West Seattle Blues (21 page)

“Is that the guy they burned out at Joshua Tree after he died?” Dustin asked and I smiled inside. He’d been listening after all, as I’d given him some music history lessons.

“Yep.”

“Country heartbreak, but good.”

“You want heartbreak? Take a listen to this.” I found the box of cassettes, rummaging around and glancing at the handwritten labels until I found the right one. “There’s nothing else like this. It’s like the guy channeled a whole lifetime of pain into this.”

It was, too: Charlie Rich doing “Feel Like Going Home.” Not the schmaltzy version that was released, but a demo; just voice and piano, with all the ache and weariness contained in three minutes. A friend in Nashville had made me a copy. There was more soul in that piece than in the entire Motown and Stax catalogs. It was the song I wanted at my funeral.

“Man,” he said when it was done. “Don’t you have anything happy?”

From there it grew, surviving beyond Ian’s bedtime and story. I played Big Star, Emmitt Rhodes, Fairport Convention, U-Men, some stuff Elvis had recorded for Sun, and dug my way through the Seventies and Eighties with John Martyn, Rich Kids, Dwight Twilley and all sorts of obscure and strange records that meant something special to me.

By the time we finished, I felt exhilarated. It was exactly what I needed to dispel the mood that was weighing me down. We’d done this a few times before Ian was born, simply spent a night on music. It reminded me how much I loved it all and why. Music - music that mattered, that touched me. It filled me up and made me spark. I cleared the empty beer bottles off the coffee table and looked at the stack of album sleeves and cassettes sitting on the floor. They could wait until the morning.

And for the last three hours I hadn’t given Nick a thought. Now it flooded back in, like the gates had been opened. If he was waging a war of nerves, he was winning. I didn’t know how much longer I could take all of this.

I woke feeling a little fuzzy. It had been a while since I’d drunk three beers in one night. But I felt happy as I cleaned up and filed the records away. I was going to make pancakes with lemon and icing sugar, drink coffee, read the
New York Times
and the
Seattle Times
and just be lazy.

It was clean and clear outside, the third of April. I was mixing up the batter when the phone rang.

“Hey, it’s Carson.”

“Hi,” I said warily. From Carson, it was only a small jump to Nick in my thoughts. “How’s things?”

“Okay, I guess. Look, I’m wondering if I can ask you a favor.”

“If I can.” I wasn’t going to concede too much, knowing Carson had already turned my life upside down in a bad way.

He hesitated for a moment. “Do you think you could swing by this afternoon and listen to what I’m going to do on Tuesday? I mean, you know about this stuff.”

“Sure.” That seemed innocent enough. And I was genuinely curious about the way he’d sound on his own. “What time?”

“I don’t know? One?”

I glanced at the clock. Just after nine. Plenty of time. Dustin could take Ian to the park.

“Just make sure you have the coffee brewing.”

“Thanks,” he said, and I could hear the relief in his voice. It didn’t seem like that big a deal to me. This guy had started playing music when I was still in diapers. Even if he hadn’t done a gig in years, he’d still know what worked.

I pulled up behind Carson’s El Camino and noticed his grandson’s old beater just down the block. It looked as if I wasn’t going to be only member of the audience today. The screen door was closed but the front door was open and Carson beckoned me in.

He was sitting on an upright chair, the Martin guitar on the floor beside him. Jim, his grandson, was next to him, cradling a big Gibson J200 acoustic that had seen kinder days.

When he saw me looking, he said, “This belonged to my father. I found it when I was cleaning out his place after he died. It’s the only thing of his I wanted to keep.” He blushed, the color rising quickly on his pale face. It might have been scratched up but it was still a beautiful instrument. I saw what he meant about the blue inlay and fret markers; they were distinctive and striking. I started to wonder how this guitar had come into James Clark’s possession. It would have cost plenty to buy. “My grandpa wants me to do a couple songs with him,” Jim continued.

“One of mine and one of his. The boy can write,” Carson explained.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, stole one of the Marlboros from the pack on the table, sat back and listened. He played for twenty minutes, giving an unforced, natural, emotional performance. He dug down into himself and his memories to put the words across. Stripped down, the old songs sounded so much better, as if they really meant something. They probably had when he wrote them, before others layered on the strings and took out the heart. When he finished, I was ready to applaud but he held up a hand.

“I wrote this a few days ago about my son,” he told me hesitantly. “I’m not sure I should do it on Tuesday.”

He began to play a series of descending minor chords, and Jim put a few spare notes on top, holding each one until it had faded away. Then Carson began to sing.

It’s a quiet night in Washington
,

Just the tires in the rain
.

And there’s nothing on the sidewalk

Beyond a rust-red stain
.

I’d hoped I could have known him
,

But the moments flittered by

To a graveyard and a monument

And a life passed in a sigh
.

It moved into the chorus, Jim’s guitar doubling up and his voice adding a cracked, high tenor harmony. If you understood the underlying story, it was a beautiful, moving piece. It was country at its core, but also something more. Something that didn’t need a name.

I let the words and music wash over me and simply carry me away. My eyes were closed by now, and all I knew was what I heard.

Three minutes later, he let the melody drift away into silence and looked toward me.

“You’d better do that,” I urged him. “It’s wonderful.” It was, too. He needed to record it and play it exactly like that. Stripped to the core and heartfelt, with nothing to distract from the raw emotion.

A smile creased his face.

“You like it?”

“If the rest of your new stuff’s as good as that you’re going to need a record deal.”

“See what you think of this one.” He nodded at Jim, and the young man began to strum and play. He was good enough on his instrument, with a clean, neat touch, and his voice was appealing. But the song never seemed to come alive, even when Carson joined in. It would be something to put in the middle of the set, nowhere near as good as the other things he’d already played.

“How was it?” Carson asked.

“Good,” I said, hoping I sounded convincing. I grabbed another of his smokes and lit up. “Have you heard anything more from Nick?”

“Nope,” he said, resting the guitar on top of its old hard shell case. “Why, have you?”

“Someone smashed a window at our house yesterday.”

“Shit.” He took hold of his cane and pushed himself upright, limping heavily as he walked around the room.

“I’m sure it was him. What I don’t understand is why.”

“Maybe he thinks the two guys you talked to revealed something.”

I shook my head. “No, he must be able to figure out that I’d have told the police everything.”

“I honestly don’t know, then,” he said. “I wish I did. Maybe he just thinks you’re vulnerable.”

I’d been called plenty of things in my time, but never that. It shook me. I’d never considered myself weak. I’d never been weak. I’d made sure of that. But I was a mom now, with more to think of than myself. Vulnerable, maybe that was what I’d become. Maybe Nick sensed the new weakness. He must have, and the bastard was playing me like a damn violin. I didn’t know what he’d gain from it, though, except a little pleasure. But perhaps that was the kind of thing that he got off on. Mess with a woman’s head and terrify her? There were plenty of guys who thought that was fun. I wasn’t going to play along with that game though. He scared me right through to my heart, but I was never going to let him see it.
Ever
.

I glanced at young Jim. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly. “All I’ve heard is you guys talking about him.”

“He hasn’t come looking for you?”

“No.”

“That’s something,” I said. I took another look at the blue guitar. “What do you make of this, Carson? It looks pretty expensive.”

“Got to be,” the older man agreed with a nod. “Gibsons don’t come cheap and that’s had some work to put all that blue in. Someone has some skill. The only place I’ve seen instruments like that is down in Nashville. Some of the rich guys would have their guitars customized.”

“Do you think you son could afford something like this?”

“Nope.” He shook his head for emphasis. “He must have stolen it somewhere.”

“Better keep it safe,” I said to Jim.

“I told you guys about what I found in the old case, right?” the young man asked, and I remembered him mentioning it. Carson nodded, but Jim wanted to tell the story, anyway. “It was pretty beat-up and ratty, so I thought I’d throw it away. But there was a thousand dollars in hundreds in a slit in the lining. I figured that and the guitar was my inheritance.”

I raised my eyebrows and stared at Carson.

“The same amount Nick wants from you.”

“Could be a coincidence.” Carson shrugged, but his eyes weren’t so certain.

“Maybe. Who knows?” I finished the cigarette and made my way to the door. “You guys are going to sound great on Tuesday. When Carson looked doubtful, I added, “I mean it, you are.”

“Hold on,” James said. “I’ll walk up with you.” We climbed the stairs up to the road. “Do you really think it was okay?” he asked. “I know I’m not as good as he is.”

“He’s been doing it most of his life, remember.”

“Yeah.” He brushed the hair away from his face. “I mean, I know it’s a great break and all…”

“He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t believe in you,” I assured him.

“I guess.”

“Just get yourself onstage at the Tractor and enjoy it.”

“I will. Yeah.”

“I meant it. That really is a great guitar.”

“Plays like a dream.” It was now safely packed into a brand-new hard-shell case, the metal of the edges still shiny. “I had to clean it up after I brought it home.”

“Your father hadn’t looked after it properly?”

“There was crud up around the frets. Didn’t look like he’d changed the strings in years. I don’t know how he managed to play a gig with it, because I had to lower the action. Anyway, it’s good now. Tuesday will be the first time I’ve played it in public.”

“You’ll be fine, both of you.”

“Thanks.” He ambled away, round-shouldered, then drove off, the engine roar sounding loud on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I turned the Tempo around and headed back to Fauntleroy.

The Cat’s Eye was quiet, as the lunch crowd had long since moved on. A few stragglers from the beach hung around. Carla was cleaning up, ready to close in an hour. She worked harder here than when she’d own the espresso cart outside Tower Records. But she seemed happy enough, face breaking into a grin when she saw me.

“Where’s that boy of yours?”

“Home with his pop, I hope.”

She began grinding beans for my latte. I didn’t even need to ask for it. Carla had known me for a long time.

“Who was that old guy you met here the other day?”

“Carson Mack?”

“What?”

“That’s his name,” I explained as she put the milk jug into the steam, keeping an eye on the thermometer. “He’s a country singer. I’ve just been over there. He’s playing the Tractor on Tuesday.”

I could almost see her eyes glaze over when I mentioned country. She was a rock gal through and through.

“What’s Dustin up to these days?”

I usually came in here with just Ian, but Carla had met Dustin once, at the reception. Married in front of a judge at City Hall, then a cab up to the Two Bells. We’d packed the place, although Dustin’s family - his parents and sisters - had stood uncomfortably apart, not sure what to make of it all.

“He might be changing jobs. Going to work at Elliott Bay.”

“Yeah?” She handed over the cup. I knew better than to try and pay. “Is that good?”

“I think so. He needs a change. And it means he’d be home every night.”

“You’ve got yourself some new wheels, too? Things must be looking up.” She’d seen me pull into the lot.

“I didn’t have much choice.” I didn’t want to give her the full explanation.

“The Horizon died?”

“Pretty much.” It was time to change the subject. “Business good?”

“Not bad. I’m making money at least, and it’ll pick up in the summer.” That was her prime time, with people streaming down to visit Lincoln Park and the beach. “Got my eye on a house.”

“Where?”

“Just up the street. Then I’d be able to walk to work.”

“Handy for Thriftway, too.” I needed to stop there on the way home and pick up a loaf of the good bread they sold.

We talked a while longer. The other customers left, and Carla hung up the ‘Closed’ sign. I finished my coffee, went around the counter and washed my mug before I left.

The grocery store was almost empty, just a scattering of cars in the lot. I zipped in, bought the bread and I was back out in a minute.

Just in time to see him.

I caught a glimpse of something from the corner of my eye, a figure moving quickly, and turned my head. It was Nick, no doubt about it: the dark, greasy and long sallow face. Then he was gone, vanishing behind a wall.

I stood rooted to the spot, pushed and jostled by a shopper as he made his way out of the store behind me. Slowly I walked back to the car, scared of what I’d find. But there was nothing. Everything was as I’d left it, the doors safely locked and the engine started as soon as I turned the key. Maybe he didn’t need to do anything now, only make sure I saw him from time to time to keep me on edge and afraid. I held up a hand and saw it was shaking. Whatever he was trying to do, it was working. Carson had been right. I was vulnerable.