ever go poking where you don’t want answers.

My mind flashed to the burning cross on Shirley’s lawn. Why would Frank have Angelo’s harmonica? And what was the connection between Shirley and Angelo?

I opened the cash register once more, slowly. I reached in and touched the harmonica, afraid it might burn me. Then slipped it into my pocket.

As silent as a shadow, Frank appeared before me.

“This is a good song,” he said. “Will you finally dance with me?”

The beat pounded the floor beneath my feet; the trumpets were too good, too talkative to do anything else. As soon as I grabbed Frank’s hand, he whisked me onto the dance floor, where other couples were shaking and grinding against each other.

I once read in a book that people during the Middle Ages danced for days on end during the time of the Black Death. As the fear mounted, the utter certainty of doom, they would take to the streets, dancing in a complete frenzy. They didn’t dance because they weren’t afraid; they danced because they were terrified. Sometimes, that’s all you can do. Dance until the terror goes to sleep in a corner.

I was still terrified over the fate of my sister. It was awful, having to wait, knowing her day was so close. The only thing I could do was dance. And pray to the Devil that the hex worked.

Except, I knew, nothing would ever be the same. Frank had changed me. Perhaps I could not protect Agnes forever, but I could damn well try. And where once I had been content to stay in this town, it now felt small, too tight. I had seen places larger than my imagination, and I itched for more.

And you love someone.

I brushed a tear away. Someone impossible. But I had not figured that love would crack my heart open, crack it wide and make it bigger.

I realized then that I loved Frank. He could be infuriating, wild, funny, arrogant, soft-spoken, and…tender. He respected me, and that was something that I had not thought possible in a marriage. For better or worse…we were bound together. If we had souls—which Frank was conspicuously silent about—then his and mine were intertwined. Not in a soul-mate sort of way.

There’s only one person for that, for me.

But in a way that we had crossed a line together. Many lines, many bridges. I had been a raft perfectly content to float one way down a river, until Frank opened up a new path that led to an ocean. Whatever became of me, I would always have Frank’s mark.

So it was to both of our surprise I kissed him on the cheek.

Suddenly, the doors crashed open.

“Everyone here, don’t move an inch!” A voice rose above the crowd. The band stopped playing.

“I said don’t move!”

Immediately, glass broke. Someone screamed. The crowd of people tried to rush the door, but it was blocked by two enormous men wearing long, white robes and pointy, white hoods wielding baseball bats.

“Hit anyone who moves. They could be trying to hide the booze.” Something about the voice was familiar. “You know who to target.”

The hard wood of the bats connected with flesh. More screams. The band were nowhere to be seen. The two men swung the bats at the bar. Bottles exploded.

He managed to catch someone in the shoulder, and my bones filled with ice. He turned and hit another in the stomach.

People shoved to get out. They threw open windows and tried to reach the back door. I was knocked to the floor. Someone stepped on my fingers and I cried out. A foot connected with my back, and the sharp pain burned away any panic that I might have felt. I simply knew I had to get up.

?“Men, if you wanted a drink, you should have asked,” said Frank.

One of the men arced the bat over his head to bash in Frank’s. Frank reached up and caught it in his hand and with the other, punched the man in the nose. The other men took a break from beating people senseless and rushed to Frank.

“Stop!” It took a moment to realize the scream came from me. The two men took a step toward Frank. I rushed in front of him. “Stop it!” My throat was ragged, and bees were in my blood.

“We have it on good information that this establishment is in violation of the federal law. We need to search it for illegal liquor.”

“Search it!” My fury rose, masking my terror beneath. “You wanna tell me why you need baseball bats to search?”

We glared at each other, loathing oozing through the smoky air.

“This ain’t concern you,” said the man, squeezing the bat in his hand.

“It sure as hell does. If it concerns my husband, it concerns me.” I took a step forward. “Get out.” The words escaped through clenched teeth.

Frank put a hand on my shoulder. “There is no need for all this ruckus. As you can see—Frank waved a hand toward the bar— “there is no contraband here. All we have is water.”

He grabbed a bottle, took a sip. When he discovered Frank was telling the truth, he threw the bottle against a wall, where it shattered. In one smooth motion, the man took a step, then shoved me aside. He grabbed Frank’s collar.

“Tell me where you’ve hidden it!”

“There is nothing to tell, because there is nothing here.” Frank didn’t blink. “And I would kindly ask you remove your hands, else I will remove them from your wrists.”

The nightmare-clown’s fists trembled, but he let go.

“Out,” he commanded the others.

I looked at Frank. Looked out the door.

Your sister will die by a man in a mask.

*

Frank

Empty. Quiet.

Unnatural, is what it was. No one was here. The joint should be alive, filled with people, dancing, and music. Now even the ghosts were bored. I washed a dish. I picked my teeth. Drank a whole bottle of whiskey in about three gulps.

I wasn’t bored.

But hottest inferno, I did not like the oppression of silence. There was absolutely no one to talk to. Where was the easy camaraderie, the beauty of smart conversation?

If Tim had wanted to crush the spirit of the people for the blues, then he very well succeeded. I just needed to beat him. I needed to win, just as much as he did. More than win. I needed people back. I needed lights, smoke, and music so loud that people made bad decisions and learned to live with them. I needed a full house.

I needed Angelo.

No, I thought. I saw how he looked at Beatrice, and whatever passed for a heart in me grew acidic and hot, burning my mouth that that same bile.

But if I were to have a full house again, if I were to attract others to the music, then perhaps a quick phone call would not be a large matter of importance.

The joint was mostly cleaned now, and I walked home. I could get another player, another musician. Who was Angelo? Some player from the backwoods who had made it, just like every other player lost to history. The people of this town could and would be satisfied with someone else. They would have to be, because I was not, under any circumstances, not going to pick up the telephone, with its ridiculous mouthpiece, and make a call that would cost a small fortune to make. Nothing on heaven or earth, not a string of demons with gnashing teeth and heartbreak-sharp nails, not even kittens with all their torturous eyes could induce me to call the one who could pull my love away from me.

So the very first thing that I did upon entering the house was to walk to the telephone and make a collect call for New York and ask the operator to put me through to Angelo Davis.

“Hello?” His voice sounded far away, and a record played in the background. To my dismay, it did not sound like he had company, female or otherwise, to distract him.

“Angelo.”

“Frank?”

I had my hand in my pocket and took it out. Put it back to grab at loose change that wasn’t there.

I skipped the formalities. “Listen, this costs me a small part of my soul to say, so pay attention. I need you.”

“I know now when to quit while I’m ahead, thanks,” said Angelo. “No offense, but I don’t want any more deals with you.”

Cursed musical hubris! He thought he could refuse me now that he was famous.

“Look, the people in this town are clamoring for you. They want you back. And quite honestly, you’re the only musician who they’ll slink out of their houses for.”

“Why’s that? Can’t book anyone else?”

I paused, the sounds of New York humming in the background. The sirens wailing, the pigeons flapping and cooing, the dogs barking. Somewhere in the far distance, someone was getting stabbed, and briefly I wished I could trade places with the fellow. It would hurt less than this did. “Look, I had a bit of trouble with the bar.”

“Trouble? What kind of ‘trouble?’”

“Oh…” I trailed off, stalling for time. “Just a small matter among family relations. You know how difficult in-laws can be.”

“Uh-hm.”

Damn, he had descended into monosyllabic gibberish.

“Family is one thing. Trouble is another,” he said.

“The authorities simply deemed the joint a key place of liquor inspection.”

“You got raided.”

I withheld the immensity of my sigh. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“No way. You want me to come down to that honkeyville and perform in a place that the police have already torn up? Where they nearly—”

My human perception did not allow me to see that he was nearly hanging up the phone, but I knew he was doing it just the same.

“Wait! Look, the place isn’t torn up. It’s clean now.”

“The cleanliness of the establishment, however swanky it is, is not my primary concern.”

?“And you’ll be protected. That is still my promise. I won’t let them touch you.” I tapped the phone against my forehead. Paused. He was still breathing on the other side, so he hadn’t hung up yet. I reached unconsciously into my pocket. Fumbled a bit because it was empty. “I’ll pay you double what I first did.”

“I get paid double what you first did, already.”

“You’ll get paid double of what you get now.”

But Angelo had never chased after money. I knew how to drench the deal with honey, but it would be ash in my mouth. I walked to a lovely stand and yanked open the drawer, carrying the phone with me. Empty.

“Plus…” I tried to clear some of that ash in my mouth. Pounded the phone against my forehead. “Your grandmother is missing.”

An infernally long pause. The worst sort of pause.

“You’re lying.”

“I never lie.” Just play with notions of time.

“How do you know she’s missing?”

“Because unlike some of us, I check on her from time to time.”

Angelo apparently was one who was insanely comfortable with silences. “Ok,” he said, finally. “I’ll come.”

I slammed the phone down, then whipped around to survey the house. My harmonica. Where was it? Beatrice and I kept the house in fairly good order. I searched between couch cushions, looked atop the ice box, under beds, and even in flower vases, just in case I had temporarily gone insane and placed it somewhere I would have found completely logical at the time.

But no.

Quickly, then, I went back to the joint. But after my thorough cleaning, it too was spotless. I opened the cash register with a clang. Nothing.

Tim.

At once, a rush of heat prickled my skin. In the chaos of the raid, I knew that snake had stolen my harmonica. I knew it was him, because only one so spiteful as Tim could thief a man’s axe. I needed that harmonica. It was my connection, my unity. It was my only tether that was keeping me solid and prevented me from unleashing the thousand horrors I had locked in my mind.

Go to Tim. Show him the fires of his own mind. Take it from his broken will.

No. I had to play the human game. I had to abide by their rules, and however much I might have wanted to turn myself into a tornado and whirl down the lane and ruin everything in sight, I could not.

I knew it was Tim, because he hated me. I was the only person in this town who he could not control or bamboozle. Even Beatrice was not completely immune to his charms. I knew it was Tim, because I wanted it to be him, I needed it to be him.

Still, I went to the police to report the theft of my harmonica, the human way. I flicked my pen across the papers and left. Then returned again the next day.

“Sorry,” drawled the dripping mass of humanity in front of me. “Haven’t been any incidents reported lately.”

I stood in front of Beau’s desk, a fan twirling lazily above us. It seemed to be held by no more than a string, and I delighted in the fantasy of it dismounting and slicing off the head of the creature in front of me. His secretary had stopped her clicking on the typewriter long enough to listen to us.

“But I am sure—” I explained to the corpulent sack of indigestion and fatuousness. Then, the full meaning of his words hit me. “No incidents? But I filed one just yesterday.”

He gave the same eyes a dead fish might. “None of our records show.”

“Sir,” I stated, quite calmly, belying my rising internal thermostat. “I spoke with you yesterday. My harmonica was stolen. By Tim Stevenson. He took it during an attack on my personal property.”

“I share my condolences for any personal troubles you may be having,” said the Sheriff, and I swear, I swear he sounded gleeful. “But the station is unable to affirm that the man you claim to have destroyed your property was even there that afternoon. Several witnesses state that he was on the other side of town at the time.”

“Several witnesses—” I choked.

Only then did his words pound me into the ground where I had made my home for thousands of years. I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. My heart raced along its path, as fury began to rise.

“But he was there.” My voice became strained. I was absolutely certain that the secretary had her gray-haired head pressed against the door, loving the discussion taking place, eager to share it with all her bridge-mates. Trolls, they were.

“‘Fraid not. Now, if that is all, you’ll have to move along now.”

“I’m not some cow to command!”

Keep it together.

I adjusted my tone to what I hoped would pass as sycophantic enough for him. I could hate myself later for it. “I know for a fact that Tim Stevenson stole my harmonica. I simply request that you bring him in so that this…misunderstanding can be resolved.”

“Only one misunderstandin’ things is you. Maude?” he called.

The door swung open quickly. “Yes, sir?”

“Please escort this gentleman down the stairs. Otherwise, I’ll do the honors, but straight to the basement.”

I lifted a finger to the Sheriff. “The thing you don’t know about this world is that justice always comes. I will have justice, and I will see things set to rights.”

Maude lifted a perfectly painted eyebrow.

Before I could say anything else that would make me into an ungentlemanly ruffian, I walked out the door. I would indeed eventually get my harmonica, but it would only be after Beau was good and dead.