Red House Blues Page 9

  That night, her second night in Seattle, Suzan did not imagine all she needed to do was show up at Jax’s and the members of Scalplock would tell her everything she wanted to know about Sean’s last years. It couldn’t be that easy but she and Marla had sketched out a plan over their coffee. Marla would do most of the talking, would pretend she’d had gone out with Sean a few times, that she had been in California and had just heard about his death blah-blah-blah. She was to say she wanted to talk to them about him because she was really upset.

  She would introduce “Ann” as a friend of hers. Marla argued that was the way they should play it because she’d often hung out at Jax’s when she was in town so the band members might have seen her there, giving her credibility Suzan lacked. It was a good plan considering the short notice.

  As it turned out it was a waste of effort.

  When they arrived at Jax’s at eight-thirty, things were well underway, the wall-to-wall crowd already deeply involved in beer and smokes

  Scalplock straggled in at eight forty-five, way late to set up for their nine o’clock set. Jax’s manager was in a screaming fit as the band leisurely proceeded to plug equipment into various devices. The band consisted of three guys in the standard uniform of black jeans, tees and tanks in varying stages of decay. The leader stood out from the other two. He was at least six feet tall, massive shoulders exposed by a ragged black shirt with “Grid” spelled out across the chest. His skull was shaved and tattooed, except for one clump of black hair that hung down his back. That accounts for the band’s name, thought Suzan. She and Marla wedged themselves by the bar. It was obvious they wouldn’t have a chance of talking to anybody before the set was over.

  “Is that your work?” Suzan nodded toward the Scalplock leader, beginning to wonder if everyone in Seattle was tattooed.

  “No. But I recognize the work. It’s a shop up on Broadway,” said Marla. “A very upscale shop. That job cost him plenty.”

  Suzan had seen plenty of tattoos in her hometown of Oak Harbor. It was a Navy town, and sailors have been getting tattooed for thousands of years. She had never seen anything like the head art scalp-man sported. It was like a helmet of barbed wire. She was willing to bet that if he had parents they were still in shock. Her own dad would have killed her if she had shown up with so much as a little butterfly on her shoulder.

  She was still musing about tattoos when the band launched into their first number without any time-wasting tune up. After the first moment or two she realized that being in tune wasn’t necessary to what they were doing. Scalp guy was the drummer. The other two were on keyboards and guitar. The guitar player was bellowing something into a microphone. Suzan couldn’t make out many words but from what she could pick up it didn’t sound like anything Sean could have written. Or at least the Sean she knew.

  Talking over the volume wasn’t an option. Marla ordered a beer for herself and a Coke for Suzan. Suzan was worried if she ordered a beer too she would be carded. She was always carded, a problem when she knew nobody there but Marla. There was no way of knowing whether the bartender was part of whatever happened to Sean. She couldn’t trust anyone. Not even Marla, she realized, but it was too late to worry that she had screwed things up there also.

  The set lasted forty-five minutes but seemed longer and by the time the band finally unplugged her head was bursting. Marla hurriedly ordered another beer, and beer in hand, edged her way through to the drum riser where the drummer was detaching himself from his instrument. Suzan followed in her wake, knowing this was finally her big chance at some answers.

  Chapter 11

  The Red House, Fir Street - October 1960

  Morning was stillborn on the orange sill above the cracked sink. Clay leaned over the pile of dirty dishes and tried to make out the backyard through the rain sheeting off the grimy glass. It was at least an hour before dawn and the backyard was like the inside of a closet. He didn’t see the dog. Probably drowned during the night. Maybe if he was lucky he got out through the fence. Seemed like every stray Donna adopted managed to come to a bad end. He wondered sometimes why she thought she was doing any animal a favor. Better just to leave them out in the street to take their chances.

  The coffee started to burp to a perk on the hot plate. Donna would be down pretty soon. It was her turn to open the cafe this week. She’d be bitchy about it. She hated the early crowd. They never wanted to talk, just shovel in the eggs and slurp enough caffeine to prime them for their own miserable mornings. Clay hated it when she worked mornings. As it was, he hardly ever saw her, what with him playing nights at Trader Vic’s. It was better when she used to work nights at the Fifth Avenue Theater. They would come home around the same time, sleep late and then go to brunch up at the Egg Basket Cafe. Then Hazel asks her if she wants a job there. Money talks and the tips are good at the cafe. Always Donna’s argument when he grumbled about the rotating shifts.

  And she had a point. It wasn’t easy coming up with rent money every month when Premier Management sent one of their goons around to collect. Even with the other three bedrooms rented it was a stretch. Especially since Walt and Palmer weren’t all that dependable about kicking in their share.

  Ferlin, though, was okay where the rent was concerned. Always paid his on time, and always in cash. Clay could never figure out where he found the bucks. The man lived like a bum. He didn’t have a steady job that anyone knew. Just odd jobs around the neighborhood. Clay was pretty ambiguous about Ferlin. The guy was clearly not playing with a full deck but he could fix anything mechanical ever invented. Without him, Clay knew, he’d never have gotten the hi-fi stereo kit put together. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to know too much about housemates as long as the money was there.

  This morning Clay was going to surprise Donna with breakfast. Have a little time together. She’d been sleeping so hard when he got in he hadn’t wanted to wake her up to tell her his news. Or maybe he was afraid of how she’d take it at two a.m.

  He went to the fridge and pulled out the egg carton. He’d scramble her a few just the way she liked. While he realized it was kind of silly since she’d be serving scrambled eggs till noon up at the corner. She’ll know it’s the thought that counts, he thought. She’ll see he was trying to make it up to her for not waking her last night when he came in. Or suspect he was trying to butter her up. It was a little of both, he admitted to himself.

  “Hi. What are you doing up this early,” she asked as she came into the kitchen through the dining room door.

  “Making us some breakfast, baby. Couldn’t sleep anyway. Nasty weather coming in. The wind was banging the house around a while ago. Did you hear it?”

  The window now looked like a porthole on the Titanic.

  “Oh, no! The dog is out!” she said, “Poor thing is going to be soaked.” Donna padded to the backdoor in her fuzzy pink slippers. “Why didn’t you bring him in, Clay? How would you like to be out in this rain?”

  “I looked for him, baby. Couldn’t find him. Maybe he got out. That fence wouldn’t hold anything that wanted out.”

  She wrapped her terry robe tighter around her generous figure and unlocked the back door. A whoosh of wind brought with it a whale spray of chilly drizzle.

  “Here, puppy,” she called. “Come on, boy. Come get breakfast.” Any dog worthy the name would have come to that invitation. No dog showed up. Donna gave him a few more calls, then closed the door.

  “He’s gone. I just knew I should have brought him in last night,” she said, her eyes welling ever so slightly. Ah hell, he thought. Now she’s going to cry.

  “Maybe he’ll come back when it stops raining. Probably found himself a dry hidey-hole. Come sit down and have some coffee. You want toast? Eggs will be ready in a second.”

  “He was so cute, Clay. I really wanted a puppy. We need a dog around here, you know. He could have even been a guard dog,” said Donna.

  As if any of us has anything worth guarding, thought Clay, but he swallowed the thought.

>   “Yeah, he was pretty cute. As I say, maybe he’s just running around and he’ll be back. Hey, could be he’s in Ferlin’s room. I’ll check with him later.”

  Ferlin occupied a tiny room off the kitchen. Room for a twin bed and a dresser. Not even a chair. A two by two window overlooking the trash cans. Even though he’d lived in the house longer than any of them, and over the years he had the pick of any of the bedrooms, Ferlin insisted on staying in what used to be a walk-in pantry. To Clay that spoke volumes about Ferlin.

  “I didn’t think of that,” said Donna. “That’s probably it. He really took to Ferlin.”

  “Sure. That’s most likely where he is,” said Clay, not at all convinced, but it was good enough to forestall the water works. He dished up the eggs on a cobalt blue plate and buttered a slice of toast. So it wouldn’t be so obvious that he had something on his mind, he made up a plate of the same for himself and poured coffee into a pair of hand-thrown mugs Walt gave them the previous Christmas.

  Donna sat down at the kitchen table and spooned some sugar into her cup. “What’s going on, Clay?” she said.

  “Nothing, baby. Just wanted to do something nice for you. I never see you anymore.”

  “Come on, I know you. Is there something you’re afraid to tell me about? Because if there is something you’d better just get it over with and tell me.”

  Here it is. This is the time. Have to do it now. She’s cradling her coffee, waiting for me to speak. Outside the rain was slashing at the glass like a wild cat. Inside, Clay nervously tapped his fork on the edge of his plate.

  “There is something, baby,” he opened. “Nothing bad but I know it’s going to change some things for us. You know how I’ve always wanted to study classical piano and composition at the U.? Well, a while back I applied for some scholarships and loans. I didn’t want you to get all excited about it until I knew whether I had a chance. Donna, here’s the thing - I got the money. I’m going to school.”

  Oh please, let her be happy about it. Please don’t let her spoil it for me. I’ve waited so long, playing sappy piano in cocktail lounges until my brain pours out my ears.

  “I don’t know what to say. Wow, I mean, I had no idea. That was the last thing I expected.”

  “It’s a surprise, I know. The money will be tight, but I can still work some nights and go to classes during the day.”

  “No, Clay. That’s not what I meant by did you have something to tell me. I meant, what is the kid doing on the couch?”

  “What are you talking about, Donna?”

  “There’s a Negro kid sleeping in the living room. I noticed him when I came downstairs. You didn’t bring someone home from Vic’s with you?”

  “No, I didn’t. Walt and Palmer probably had some people over. The stereo was on when I came home but I didn’t look in.” He got up and poured them a coffee warm-up. “Or could be somebody Ferlin knows. Nobody was here when you went to bed?”

  “No. But I heard the stereo later. I wish they wouldn’t have these parties when I have to work in the morning. Maybe you could talk to them about saving it for the weekends.”

  “Yeah, I will. Funny I didn’t notice the kid when I came downstairs this morning. Probably half asleep myself. A Negro kid, you say? How young a kid?”

  “How do I know? High school age maybe.”

  “That’s just terrific. All we need is some kid’s parents sending the cops around. I’m going to kill those two, I swear. Guess I better go wake the kid up and send him home before he’s reported missing. I’m beginning to feel like a den mother. Why couldn’t we have normal housemates?”

  “At least finish your breakfast, Clay. The boy probably needs his sleep,” she said, loading her fork with egg. “Clay, I think it’s great you’re going to college. You need to go. I’ve always thought that . . . that it’s your karma to be the greatest pianist in the world. You don’t have to worry about how it will affect things around here. We’ll all cooperate.”

  But he did worry. He knew she had been hoping they were going to get married. College meant at least four more years of eating spaghetti and beans . . . and no wedding. They wouldn’t be able to afford to move out of the Red House into something of their own. Four more years at least of grubbing for every dime.

  Of putting up with strangers in the next bedroom, sharing your bathroom, filching your food out of the fridge. Palmer blowing fuses with his electric guitar. Ferlin stoned night and day. Walt slapping oil paint by the gallon all over the house. Walt was in his senior year of painting major at Cornish School of Allied Arts. Going to school was no hardship for Walt. His dad paid the tuition. And he didn’t have a woman in his life. But for Clay it would mean four years of seeing the frustration and hurt in Donna’s eyes. Nothing to be done now. Couldn’t be helped, he was committed.

  Donna wedged her plate in the already overflowing sink, knowing that she would eventually get so irritated she’d relent, would once again wash up after her sloppy house mates. No matter how strong her resolve she ended up dealing with the messes they were so skilled at creating. Clay felt put-upon but if anyone was the den mother around here she was. No doubt because she was the only female and it was her female karma to serve. And because Clay would be a famous pianist and she would be his wife. And wasn’t that worth a pair of dishpan hands?

  The dog didn’t show up the next day or the next. But the kid from the couch did. His name was Charles and he’d just flunked out of Garfield High. He didn’t care all that much. He wanted to play guitar, and guitar players didn’t need much in the way of algebra and social studies anyway.

  The first time he showed up at the house on Fir Street he’d just come from his friend Dave’s place. He’d been there since he left campus, sitting for an hour on the steps until Dave got his own self home from school. Dave’s mom finally came home from work and fixed up some pork chops and potatoes for everyone, Dave, Dave’s two brothers and him. Dave’s place was always good for a meal. Never a scrap of food in his own house. His dad’s place would starve roaches. He didn’t tell Dave he wasn’t going back to school. He would have to eventually. Someone would be sure to let it spill. Charles had already decided to tell his friends he got kicked out for something he did. He hadn’t decided what, something bad. Sounded better than being stupid and flunking.

  After supper, he and Dave played a new B. B. King album up in the room Dave shared with his brothers. Then they just shot the bull and played some more music. Dave had some good blues albums. Around seven Dave’s mother told Charles to go on home, home to Yesler Avenue where he lived in a small rented house with his dad. Charles didn’t think of it as home. He had no home. Him and his dad, and sometimes his older brother when he was in town, slept anywhere they hadn’t been kicked out of yet.

  He cut down Fir Street, not having a particular reason for the short cut to Yesler. It was pure habit to hurry away from where he was no longer wanted. There wasn’t anything good to be rushing back to. As soon as he told his dad he flunked out he was guaranteed a whipping. At least if his dad was sober enough to swing the belt. For the first time Charles was really hoping his dad was shit-faced. So when he passed by the tall red house on the crest of the hill and heard the music he was grateful for a reason to pause.

  It was an electric guitar on a stereo amped high and spilling out the windows like honey. Rock-n-roll with a folk twang and a blues bass. Sounded pure and good to the kid. He wished he had his own guitar with him so he could try a few of those chords. Of course it wouldn’t sound the same on his guitar - not on that beat up piece of lumber he had - a pitiful Danelectro Silvertone that wouldn’t stay in tune. Someday he’d get himself a real guitar, not some hand-me-down pawnshop shit.

  As he was enjoying the daydream, he heard a guitar climb up over the top of the recording, someone picking around there in the house. He walked up the steps to the front door and knocked, having nothing particular in mind except he wanted to hear more of the music The guy who came to the door was a white man
in his twenties wearing a tee shirt and blue pegged jeans. That he was white didn’t matter to Charles. There were lots of kinds of people in the neighborhood and he had some white friends. What mattered was the guy was holding a Fender Stratocaster. Charles felt as if he’d turned over a dirty old scrap of street litter and found a diamond right there on Fir. He’d never been this close to a guitar of that class. He didn't know what to say to the dude, stammered out something about digging the sound. The man motioned him into the living room with a sweep of the guitar.

  “Hey Walt, dig it, I got a fan club.” he said to someone sitting on the couch.

  The introductions didn’t take long. There were three men in the dark living room in front of the stereo. The guy with the Fender’s name was Palmer. Said he played with any band that would give him the work and right now was playing steady with the Tommy Buck Trio, as if Charles should know them, but he’d never heard of them. Then there was Walt, big-shouldered with a red crew cut. Walt motioned toward the vibrant paint splashes that covered the walls. “That’s me,” he said, as if that said all that needed saying about him. Slouched in a red velvet overstuffed chair in the bay window to the left of the couch was Ferlin. Behind a haze of what Charles knew to be weed, Ferlin studied him with a dark steady gaze. Charles thought maybe he had seen Ferlin around the neighborhood. He wasn’t a dude you would forget if you saw him - a scrawny, rat-faced white boy with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail like a girl. He had on green corduroy pants and one of those black turtle neck sweaters. Like a beatnik. Ferlin didn’t say anything - just acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head and turned his attention back to the music. Not unfriendly, but not friendly either.