Sins in Blue Read online

  Sins in Blue

  Brian Kaufman

  © Copyright Brian Kaufman 2020

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2020 by Brian Kaufman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-479-7

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for checking out one of our Literary Fiction novels.

  If you enjoy this book, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!

  The Five Wishes of Mr. Murray McBride by Joe Siple

  2018 Maxy Award “Book of the Year”

  “A sweet...tale of human connection...will feel familiar to fans of Hallmark movies.” –KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “An emotional story that will leave readers meditating on the life-saving magic of kindness.” –Indie Reader

  To my friend, Brian Gasser

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE: THE COPPER STILL

  CHAPTER TWO: THE TOWN PUMP

  CHAPTER THREE: THE SPINNING MULE

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE RAMSKELLER

  CHAPTER FIVE: GIUSEPPE’S

  CHAPTER SIX: THE RAMADA INN PUB

  CHAPTER SEVEN: THE RIBEYE GRILL

  CHAPTER EIGHT: LORENZO’S PIZZA

  CHAPTER NINE: THE SUGAR CANE TWELVE

  CHAPTER TEN: MERCANTILE GOODS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: WILLIE’S PLACE

  CHAPTER TWELVE: THE N and R BAR

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  GLOSSARY

  QUOTE ATTRIBUTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  BRW INFO

  CHAPTER ONE: THE COPPER STILL

  “You like ribs? /

  My daddy took a bat to mine.”

  ~Willie Johnson, Misery Train

  1969

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Kennedy Barnes chose a barstool away from the window, but halfway into his first beer, the evening sun angled his way, leaving him blind. The sun’s rays lit his pilsner glass, gold on gold. The rest of the bar was dark. He removed his John Lennon frames with the Coke-bottle lenses and rubbed his eyes with his palms, careful with the right eye, which was black and sore. Wonder what Mom would say if she saw me now? he thought. He reached into his jacket pocket for the tenth time to be sure the small tape reel was there. Everything else he owned sat in a duffel bag at the foot of the barstool. A few shirts, underwear, a toothbrush, and three hundred dollars rolled and wrapped in a rubber band. No record collection—that was in shards, scattered across his bedroom floor back home.

  A pang of despair hit him. His record collection had been everything. Then he remembered the tape in his pocket. Almost everything. I have two songs left, and they’re my ticket to the big time. He downed his beer in one long swallow and glanced around the room, looking for a clock. When the bartender passed by, crisp in his black-and-whites, Kennedy asked, “Do you have the time?”

  “Six o’clock. Another Black Label?”

  “Thanks, Mabel.”

  The bartender frowned. “First time I’ve heard that one . . . today.”

  Kennedy winced. “Sorry about that.” He slid his stool to the left while the bartender poured him a second beer. “I’ve got a bus to catch at six-thirty.”

  “Here you go. Should I tab you out?”

  “You probably should. I can’t miss that bus.”

  The bartender turned to his register and grabbed a ticket. “Where are you headed?”

  “Fort Collins, Colorado.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Kennedy wrapped his hand around the beer glass and pulled it closer. “Small town north of Denver.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business.” The bartender seemed suddenly attentive. The bar was nearly empty. Perhaps he wanted a tip.

  “What’s your line?”

  Kennedy tapped his glasses frame twice with an index finger. “I’m in the music business.”

  The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Cowboy music, is it?”

  Kennedy snorted in his beer. “Oh, no. Hell no.” He grabbed a bar napkin and wiped his face. “No, nothing like it.”

  “You a musician?”

  “Nope. I’m a manager.”

  “Really?” The bartender slid the ticket across the mahogany bar top and tilted his head, a thin-lipped smile on his face. “Do you represent anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “You heard of Chuck Berry?”

  “You represent Chuck Berry?”

  “No, of course not. But a lot of people think Chuck Berry invented rock and roll. Some say Ike Turner did. Either him or Arthur Crudup.”

  “Who is that?”

  “You probably don’t know him. He wrote That’s All Right and Rock Me Mama.”

  “So, you represent this Arthur guy?”

  “No, no.” Frustration crept into Kennedy’s voice. Talking to the bartender was like talking to his father. “The point is, Berry and Crudup are supposed to have invented rock and roll. But they didn’t. Not by a long shot.” He paused to take another sip of beer, more for dramatic effect than thirst. Instead of waiting for the punch line, the bartender turned and walked to the other end of the bar, where the only other patron nursed an empty rocks glass.

  The sun’s light angled again, coming to rest in Kennedy’s eyes. He fished a bill out of his duffel bag and set it on top the bar tab. Time to go. My future is waiting.

  “Hell of a shiner you got going there.” The bartender stood with a linen napkin in hand. He grabbed a wine glass from the overhead rack and began polishing. The glass looked clean, but the bartender stood in the shadows, so who could tell?

  “Yeah. I’ve been known to speak out of turn.”

  “How’s the other guy look?”

  He shook his head, thinking of his father. The thin taste of lager turned sour on his tongue. I could still go back home. Mom would let me in. By tomorrow, the locks would be changed. Too late for apologies, then.

  “So, what were you saying? Something about the invention of rock and roll?”

  Kennedy burped. “Excuse me.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “My client invented rock and roll in the thirties, during the Great Depression.”

  The bartender pursed his lips. “Wow. What’s his name?”

  Kennedy laughed. “Sorry, can’t divulge that. Not until I get him under contract.”
/>   “Ahhh,” he said as if he’d solved a great mystery. He grabbed the bar tab and the cash. “Change for you?”

  “No, keep it,” Kennedy said. He’d wanted change—needed the change—but the words just slipped out. “You’re not making much money today, are you?”

  The bartender chuckled. “This is a businessman’s bar. My regulars come in after seven. Speaking of the time, it’s ten after six, my friend. Not chasing you out, but you might want to get to the station early.”

  “I would.” Kennedy took a last glance around the bar. “Wish I had a little more time, though. I’m getting hungry. Do you do to-go orders?”

  “They serve steaks and chops here. Takes a while to cook.” He paused. “Let me poke my head in the kitchen and see if I can whip something up.” He passed by the other customer, whispered something, and headed for the back of the bar.

  Kennedy stepped off his stool, frowning. Had the bartender guessed he was underage? What kind of trouble would he be in if the police came? His father would never come bail him out. Drinking in a bar? Wasn’t he proving they were right about everything? “Christ on a crutch,” he muttered. “I do not need to go to jail.”

  The bartender came back carrying a packet wrapped in aluminum foil. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “It’s a sandwich. I was going to eat this on my break, but they can make me another.” Kennedy reached for the sandwich and stopped, wondering if the food was bait and the bartender would grab his wrist and restrain him. The bartender stuck the sandwich in his hand and walked away, shaking his head.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing, nothing. It’s just a sandwich.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “You take care, okay?”

  Kennedy nodded and turned to go.

  “Hey, kid?” The bartender pointed at the duffel bag. “You’re forgetting your bag.”

  Too embarrassed to say more, Kennedy rushed over, grabbed the bag, and headed for the door. Halfway to the bus station, he glanced down at the sandwich in his hand. Damn, I’m hungry! Tipping big had paid off. Or maybe the bartender just felt sorry for him.

  After all, not every adult was an asshole.

  • • • • •

  As the bus rolled across an empty stretch, the road winding like a ribbon around a desolate package of dirt and scrub, he leaned against the window and tried to sleep. The noise coming from the seat behind him made that impossible.

  A woman tried to calm the baby in her arms, cooing and shushing between kisses. A young boy in the seat next to her had no luck sleeping either. “Mom, he won’t shut up!”

  “He’s hot and he’s tired. He’ll calm down if you stay calm. I need you to settle down—”

  “I’m not the one who’s clabbering!”

  “Donny, please!”

  The baby wailed louder.

  Kennedy stood, pretending to stretch. He wanted a glimpse of the drama unfolding behind him. The mother’s stringy blond hair was pulled to the side and tied with a rubber band. Her thick shoulders cradled the screaming infant. The boy next to her couldn’t have been more than five or six. Bowl haircut and tears.

  A woman across the aisle scowled and shifted in her seat. That will help, lady. Kennedy shook his head just as the woman with the baby looked up, her eyes black with rings. She met his gaze and then looked down at her baby. No, no, I’m not frowning at you—I’m frowning at that old bat next to you. He waited a moment, hoping the woman would look up so he could smile. She ignored him, so he sat back down.

  “Mom—”

  “Donny! I can’t do this. You have to be quiet!”

  “But he’s getting on my nerds—”

  “Donny!” She hissed the boy’s name, and then the boy began to scream.

  “Mom! You’re hurting me! Ow!”

  Kennedy winced. Should I offer to help?

  “Excuse me,” the woman across the aisle said. Her voice was a nail on aluminum siding. “I must ask you to attend to your children—”

  “Are you blind?” the blond woman asked. “I’m trying to get two children to their grandparents while their father is halfway around the world fighting for your freedom, by the way, instead of helping me with our—” Her voice broke off in tears of rage.

  Kennedy turned, peering over the top of his seat. “Ma’am? Can I help?”

  “No!” she snapped.

  “Sorry. I just thought that your son”—he kept his voice low and pointed to the older of the two boys— “might come up here with me. I have an open seat, and I’ll watch him for you. You look like you could use a hand.”

  The woman stared, her mouth open.

  A man sitting directly behind the woman stood, a grimace on his face and a three-day stubble on his chin. “Hey, kid? Leave the lady alone. She’s got her hands full. She doesn’t need your guff.”

  “I was trying to—”

  “This is why we shouldn’t go by bus!” The woman on the other side of the aisle shoved her husband’s shoulder. He gazed straight ahead without answering.

  The man with the stubble pointed. “I told you to sit.”

  Kennedy turned and sat.

  “What’s going on back there?” the driver called.

  “We’re fine . . .now.” Stubble man to the rescue.

  Kennedy lay his head against the window, eyes closed and his hands clenched in his lap. I ought to beat that guy’s ass. He considered the other man’s size and decided he couldn’t afford to be kicked off the bus in the middle of nowhere for fighting.

  Behind him, the baby stopped fussing, but Donny continued to weep, a single low moan like the root note of a chord. The melancholy sound reminded Kennedy of his brother. Jackson was only six. He wouldn’t understand why Kennedy was gone. Family arguments always frightened the little guy. No more arguments, now that I’m out of there. The thought made him sad. His father would say what he wanted about Kennedy, and his mother would be silent—the same as agreeing. Jackson would grow up believing Kennedy was weak and worthless because that’s what they’d tell him.

  Kennedy sniffled. The bus smelled bad. Too many people packed close together. The dank odor of wet upholstery made him sick. Sometime after midnight, when the driver made a gas stop, he bought himself a fruit pie and a Coke, but the pie tasted stale and he only ate half.

  • • • • •

  1969

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Willie Johnson stacked the supply cart full of bath towels, hand towels, washcloths, and sheets. He slipped a few bottles of general-purpose soap into the corner, making sure it didn’t tip. The cart was a big canvas basket on wheels with no shelves. He had to watch for spills. One bottle with a loose cap had tipped over a year earlier, and Mrs. C had bitched about it for three months. Loaded with clean linens, he pushed the cart into the hall.

  Steering was a problem since the cart had no handles. He gripped the sides and bulled his way up the motel hallway, stopping every ten paces to catch his breath. First stop, Bella Dickerson, the crankiest maid in the motel.

  “Well, by God,” she said when he arrived. “Ah been waiting for half the morning for some clean sheets. You been off somewhere sleepin’?” Bella’s voice carried a raw kind of southern drawl, too full of cigarettes and cotton burr to sound like home.

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “There ain’t no rest for the wicked.”

  Bella snorted and grabbed a stack of bath towels from the cart.

  “Slow down, Bella. You took half the towels I got, and there’s other girls working that have waited just as long as you.”

  “Slow down yourself, old man. On second thought, do
n’t do that. The only way to be slower is to stop dead.” She brayed at her joke, throwing her head back.

  “I ain’t gonna argue with you,” Willie said, refilling Bella’s soap dispenser. “The weather has me down. Hotter than hell out there. Has me melting into my shoes.”

  “Fill that soap all the way to the top.”

  “I do every time.”

  “Only because I remind you every time.”

  Bella had been a maid at the motel for twenty years. She claimed she’d once been a dancer, but Willie didn’t believe it. The woman was stocky as a pug, and she’d have been rough on the eyes even if she’d kept all her teeth.

  “Thought you had a trainee today. Somebody to help your sorry old bones.”

  Willie shook his head. “Didn’t show.”

  “What’s wrong with young people these days?” Bella asked. She took one of Willie’s fresh washcloths, wiped her face, refolded the cloth, and put it back with the others. “I can’t imagine why they’re hiring young kids here. Kids nowadays don’t know nothing about work. Besides, there’s people who need jobs to feed their babies.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Bella groaned, one hand to her hip.

  “You all right, Miss Bella?”

  “No, I ain’t all right. And don’t you Miss Bella me.”

  Willie began loading Bella’s dirty laundry into the canvas cart, shoving the wet things into one corner. Bella was Willie’s least favorite maid. She complained about him to Mrs. C at least once a week. For that reason, he kept her stocked, and when possible, he took a moment to chat with her. Truth was, he hated the sight of her pasty white face. At lunch, the crew sat in the break room together, so he couldn’t help but see what everyone ate. Bella packed a lunch fit for three people. Onion and cheese sandwiches, peanut butter and mayonnaise. Half a round of Schloss, still in the rind. A bag of Corn Diggers and the inevitable piece of fruit, because I got to eat healthy, y’all. Most days, the sights and smells in the lunchroom left him unable to eat.