The Revelations of Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 3) (28 page)

Pauly’s bass notes floated up to that
old corrugated tin roof, shaking it like a giant subwoofer. Katy was still
putting her hair up when I sang about meeting a pretty girl in that little country
town. She didn’t smile when she stepped up to her mic.

But when I heard her little fiddle
playing the harmonica fills through the PA I knew it was all good in the hood.
This train picked up speed. People weren’t on their feet. But they were at the edge
of their chairs.

Before anybody—and I meant Katy or
Pauly, really—could object, I segued right into Bo Diddley’s “Who Do You Love?”
Seemed like an appropriate tune for tonight. Made me think of the snake-skin in
my front pocket. Folks drank and smoked and laughed more freely. And those who
wanted to dance, danced.

Standing there with Katy on one side
and Pauly on the other showed me exactly what Simoneaux had meant about a table
with two legs. Once we locked into that groove, white hot positive energy flew
through me, hit the crowd and flew back magnified a hundred times. At the last
verse, Pauly and Katy signaled each other to wrap. I shook my head to keep it
going. I knew better than to stop now. Katy put her fiddle on her hip,
objecting the only way she could. But she never had to play a frat house. She
didn’t know what to do with a crowd like this.

Using the same chords and same rhythm,
I went right into “Ring of Fire” like the two songs had been separated at
birth, which they may as well have been. Cash and Diddley were born
three-hundred miles and four years apart. The people on the floor didn’t act
like they noticed or minded.

When Simoneaux came in with Jamie and
heard our music, his head whipped right around. He smiled and raised a finger
as he shuffled over to the bar, which took a while because he stopped to talk
and shake hands. I figured he’d go get his guitar too. While we worked through
an instrumental break he poured himself a drink and made his way up to the
stage. The rest of the folks who’d been sitting down stood and shuffled toward
the floor in anticipation of Simoneaux’s turn in the spotlight.

While Katy took a verse, I watched
Simoneaux settle into the stool behind the small drum kit and tug the neon
cross’s pull-string. A blue glow fell onto us like a gentle snow. The moment he
picked up the sticks the room changed, like a rabbit about to run. And when he
joined us mid-verse, I felt it too. Never figured him for a drummer.

He worked that simple little kit like
he didn’t have a weak hand, pounding out that Bo Diddley beat on the snare
while that high-hat sizzled like it was frying in hot oil. I couldn’t believe
my ears, and wanted to turn around and watch. His left hand kept tapping out
these weird sequences of threes, fives and sevens that made me forget the rest
of “Ring of Fire” completely. I tried to think of Johnny’s next line, but for
some reason “Junco Partner” kept jumping into my head. And just like that my
lips were talking about serving eighty-five years in Angola. I could hear
Simoneaux laughing behind me.

We blew through seven or eight more
songs without even stopping to drink the drinks Calvin poured for us after
“That’s How I Got To Memphis.” We’d pause after each number and I’d ask Pauly
what we knew and before I realized, Simoneaux shouted out a song. I’d tell him
I didn’t know it, and he’d say ‘the hell you don’t,’ and start playing. And
sure enough I didn’t stumble over lyrics after that.

After a short break we tried
“Statesboro Blues” and I avoided eye contact with Duane the whole time.
Simoneaux didn’t like how I played it, and yelled, “Where’s your bottleneck?”
as I sang the last verse.

I didn’t want to tell him that it
embarrassed me to attempt any slide at all with Duane in the room, so I said,
“Didn’t feel it. I have to work on it a little. That’s all.”

“Pres, we got hellhounds all through
these hills tonight. Heard ’em myself on our way back from the cemetery. You
have to get some of them slide blues working or they’re going to eat us right
up. Go on, get your bottleneck.”

So I dug it out of my case and juiced
my Twin a little. Last thing I wanted was for Simoneaux and Duane to see how
nervous I was. I said, “Man, I don’t know if I got it.”

“Ain’t nothing to it. You make that
guitar moan and wail like the wind through the trees. That’s all them old blues
guys did. Make it sound like pain. Make the devil think he already been there
and got everything worth taking.” Simoneaux threw down his bourbon then chased
it with a pint glass of ice cold water. The glass left a wet ring on his pants
where he’d set it on his knee. He wiped the glass across his brow and said,
“Try that ‘Little Red Rooster.’”

I stepped up to the mic, but I didn’t
feel it anymore. Without stepping away, I turned around and said to Simoneaux,
“You think this ain’t working?”

He shrugged. “Don’t feel like it is.”

“Okay. Let’s try this then.” I looked
at Pauly and said, “Give me some of that John Paul Jones.”

He smiled, his fingers walked that
slow, descending progression right down into “Dazed And Confused.”

I expected to see a smile from
Simoneaux. Instead he rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, man. This is what you
wanted.” I turned that slide loose on the strings. Letting it squeal like my
guitar talked to them hellhounds directly.

The crowd responded with indifference,
but I didn’t care. I figured if part of this supernatural stuff had anything at
all to do with me, I’d play what I wanted to play. During the instrumental
breaks I stepped over to Pauly to get some sort of confirmation that he was
okay. His playing sounded strong, almost like he’d never put the bass away. But
his eyes looked for something in me that I couldn’t give him. I think he wanted
me to tell him everything would to be okay.

And I couldn’t.

When I sang, Katy sidled right on up
next to me. I could smell her skin, her hair. As much as I wanted to look at
her and smile I couldn’t, not after what she’d been through. She was tougher
than that, and I knew it. But when all was said and done, I couldn’t help but
feel bookended by the two people in this world I’d let down the most.

So I put it into my singing. I let the
guitar hang in front of me, the hot buzz of deaf pickups vibrating in the
speakers. And I put my heart into my words. Blood came out of me, instead of
saliva and breath. Because I wanted Danicka Prochazka here with me tonight. I
wanted to take all this back to Lula, Mississippi, and figure this shit out
once and for all. I screamed into the mic.

“Been down on my knees, woman, since I
met you, you made me believe all your lies were true…”

Something in Simoneaux’s playing
changed. It felt like he encouraged me with his backbeat.

So I let myself get caught up in the
moment. “I’m out of your bed, got you out of my head, and now you’re coming for
my brother instead!”

The people on the floor slowed, shaken
from their groove by my change in tactics. But if Simoneaux didn’t like the way
things were going, he never once let on. I figured I learned a thing or two in
my time with Katy and her family looking after me. First thing— shit only works
when you believe it will work.

“God damn, woman, I miss those eyes,
even if I can’t be sure they weren’t lies.”

Second thing was, for shit to work,
you had to kill a little bit of yourself. You had to say goodbye to a little
bit of your soul every time you dipped a toe on the other side. And that’s why
Katy stayed away from all that. She said every time you went over there, part
of you stayed. I realized right then and there that she disowned the magic
because she wanted to leave me with something.

I knew now I had to return the favor.

I cradled my Tele’s neck with my left
hand, trying to find the notes with the slide before I played them. And I tried
to think of words. I tried to think of a way to bring this to an end. Tried to
consider what Pauly needed, and what Katy needed.

I sang, “It didn’t work out, girl, but
you couldn’t let it be, and I got what you want right here, but you’ll have to
fight your way through me!”

Screams from my amp flooded the room,
my strings humming like six serpents in parallel—six copperheads with the taste
of their last meal on their tongues. And I stopped thinking about what I should
play and the notes poured out of me, making me wonder if it wasn’t a side
effect of my own little trip to the crossroads the other day. My head fell from
side to side with the tempo, which had picked up a few beats per minute since
the intro. Katy and Pauly were hanging right in there with me and Simoneaux
even if I couldn’t hear them for all the noise I made. I wanted to smile, but I
knew better. So I danced instead. I let my shoulders fall and enjoyed the music
we were making for once. I didn’t worry about critics and new songs and how we
sounded. I made music for the sake of making music and I felt fine.

In the back of the room Duane pulled
on his cigarette and smiled. He had his long legs crossed casually in front of
him.

I turned around and held up a finger.
“One more time through and we’re done,” I said as I fell back into the chords.

Simoneaux blew through a flurry of
beats and fluttered taps, a drum solo that he drew out to cheers and howls. I
smiled because I couldn’t do anything else. It made me feel silly to think I’d
outshine Simoneaux in his own joint. And I happily deferred.

The folks on the floor ate it up
clapping and toasting Simoneaux with whatever they were drinking. Andre pointed
at us.

I couldn’t hear the question, exactly,
but I knew what he asked. “Yeah, man,” I said into the mic, “I’ll have
another.”

Pauly waved off another drink.

I wiped my forehead on my sleeve.

Somebody shouted a request from the
floor. “Rollin’ and Tumblin’.”

An old man said, “Goin’ Down South.”

I turned around to look at Simoneaux,
who wasn’t smiling.

“What’s wrong, man?” I said, still
trying to catch my breath.

He set he sticks down and cupped a
hand to his ear.

By now the people on the floor
simmered and listened too.

“What’s wrong?” I said, twisting my
Tele’s volume knob all the way down.

Katy put her finger to her lips.

Pauly went over to the window as a
blast of trumpets shook the walls. As my ears rang I thought for sure it was
thunder. People drifted from their tables and the dance floor to the other
windows. Somebody pulled the blinds up. Simoneaux left the stage, and went over
to the front door. He snapped the deadbolt.

A woman wailed, pulling at her hair
with exaggerated anguish. At once the people closest to the windows scrambled
past the bar toward the storeroom and back door. The rest followed without
pushing each other, although a table got knocked over, spilling drinks to the
floor. Somebody left a purse. A man left a jacket and porkpie hat.

Deliberate horns and a steady bass
drum made their way up the road, slowly, like a city street sweeper. My mind
struggled to find a melody, but the notes weren’t coming fast enough. Simoneaux
backed over to the bar and plopped himself down on a stool, facing the door.
“Ain’t nothing good coming in this second line.”

I stepped over to the window and
pulled the heavy blinds. Outside, a man wearing a top hat and tails and bright
white shoes shuffled up the street. He wore white gloves on his hands, and
carried a miniature wooden casket in the crook of his left arm. A white paint
that reflected oddly in the glow of streetlights covered his face. Draped over
his shoulder he wore a sash embroidered in white flowers and ribbons and gold
beads that sparkled like baby stars bunched together in the night sky. For
every step forward he took one to the right and one to the left. He didn’t
smile or even blink. He led the way with his right elbow cocked high,
arhythmically jerking back and forth, up and down, in time with only every
fourth or fifth beat.

“What is it?” Pauly asked.

“Don’t know. Hang back with Rachael
and Chloey.”

Katy stood next to me, watching, her
hand clasping mine.

From out of the darkness I saw the
band—a few loose rows of men in white shirts with back ties and cylindrical
black caps with short visors like the marching band wore back in high school.
The trees on both sides of the street shook like a storm was blowing in.

Simoneaux said, “Ain’t no beans ever burned
because nobody stared at ’em long enough.”

“What’s that mean?” I said.

“Means get out of that window.”

But I couldn’t.
Wouldn’t
.

The musicians wore sunglasses and
white gloves and walked in the same side-to-side shuffle as the parade’s Grand
Marshal. They blew so hard I could almost see the notes spilling forth into the
night. Rows of brass—trumpets, trombones, and tubas—blew young green leaves
from their limbs. The falling debris cast twirling shadows as they drifted past
the orange sodium vapor lights.

The drum corps followed on their
heels, tapping out a slow rhythm that crawled into my head like a king snake.
The windows rattled with each thunderous downbeat. Ice clinked in glasses. The
ride cymbal on Simoneaux’s kit hissed with the residual energy of the
percussion. And the leaves that had fallen onto the ground blew ahead of the
band on each beat, like a sonic broom pushed them all down the street.