Sins in Blue Read online

  “Well, Bella, I got to get moving. I’ll be by later with more linen.”

  “Too much later, and my rooms will be all done. I can’t milk the clock like you laundry boys do.”

  “Well, if I do milk the clock, I’ll save you a quart.”

  She waved him off with a frown and stepped back inside the room to clean. Willie gripped his cart and pushed ahead. Lenore sang at the end of the hall, and when he got close enough, he could recognize the tune. “Say,” he called. “That’s a nice old song.”

  Lenore had blocked the room door with her maid’s cart. When she came to the door, he could only see her from the neck up—she was the shortest person on the staff. Her round, smiling face peered over the lip of her cart. “Bringing in the sheets, bringing in the sheets,” she sang.

  “I thought the word was sheep.”

  Lenore laughed. “I know what the words are, Willie Johnson. But if I’m going to sing the Lord’s songs, I’m going to shape them to fit my day. That’s how He would want it.” The open side of her cart faced into the room, so Willie had to pass her linens over the top. She nudged the black frames of her eyeglasses and said, “See? I’m bringing in the sheets.” She gave him another laugh and started singing again.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. Lenore was dotty as hell, but she had a good heart. He liked her pink cheeks and her white hair. He liked to imagine her as an actress. She’d have been the perfect Mrs. Claus in a Christmas play. That, or the murderess who baked arsenic cookies and killed all of her neighbors.

  “I’m headed on now, Miss Lenore.”

  “I’ll see you later, Willie. Don’t work too hard.”

  “No chance of that, ma’am.”

  He pushed ahead until his breath gave out. Resting with his eyes closed, he listened to the music of the building. The fan at the end of the hall had a ping. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. His pulse throbbed in his temples, setting the rhythm. Ninety beats per minute. Slow blues, something in a minor key. Not a minor 7th. That’s too pretty for this place.

  Looking up, he spotted a young man at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets, wearing a Chevrolet trucker cap. Mustard stains dotted the belly of his white tee shirt. “You Willie?” he asked.

  Willie nodded. “You Rodney?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re late.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Willie stopped to breathe again. With the wet things, the cart was heavier than when he started. “They only give you one day’s training here. And you’re getting a half-day.”

  “I said, don’t worry about it. I’m a quick learner. And this ain’t rocket science, is it, old man?”

  Willie frowned. Another smart-ass. Young kids know everything these days. “Well, come on, Mr. Quick Learner, we got work to do.” The boy didn’t offer to help as Willie pushed past him. Instead, he followed at a distance, humming to himself. Willie waved him on. “When you have enough laundry to hand out to the girls, you send it up the dumbwaiter and load it into this cart.” He stopped to point back down the hall. “The linen station is back that way.”

  “See? That was easy, wasn’t it?”

  “Didn’t mention cleaning the linen yet. The shoemaker’s elves aren’t doing the laundry. You are.”

  “Little soap, little water. Is that still the recipe?”

  Willie nodded.

  “Then we’re cookin’.”

  Willie stopped in front of Jessica’s cart. She was the last of the upstairs maids to be serviced. Jessica was a good-looking girl just out of high school, and when Rodney saw her, his voice changed from a cocky drawl to a good imitation of sincerity. “Hi there! My name’s Rodney. I’ll be doing Willie’s job here in the future.”

  “Are you going somewhere, Willie?” She pushed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes and tilted her head.

  “Not going anywhere, Darlin’. Rodney is training.”

  Jessica smiled in apparent relief. “Good. You could use a hand, couldn’t you Willie?”

  “Nice to know there’s someone my age working here,” Rodney said, leaning closer. “At least there’s someone I can talk to.”

  Jessica stared at him for a moment, smiled, and turned away without saying anything else. Rodney watched her walk, nodding to himself. “That girl has a fine ass.”

  Willie circled to the other side of his cart and pushed his way back up the hall. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the linen station, and then I’ll show you the machines downstairs.”

  “Machines is machines.” The drawl had returned.

  “Yes, they are, which means they’re picky. You have to treat them just right to get them to work like you want.”

  When Willie paused again, puffing and leaning on the cart, Rodney reached in and took over, shoving the cart ahead. “Let me get this, old-timer.”

  “Old-timer, my ass,” Willie said.

  “How old are you, anyway? Probably don’t want to say, so let me ask you this—what was Abe Lincoln like?”

  Willie trudged after him. “He was better lookin’ than you, for one thing.”

  Rodney looked back over his shoulder, smirking. “You’re a funny old guy. I kind of like you.”

  Willie tried to keep up. The boy walked fast. “So, what do you do in your free time, Rodney?”

  “I’m a musician. Got me a band—a power trio, like Cream. This job’s just to tide me over. I’ll get a record contract someday, and I won’t look back. I already know what kind of car I’m gonna buy.”

  “You play music?”

  “A Thunderbird Landau. 429 cubic inches of V8. Big-ass car like that, I’ll take up two parking spaces wherever I go and fuck ’em, you know what I mean?”

  “What kind of music do you play?”

  “Rock and roll. We’re a power trio. Weren’t you listening?” He stopped in the middle of the hallway, letting go of the cart. “You probably don’t know what that is, right? A power trio? It’s a guitar, bass—”

  “And drum,” Willie said. “I know what it is.”

  A smile spread across Rodney’s face. “Say, that’s cool. You like music?”

  Willie nodded. “I played some, back in the day.”

  “Let me guess. Church music? Gospel?”

  “I played some of that,” Willie said. “Played some of everything, truth be told.”

  “You still play?”

  “I do.”

  “What kind of guitar you have? I have a Fender Mustang. I’m going to get a Flying V as soon as I get a few paychecks here, though. The Mustang is just a sled. Soon as I get a better guitar and amp, I’m gonna sound like Clapton.” He closed his eyes and leaned back, his hands moving as if he had an invisible guitar. He stopped and popped open one eye. “You play electric?”

  Willie stepped forward and began pushing the cart again. “Nope. Got an old flat top acoustic.”

  Rodney strolled alongside, his hands back in his pockets. “So, did you play in a band, or just solo?”

  “Both.”

  “You make any money at it?”

  “Yes, I sure did. Made my fortune. I just work here because I like motels.”

  Rodney stopped walking and Willie kept on. “You’re playing with me, right?”

  Willie shook his head.

  Rodney caught up at a trot. “Seriously, did you play a lot?”

  “For about ten years.’

  “Why’d you give it up?” Curiosity aroused, the boy’s drawl had disappeared again.

  “War came.”

 
“Civil War?”

  Willie scowled. “Let’s make a deal. You quit with the old jokes, and I won’t ask if you need your diaper changed, okay?”

  Rodney laughed. “Fair enough.” They’d reached the linen room. Willie opened the door with the key he kept hooked to his belt loop and reached in to flick on the light. The opening to the dumbwaiter was inside, to the right. The rear of the room and walls to the left featured floor-to-ceiling shelves, all empty. “When the motel has a lot of linens, we store extras on these shelves. Right now, money’s tight, so we’re delivering as soon as we wash and dry.” He pointed to the laundry chute behind the door. “We dump our dirty linen here and pick it up downstairs.”

  “There’s no chairs up here,” Rodney said.

  Willie shook his head. “No time for rest.” He glanced at his watch. “Lunch in a half hour. Did you bring something?”

  Rodney shook his head. “I was running late and left it on the counter. Too bad. I packed two sandwiches and some chips.”

  “I can share my lunch with you.”

  “Nah. There’s a restaurant across the way. Guess I’ll buy my lunch.” He walked to the dumbwaiter. “This goes to the laundry?”

  Willie nodded.

  “I could just about fit in here, couldn’t I? You ought to give me a ride—”

  “Quit foolin’ around. Mrs. C would have my hide if I broke that thing. Besides, I don’t want to haul towels and sheets up those stairs. It’s hard enough walking up and down with empty hands.”

  “Who the hell is Mrs. C?”

  “Your boss,” Willie said.

  “I thought her name was Simpson.”

  “It is.” Willie began feeding dirty linen into the chute. “Come on now. Help me with this. I’m off work tomorrow, and you’re going to have to do all of this on your own. I don’t want to hear anything about how I didn’t train you right.”

  “If her name is Simpson, why do you call her Mrs. C? What does the C stand for?”

  Willie stopped moving linen. He stared at his hands, wrapped around a dirty sheet. He tried not to sound angry, but he was tired and he didn’t like this kid. “You’re a smart musician fella. What starts with C? You’ll figure it out.”

  CHAPTER TWO: THE TOWN PUMP

  “Young people have forgotten to cry the blues.

  Now they talk and get lawyers and things.”

  ~Big Bill Broonzy

  1969

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  When the bus stopped in Fort Collins, Kennedy approached the ticket counter to price fares to Newport, Rhode Island. The ticket agent, a chubby woman old enough to be his aunt or his grandmother, consulted a fare chart and gave him the bad news.

  “That’s a lot.” Kennedy glanced down at his duffel bag. The festival in Newport wouldn’t happen for another four weeks. He needed to buy two tickets and have enough money left over to live for a month, plus pay for food on the road. “I’ll be buying two tickets. Is there a price break when you buy two?”

  The woman glanced over the rim of her glasses. “No,” she said, ending with a snort like he’d asked the stupidest question ever uttered. “Are you purchasing tickets now?”

  “No, I was just checking prices.”

  She hummed and tapped the fare card. “Prices subject to change.”

  “Maybe they’ll go down.”

  She snorted.

  He grabbed his duffel bag and wandered up the street, staring at the shop fronts with their sun-faded awnings and dusty window glass. The sun was bright, hot, and dry. When he reached the corner, he looked west and stopped. Mountains, speckled with white, rose up from the flat horizon as if they’d thrust straight up out of the ground. Had it snowed recently? The weather was hotter than hell. How could there still be snow on top the mountains?

  He stood still, his duffel bag in hand. If he’d seen a more beautiful sight, he couldn’t recall where. I should call Mom. The thought came from nowhere, and it made him grimace. For better or worse, he’d arrived in Fort Collins—1,400 miles from home. I’ll do what I have to do.

  Dizziness overtook him for a moment. The bag pulled at his wrist as if he were carrying bricks. He passed a café and a drugstore and then crossed the street to a small pub called The Town Pump, which sounded promising. He could pump a beer or two down his throat and figure out his next step.

  The Colorado sun glared like a spotlight. I need sunglasses. He stopped, his hand on the door. No. You’re not buying anything but the necessities. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Beer would taste good.

  The Town Pump seemed dark and familiar—just like home. Pittsburgh was perpetually fogged with iron and coke from the smelters. His father called the brown cloud the “haze of commerce.” Once inside the bar, Kennedy let the cool air swallow him. All the place needed was a Steelers game on the television.

  He took a seat at a table in the rear, leaning back against the bare brick wall. Neon signs over the bar advertised “Coors.” When a waitress approached, he pointed at the neon and said, “I’ve never heard of Coors. Is that a beer?”

  “Sure is.”

  Dark or not inside the bar, he could see the waitress well enough. Slender hips, blond hair cut in a bob, and a cute, lopsided sort of smile. “Well, I usually drink Schlitz, but I’ll try a Coors.”

  “Sounds good. You have an I.D.?”

  He struggled to keep his expression blank. “Really? I almost never get carded.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a college town. We card everybody.”

  “Damn,” he said. “It’s hardly worth it. I guess I’ll have a Coke.”

  She narrowed her gaze and smiled. “Coke it is, then.”

  By the time she returned with his drink, he sat in full pout—shoulders slumped, a downcast expression, and a darting gaze. “I brought you a root beer,” she said. “The Coke comes out of a gun, and it’s always flat.” She set an open bottle on the table. “Costs the same, but this tastes a whole lot better.”

  He looked up.

  “I drink root beer,” she added. “I like your glasses, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you like the Beatles?”

  “I like all kinds of music,” he said. “That’s actually my business. I’m a manager.”

  “Really? Any acts I’d recognize?”

  “No, not unless you like the blues.” He took a sip of his root beer. “Say, this is pretty good. Not real beer, of course, but it’s good for root. Root beer, I mean.”

  She laughed. “You’re funny.” She glanced around the bar. “We’re slow today, but I have to keep busy. The boss is behind the bar. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Can I get you anything else in the meantime?”

  “No,” he said. “Wait. Is there a pay phone nearby?”

  She pointed to the rear of the bar. “In the hall back there. Right next to the men’s room. Do you need any change?”

  “Yes. I’m going to be making a long-distance call.”

  She stood still for a moment, waiting, and then stepped back. “Well, I can get that change for you any time.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  Once she left, he checked his pocket. Two quarters. I should have given her a couple bills. He tapped the tabletop with his index finger. I’ll bet that’s why she waited around. Idiot.

  He grabbed a five-dollar bill from his bag. When she returned, he pushed the bill at her. “If you get me two dollars in quarters, the rest is yours,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She smiled, her lips raised on the right, tugging at a dimple. She looked adorable.

&n
bsp; “I’m calling back east. I’m booking an act for the Newport Folk Festival.”

  “Will two dollars get you enough quarters?”

  He considered the question. “You might be right. I could end up on hold. Better give me another dollar’s worth.”

  She nodded and headed for the bar.

  Two new customers—college guys, judging by their clothing—came through the front door, accompanied by a blinding burst of sunlight. The waitress shielded her eyes for a moment, and then squealed a hello, running forward to hug them each in turn. The door closed behind them, returning the bar to the shadows.

  Well, that’s not cool. Kennedy took another sip of his root beer.

  When she returned with his coins, he thanked her without further comment and went in search of the pay phone. He knew the number by heart, having called several times already. At the operator’s cue, he fed the machine with quarters and waited for the call to go through.

  “Mr. Wein’s office. How may I help you?”

  “Kennedy Barnes, calling for George Wein.”

  Silence. Then, “I’m sorry. Mr. Wein is out of the office. Would you like to leave a number?”

  “I’ve left my number before. Besides, I’m on the road. Any number I give you will expire before I get a call back.” He paused. “When will George be available?”

  The first time he’d called Wein, Kennedy had given his home number without thinking. He secretly feared that Wein had returned his call, only to speak to his father. Afterward, he resolved to keep calling until Wein came to the phone in person.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know when Mr. Wein will return. Can I take a message?”

  “I’ve left messages.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Okay. Tell me this—did Mr. Wein receive the tape I sent him?”

  “Tape?”

  “I sent a tape reel. A copy of a copy, but it was Phillips tape. Good quality—”