Bobby 'Smokehouse' Fulton, by BrevityThing
His suit seemed to fit better than it had done yesterday. There was none of that slight tightness under the armpits when it was buttoned. None of that annoying catching of the cloth on his wrist-watch by the hem of the left sleeve.
His shoes, too. He’d been walking for, what, hours? No pinching, no soreness, none of the low ache of the road that he was only really used to noticing these days when the shoes came off and the not-ache came instead. Even the inside of his thumb, which he had cut earlier, seemed on its way to being fully healed.
And he wasn’t dusty. This time of year, for this number of hours, you’d expect to be grey with the road. But his suit and shoes alike were the bluey black of a ripe fruit, not the fading nightshade of overwashed clothing.
Man, he felt alive.
His shirt collar felt both sharp and starched, yet cool and soft. His tie was tied just right and not too tight, the tip of the tie meeting his waistband perfectly.
He took his hat from his head and spun it round in his fingers. Again, that exquisite blend of crispness and yielding.
For a moment, he wished for a mirror, and for a second moment, he was almost sure one would appear.
He looked up and out, away from himself. He placed his hat back on his head, and touched it backwards into a jaunty place.
There it was. Just like he’d been told it would be. Up ahead on the road, where this road crossed another, wider highway. A low wide building, with two soldier-like gas pumps standing sentry out front. It was like a flattened barn, wooden and maybe creosoted, with a corrugated tin roof playing rusty games with the sun. There were just the two windows, again low and wide, with an oddly upright door between them.
The building squinted back at him in the twilight, seeing who he was and trying to figure what his business might be, out here on the road after working hours on the edge of town.
He dropped his shoulder, adjusted the weight that the case strap held, and walked forwards.
***
There were a couple of trucks parked to the left hand side of the building, both the flatbed kind farmers might use for shifting sacks of feed or for ferrying crop pickers out to the melon fields.
He felt the road surface change, the powder and shingle of the dirt track giving way to the smoothness and warmth of the highway blacktop. He checked round, and the roads being clear all the way out to the flatlands on one side and the town on the other, began to cross over towards the gas station pumps.
The car almost struck him in the middle of the road. The first he knew about it was the slightest brush of metal against fabric, of chrome against cotton, of side view mirror against his back. He turned fast, whipped round really, guitar case trailing behind him in a black arc. He spun to the left, but the car had been moving so fast it was already gone from behind him.
He continued his twirl on the road markings, coming round to see it, the car, all long and silver and black, pulling round already next to the flatbed trucks on the far side of the barn-like structure.
Shit. He never heard it. Never heard it coming, and it damn near almost swatted him out. Still couldn’t hear the damned thing, though it sat over there, hunched low on its tires, engine running. Like a sunbathing desert lizard of some kind, resting and watchful at the same time. A serpent trail lay behind it, where the car had kicked up parking lot dirt.
It was dark, long and big. Chrome swooped down it from front grille to rear wheels, like a sideways treble clef. Its windows were dark, either through dust or through fancy glasswork, it wasn’t easy to tell. Either way, it was an impressive vehicle, no question.
He considered marching over there and having out with the driver, but thought quickly against it. A car like that meant money, and money round here as often as not meant muscle. And muscle meant the kind of trouble he could ill afford. He needed these hands in playing condition. And besides, he liked his face just as it was.
And another, darker thought crossed his mind. He tried to shake it off, before it got a chance to grip in his mind. Just concentrate on the here and now, he told himself. Tomorrows come soon enough.
Noise shook him out of it. More vehicles, this time moving slow and easy to spot. A couple of cars up ahead, coming from the town, and he could make a few figures on the side of the road walking this way. He got off the road, and walked between the pumps.
A tube snaked under his foot. The kind of thing that would trigger a bell and an attendant, if you were automobile-weight, he supposed. One of the windows actually had some of those neon lights with writing, but either because of age, dust, of lack of motivation, they barely gave off enough red illumination to be read clearly. Gas. Eats. That was the promise. He looked back over to the parking lot area, where other automobiles were now arriving. The black car sat there, still, but breathing, a small curl of smoke from its tail. He went in through the door.
Sometimes you walk into a place that is so different on the inside to the outside that it takes a moment or two to register where you have come from, and where you are now, and be properly able to put those two facts together. This was one of those kinds of places.
He had been expecting: half-empty shelves, motor parts and basic foodstuffs, farming implements and tourist trinkets. Maybe a diner with stools at a bar. Maybe good coffee smell, maybe not. Not this. Not this at all.
A face smirked up from behind a coat-check counter. The kind of counter he’d only seen in the movies. The kind of place a Cagney or a Bogart might have checked their coat, except in this was in colour. And such colour. Deep brown woods, probably imported and definitely expensive. Thick red drapes and carpeting, low electric chandeliers and the musky smells of good tobacco and drinkable whiskey.
‘First time here, son?’ The man behind the counter was old, with neat white curls contrasting his skin. His eyes were slightly yellowed with nicotine or age. He was dressed in black tie, and wore it with the easy assurance of someone who not only dressed often this way, but preferred it to more ordinary clothes.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Not what you expected?’
‘Not quite.’ Not at all.
Then old man grinned. ‘Some hoodlums from the North set this up, years ago. They had some fool idea to create their own little piece of Vegas out here.’
‘What happened?’
‘Bad investment, I guess. Maybe when Prohibition passed over, not that we paid that much attention to that law anyways. Or they had a falling out with a silent partner. These things happen.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said, uncomfortable for a moment for the first time that day.
‘If I might ask, how did you come by about this place? We’re not exactly upfront with the front-of-house here.’
‘I was-.‘ He stopped, not sure how to phrase it. ‘Invited.’
‘Nothing like an invitation, no sir.’ He smiled, a kinda half-smile this time. He looked at the younger man stood in front of him, and resisted the urge to purse his lips or shake his head. Besides, it was too late now. What would be the point?
‘No, sir.’
‘Name’s Marcus. Happy to make your acquaintance, young man’. Marcus held out his hand. His fingernails were perfect.
He leaned his case against the sill of the coat-check hatch. There weren’t many coats hung up. He shook Marcus’s hand, and gave him his name.
‘Well then’. Marcus’ half-smile dropped, as he went into a more business-like manner. ‘Club rules. No disrespect to other patrons. No cuss words or other unseemliness. We attract some high-rollers and some distinguished folks. It’s just not the done thing here.’
‘I was near run down just now by a fancy car just outside.’
Marcus paused before continuing, seeming not to hear this last remark. ’ No glasses on the dance-floor, if you please, and one more rule.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Have a good time, all the time.’ Marcus grinned, and his teeth, too, were perfect.
‘Yes, sir!’
Marcus glanced over the hatch ledge. ‘You playing tonight, son?’
He nodded.
‘Mind if I take a look in your case?’
‘No problem at all’. He hoisted the case up onto the ledge, and clicked the clasps open in one smooth, practiced move.
There was movement behind him. A group came through the doorway, three men and two women, laughing and smiling, well-dressed all of them. They waved their hellos at Marcus as he waved them straight through the curtains that presumably led to the bar and to other areas.
‘You get a good crowd out here?’ At least not everybody in the place had their coat hung up.
‘It’s early yet, son. We fill up after dark, as you’ll see. Now what’s in that case?’
He lifted the lid as the door opened again.
One man, alone, dressed the way white city folks might do when they want to seem both in charge and not too in charge. Like a bank teller at a church picnic. He had something large under his arm, on a shoulder strap but the size of a bulky square briefcase.
This man whistled at the guitar case’s contents. ‘That’s a real beauty,’ he said.
No doubt about it. He’d bought it back in the days when he thought you just needed the best instrument to make the best music. And though that wasn’t the situation, no sir, just like wearing the right suit and the right hat, it helped him feel and look the part.
‘Evening, Marcus,’ the newcomer said, over the lid.
‘Evening, Mister Lomax, Sir. How are you tonight?’
‘I’m simply fine, and anticipating a fine evening’s music.’ He patted the guitar case the way a stranger might pat your dog, at once friendly and apprehensive. ‘From this young man?’
Marcus smiled his half–smile again. ‘I expect so, Mister Lomax. He’s here by special invitation.’
Lomax looked sweaty, and when he spoke, he spoke fast. ‘Well then, I’d best get this all set up,’ he said, indicating his case.
Maybe that case, and whatever was inside it, was heavier than it looked.
‘I’ll speak with you later, young man, if I may.’ Lomax didn’t wait for an answer, but scurried on through the curtains.
Marcus caught the next question he was going to ask before it was fully formed in his head.
‘Mister Lomax works for one of the radio stations hereabouts. He likes to record some of our music and play it on his radio show. He says the white folks like the music too, though they never come out hear to listen to it being played.’
‘The radio?’
‘Yes, son. This time tomorrow you might be famous.’ Marcus gave a deep laugh, a rumbling chuckle, at that last point. ‘You never know.’
‘They say all you need is talent and opportunity.’ Or opportunity, if talent was hard to come by naturally.
‘Do they, son? Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But then again, I’m no musician.’ Marcus took out from under the shelf a red ledger, heavy and old like a Manhattan hotel register. ‘I just run the house and make sure we all know the rules.’
Marcus took out a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. To the right, from behind the curtains, there was the sound of laughter, then a piano. The music was slow. One of Scott Joplin’s more mournful rags. It had a name. Solace.
‘As it’s your first time at our establishment, you’ll need to sign in. You can write, can’t you son?’
‘Yes I can.’ His handwriting was fine. So was his reading. And his math.
‘Didn’t mean no disrespect, son.’ Marcus spoke quickly. He was good at reading faces, had to be. ‘Just going to say that I could always write it for you, and you make your mark next to it if that was the case. I know how some of the young ones neglect their schooling if they’ve got the guitar or the piano on the mind. Or girls, for that matter.’
He took the pen from Marcus. It felt heavy, and looked both expensive and old. He unscrewed the lid. The nib was a fine gold, slanted for writing in italics. Beyond, the rag had gathered pace and intensity, evolving into a fast boogie stomp. The laughter increased.
Marcus spun the ledger around. ‘Write your real name, or your stage name, either or other is fine. Then you can go through. Ask for Jacob at the bar, and he’ll fix you up with some food and a drink before show-time.’
‘Thanks.’
He glanced down the list on the page, and recognised a few of the names. Famous names. A lot of the names. Cash. Perkins. Berry. And on the page before, names from before his youth. Johnson. House. Waters. Hooker. The boogie piece climaxed in a staccato jump of low bass thump and high-pitched speed.
‘Well then,’ said Marcus, prompting, ’best sign yourself in.’
His suit seemed to fit better than it had done yesterday. There was none of that slight tightness under the armpits when it was buttoned. None of that annoying catching of the cloth on his wrist-watch by the hem of the left sleeve.
His shoes, too. He’d been walking for, what, hours? No pinching, no soreness, none of the low ache of the road that he was only really used to noticing these days when the shoes came off and the not-ache came instead. Even the inside of his thumb, which he had cut earlier, seemed on its way to being fully healed.
And he wasn’t dusty. This time of year, for this number of hours, you’d expect to be grey with the road. But his suit and shoes alike were the bluey black of a ripe fruit, not the fading nightshade of overwashed clothing.
Man, he felt alive.
His shirt collar felt both sharp and starched, yet cool and soft. His tie was tied just right and not too tight, the tip of the tie meeting his waistband perfectly.
He took his hat from his head and spun it round in his fingers. Again, that exquisite blend of crispness and yielding.
For a moment, he wished for a mirror, and for a second moment, he was almost sure one would appear.
He looked up and out, away from himself. He placed his hat back on his head, and touched it backwards into a jaunty place.
There it was. Just like he’d been told it would be. Up ahead on the road, where this road crossed another, wider highway. A low wide building, with two soldier-like gas pumps standing sentry out front. It was like a flattened barn, wooden and maybe creosoted, with a corrugated tin roof playing rusty games with the sun. There were just the two windows, again low and wide, with an oddly upright door between them.
The building squinted back at him in the twilight, seeing who he was and trying to figure what his business might be, out here on the road after working hours on the edge of town.
He dropped his shoulder, adjusted the weight that the case strap held, and walked forwards.
There were a couple of trucks parked to the left hand side of the building, both the flatbed kind farmers might use for shifting sacks of feed or for ferrying crop pickers out to the melon fields.
He felt the road surface change, the powder and shingle of the dirt track giving way to the smoothness and warmth of the highway blacktop. He checked round, and the roads being clear all the way out to the flatlands on one side and the town on the other, began to cross over towards the gas station pumps.
The car almost struck him in the middle of the road. The first he knew about it was the slightest brush of metal against fabric, of chrome against cotton, of side view mirror against his back. He turned fast, whipped round really, guitar case trailing behind him in a black arc. He spun to the left, but the car had been moving so fast it was already gone from behind him.
He continued his twirl on the road markings, coming round to see it, the car, all long and silver and black, pulling round already next to the flatbed trucks on the far side of the barn-like structure.
Shit. He never heard it. Never heard it coming, and it damn near almost swatted him out. Still couldn’t hear the damned thing, though it sat over there, hunched low on its tires, engine running. Like a sunbathing desert lizard of some kind, resting and watchful at the same time. A serpent trail lay behind it, where the car had kicked up parking lot dirt.
It was dark, long and big. Chrome swooped down it from front grille to rear wheels, like a sideways treble clef. Its windows were dark, either through dust or through fancy glasswork, it wasn’t easy to tell. Either way, it was an impressive vehicle, no question.
He considered marching over there and having out with the driver, but thought quickly against it. A car like that meant money, and money round here as often as not meant muscle. And muscle meant the kind of trouble he could ill afford. He needed these hands in playing condition. And besides, he liked his face just as it was.
And another, darker thought crossed his mind. He tried to shake it off, before it got a chance to grip in his mind. Just concentrate on the here and now, he told himself. Tomorrows come soon enough.
Noise shook him out of it. More vehicles, this time moving slow and easy to spot. A couple of cars up ahead, coming from the town, and he could make a few figures on the side of the road walking this way. He got off the road, and walked between the pumps.
A tube snaked under his foot. The kind of thing that would trigger a bell and an attendant, if you were automobile-weight, he supposed. One of the windows actually had some of those neon lights with writing, but either because of age, dust, of lack of motivation, they barely gave off enough red illumination to be read clearly. Gas. Eats. That was the promise. He looked back over to the parking lot area, where other automobiles were now arriving. The black car sat there, still, but breathing, a small curl of smoke from its tail. He went in through the door.
***
Sometimes you walk into a place that is so different on the inside to the outside that it takes a moment or two to register where you have come from, and where you are now, and be properly able to put those two facts together. This was one of those kinds of places.
He had been expecting: half-empty shelves, motor parts and basic foodstuffs, farming implements and tourist trinkets. Maybe a diner with stools at a bar. Maybe good coffee smell, maybe not. Not this. Not this at all.
A face smirked up from behind a coat-check counter. The kind of counter he’d only seen in the movies. The kind of place a Cagney or a Bogart might have checked their coat, except in this was in colour. And such colour. Deep brown woods, probably imported and definitely expensive. Thick red drapes and carpeting, low electric chandeliers and the musky smells of good tobacco and drinkable whiskey.
‘First time here, son?’ The man behind the counter was old, with neat white curls contrasting his skin. His eyes were slightly yellowed with nicotine or age. He was dressed in black tie, and wore it with the easy assurance of someone who not only dressed often this way, but preferred it to more ordinary clothes.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Not what you expected?’
‘Not quite.’ Not at all.
Then old man grinned. ‘Some hoodlums from the North set this up, years ago. They had some fool idea to create their own little piece of Vegas out here.’
‘What happened?’
‘Bad investment, I guess. Maybe when Prohibition passed over, not that we paid that much attention to that law anyways. Or they had a falling out with a silent partner. These things happen.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said, uncomfortable for a moment for the first time that day.
‘If I might ask, how did you come by about this place? We’re not exactly upfront with the front-of-house here.’
‘I was-.‘ He stopped, not sure how to phrase it. ‘Invited.’
‘Nothing like an invitation, no sir.’ He smiled, a kinda half-smile this time. He looked at the younger man stood in front of him, and resisted the urge to purse his lips or shake his head. Besides, it was too late now. What would be the point?
‘No, sir.’
‘Name’s Marcus. Happy to make your acquaintance, young man’. Marcus held out his hand. His fingernails were perfect.
He leaned his case against the sill of the coat-check hatch. There weren’t many coats hung up. He shook Marcus’s hand, and gave him his name.
‘Well then’. Marcus’ half-smile dropped, as he went into a more business-like manner. ‘Club rules. No disrespect to other patrons. No cuss words or other unseemliness. We attract some high-rollers and some distinguished folks. It’s just not the done thing here.’
‘I was near run down just now by a fancy car just outside.’
Marcus paused before continuing, seeming not to hear this last remark. ’ No glasses on the dance-floor, if you please, and one more rule.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Have a good time, all the time.’ Marcus grinned, and his teeth, too, were perfect.
‘Yes, sir!’
Marcus glanced over the hatch ledge. ‘You playing tonight, son?’
He nodded.
‘Mind if I take a look in your case?’
‘No problem at all’. He hoisted the case up onto the ledge, and clicked the clasps open in one smooth, practiced move.
There was movement behind him. A group came through the doorway, three men and two women, laughing and smiling, well-dressed all of them. They waved their hellos at Marcus as he waved them straight through the curtains that presumably led to the bar and to other areas.
‘You get a good crowd out here?’ At least not everybody in the place had their coat hung up.
‘It’s early yet, son. We fill up after dark, as you’ll see. Now what’s in that case?’
He lifted the lid as the door opened again.
One man, alone, dressed the way white city folks might do when they want to seem both in charge and not too in charge. Like a bank teller at a church picnic. He had something large under his arm, on a shoulder strap but the size of a bulky square briefcase.
This man whistled at the guitar case’s contents. ‘That’s a real beauty,’ he said.
No doubt about it. He’d bought it back in the days when he thought you just needed the best instrument to make the best music. And though that wasn’t the situation, no sir, just like wearing the right suit and the right hat, it helped him feel and look the part.
‘Evening, Marcus,’ the newcomer said, over the lid.
‘Evening, Mister Lomax, Sir. How are you tonight?’
‘I’m simply fine, and anticipating a fine evening’s music.’ He patted the guitar case the way a stranger might pat your dog, at once friendly and apprehensive. ‘From this young man?’
Marcus smiled his half–smile again. ‘I expect so, Mister Lomax. He’s here by special invitation.’
Lomax looked sweaty, and when he spoke, he spoke fast. ‘Well then, I’d best get this all set up,’ he said, indicating his case.
Maybe that case, and whatever was inside it, was heavier than it looked.
‘I’ll speak with you later, young man, if I may.’ Lomax didn’t wait for an answer, but scurried on through the curtains.
Marcus caught the next question he was going to ask before it was fully formed in his head.
‘Mister Lomax works for one of the radio stations hereabouts. He likes to record some of our music and play it on his radio show. He says the white folks like the music too, though they never come out hear to listen to it being played.’
‘The radio?’
‘Yes, son. This time tomorrow you might be famous.’ Marcus gave a deep laugh, a rumbling chuckle, at that last point. ‘You never know.’
‘They say all you need is talent and opportunity.’ Or opportunity, if talent was hard to come by naturally.
‘Do they, son? Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But then again, I’m no musician.’ Marcus took out from under the shelf a red ledger, heavy and old like a Manhattan hotel register. ‘I just run the house and make sure we all know the rules.’
Marcus took out a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. To the right, from behind the curtains, there was the sound of laughter, then a piano. The music was slow. One of Scott Joplin’s more mournful rags. It had a name. Solace.
‘As it’s your first time at our establishment, you’ll need to sign in. You can write, can’t you son?’
‘Yes I can.’ His handwriting was fine. So was his reading. And his math.
‘Didn’t mean no disrespect, son.’ Marcus spoke quickly. He was good at reading faces, had to be. ‘Just going to say that I could always write it for you, and you make your mark next to it if that was the case. I know how some of the young ones neglect their schooling if they’ve got the guitar or the piano on the mind. Or girls, for that matter.’
He took the pen from Marcus. It felt heavy, and looked both expensive and old. He unscrewed the lid. The nib was a fine gold, slanted for writing in italics. Beyond, the rag had gathered pace and intensity, evolving into a fast boogie stomp. The laughter increased.
Marcus spun the ledger around. ‘Write your real name, or your stage name, either or other is fine. Then you can go through. Ask for Jacob at the bar, and he’ll fix you up with some food and a drink before show-time.’
‘Thanks.’
He glanced down the list on the page, and recognised a few of the names. Famous names. A lot of the names. Cash. Perkins. Berry. And on the page before, names from before his youth. Johnson. House. Waters. Hooker. The boogie piece climaxed in a staccato jump of low bass thump and high-pitched speed.
‘Well then,’ said Marcus, prompting, ’best sign yourself in.’
And for the second time since midnight, he signed his name near a crossroads. Except this time in black, and this time in ink.