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WHEN HE WAS gone, Starr reached down and drew the hems of my blouse together, respectfully buttoning the two remaining buttons.
I was still pointing the Remington ... at him. Adrenalin had turned everyone and everything into a potential threat. “Nothing you have to prove by me, Iris Grenadine. You’re one hell of a ...” He leaned over and pressed his lips to mine while extracting the pistol from my grasp and dropping it into my purse. “... lady.”
I didn’t remember getting up. Or Starr guiding me out of the lounge. I did remember the frightened expressions on several faces as we left.
The lobby of a Loop hotel never sleeps. Guests were returning from dinner and the theater, or heading out for dancing and a nightcap. Locked at the waist, young couples beamed with the expectation of an enjoyable night extending into early morning. Grande dames and dapper chaps, graying at the edges but dripping money, preened for admirers. Hotel personnel moved sluggishly, anticipating the end of a long shift. A man sitting on a divan crossed his legs like a woman and folded the evening edition to the sports section.
We stepped out into the night. The humidity was thick and the breezeless heat, thicker. A thrum you could feel under your feet rather than hear with your ears convulsed the street. An el train rolled over the seams of the tracks above, wheels beating out a familiar rhythm. Clackety-clack-clack. Clackety-clack-clack.
We watched Kirk’s receding back as he disappeared into the night, heading east. He’d lit up a fresh cigar. When the night consumed every one of his features, the tip’s glow remained until that, too, was extinguished by dark shadows.
“Should we follow him?”
“Nothing to follow,” Starr said with a sigh. “He knew we were watching him. He wasn’t in a hurry. He got rid of the cigar. He’s already doubled back. Or gone around the block. Or turned left instead of right. He isn’t where you think he is. He’s already lost us.”
I tipped back my head to get a good look at him. His earlier rage was gone, replaced by calm appraisal. His cop eyes were still studying the street. He glanced down and pulled me into his arms. It felt safe there. He lowered his face and delivered a friendly kiss.
We parted and crossed the street toward our cars. The air gave me a boost. A minute before, I was ready to crawl into the bed and pull the covers over my head. Now I was raring to meet the night on its terms. After flinging away the parking ticket tucked beneath the windshield wiper, I prepared to climb into the Bel Air. Starr grabbed my elbow, confiscated my keys, and steered me toward the Buick. “You’re in no condition to drive a golf ball much less that hotrod of yours.”
Though reluctant, I didn’t fight him. “Just because I’m missing a couple buttons ....”
“You’re missing more than that, lady.”
While Starr rolled down the top, I freshened up in the rearview mirror. Brushed on fresh mascara. Pinched my cheeks. Primped my hair. Applied lipstick.
The damaged blouse, which revealed a tantalizing amount of cleavage, distracted Starr. “Hot date?” he said.
“Jealous?” When I saw his green-eyed look, I said, “Good.”
The corners of his mouth pinched with irritation. “Where to?”
First, I told him where to go. Then I gave him a friendlier alternative. He chose the latter and took off with a lurch. I settled into the seat and closed my eyes. Wind funneling into the car soothed my frazzled soul. Once we left downtown, traffic thinned. We didn’t talk much on the way. At one point, he took my hand and held it. “I’m not a damsel in distress, Starr,” I said without opening my eyes.
Several minutes later, he pulled in front of an innocuous storefront on the south side and engaged the brakes. “I give,” he said. “Where are we?”
“Chess Records.”
From his, “Ah,” I gathered he was clueless.
“Don’t tell me you never heard of Len and Phil Chess.”
“Ah,” he said again with the same cluelessness.
“They own a string of popular blues clubs.”
“Uh-huh.” He turned to open the driver’s side door.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “When they found out that some of their most popular acts weren’t being picked up by recording studios, they started their own label.”
He let go of the door handle. “Oh?”
“Muddy Waters was their first recording artist.” I reached for his tie. “Half the songs on the R&B charts belong to Chess Records.” I loosened the knot. “RCA wants to buy them out, but the brothers won’t sell.” I used the loosened noose to yank him within kissing distance. “You’ve heard Rollin’ Stone and Walkin’ Blues, right?” I tasted a corner of his mouth. “Tell me you listen to Al Benson ... disc jockey on WGES Radio ... 1390 on the dial.” I tasted the other corner. “Poor dear, you don’t know what you’ve been missing.”
“Oh, yes, I do.” We kissed. One kiss led to two kisses, which led to three. We became entangled in the tie. The car door swung shut. The ragtop powered up. The windows whined to a sealed position. The locks engaged. The radio clicked on.
“This is a bad idea,” I said through quickened breaths. “A ... really ... bad ... idea.”
“We can climb into the back seat if you want.” He ran his lips along the length of my neck, kissing as he went.
I stretched away. “That’s not what I meant.” A one-night stand was one thing. A two-night fling was another. A tango in the front seat of a Buick Super Convertible was tantamount to commitment.
“Or we can check into a hotel.”
His fedora flipped onto the floorboard. My shoes fell from my feet. Rock Around the Clock boomed over the radio. The windshield became foggy. The cabin turned steamy.
Ten minutes later, we sat up. I slipped my shoes back on. Starr reset his fedora. We both tried to look as if we hadn’t just engaged in a tempestuous clutch of bodies and sweat. I cleared my throat. He relieved the crick in his neck. We reached for our respective doors.
Reading my mind, he said, “Before we go any further―”
I beat him to the punch. “It could never work out between us.”
“We’re as different as yin and yang.”
“Abbott and Costello.”
“Karl Marx and his brother Harpo.”
“Just because I’m attracted to you, and you’re attracted to me―”
“Doesn’t mean we have a thing for each other.”
“It’s just a fling.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but what a fling.”
We rushed into each other’s arms, smooching, kissing, caressing, and ripping at each other’s clothes. Several minutes later, we broke apart and put ourselves back together. I neatened my hair. He straightened his tie. I reapplied my makeup. He combed his hair. I made sure all my remaining buttons were buttoned. He made certain his fedora was secure.
We got out of the car and strolled up to Chess Records. No one answered the doorbell. The door was unlocked, so we went in. After sauntering past the front office, we came up on the soundproof recording studio. The control room was rigged with an Ampex two-track recorder using quarter-inch tape and ten-and-a-half-inch reels. Set up with multiple microphones stands, grand piano, and drum kit, the ‘live’ room buzzed with several musicians.
I pressed my face to the separating glass, searching for one particular hunk with dirty blonde hair and a recognizable swagger. He wasn’t there. “There’s a press next door,” I told Starr. “They can record a song on Wednesday, release it on Thursday, and by Friday hand-deliver it to radio stations all across the Midwest.”
His sizzling eyes glared down at me, stripping my defenses down to bare copper wire.
“Nothing happened,” I said, punctuating each word.
“Agreed, Grenadine,” he said, grinning. “Nothing happened.”
A musician entered from a back room, slung an electric guitar over his shoulder, and started to play. He was a striking man with a dark-chocolate complexion, trim mustache, and hair pomaded into a high pompadour. The strings of his guitar reverberated with a distinctive style. Stepping close to the microphone, he sang a couple of bars, reworked the music with riffs, runs, and fretting, and began again with an altered lyric, a changed note, a different key.
Elvis entered through the same door. He ambled toward the Negro, slid an acoustic guitar around his neck, and began to sing along in bluesy harmony. One by one, Scotty, D.J., Bill, and a couple other musicians picked up their instruments and joined in. Theirs was a special kind of camaraderie, in the groove, making music, doing what they liked doing best.
A middle-aged man dressed in suit and white shirt but no tie sidled up to us. “You like?” Bald and graying at the temples, he didn’t fit in with the place, the purpose, or the atmosphere. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.
“Different,” I said.
“Isn’t going to be Doris Day and Perry Como forever.” He offered a handshake. “Len Chess.”
“Iris Grenadine.”
His face lit up with recognition. “Reporter, right? Mentioned us in an article a couple months back.”
“The word is you’re thinking of buying out Sun Records.”
“Elvis is one of their artists. We wanted to take a closer look.” He shrugged as if he wasn’t terribly impressed, but his next comment gave him away. “The next Sinatra. With hips.” He wanted to sign him. He wanted to sign him so bad he was willing to invest in another record company to do it. “And you are ...?” he asked, turning to Starr.
“With her.”
Showing off and grinning like a jester, Elvis danced a squat-step across the floor. The others hooted and slapped their knees. Behind his shy smirks and sly glances lurked a man who aspired to be the center of attention. He had the makings of a star: hunger, drive, talent, and good looks. All he needed was someone to take him in hand, shine up his image, and buy him some swanky clothes.
The colored singer said, “Do that again, man.” Elvis did, and the Negro copied his moves, goose-stepping and thrusting out the neck of his guitar like a phallic symbol. Everyone laughed.
Emboldened, Elvis started warbling a song; fooling around and jiggling his legs; applying a sultry voice and a scorching delivery. Bill picked out notes on his bass fiddle, improvising and crooning in harmony. They played off each other until Scotty combined his guitar and voice with the others. The music took a stronger turn when D.J. joined on drums.
Len flashed us a don’t-go-anywhere finger, went around to the control booth, and stuck his head into the studio. “What’re you fellas doing?”
“Hell if I know,” Scotty said.
“Whatever it is, do it again.” Len returned to the control booth.
The musicians regrouped. Elvis addressed the microphone as if it were a pretty lady, his eyes unfocused and his expression dreamy. He strummed an A-major chord and hummed a few bars. Bill entered with his bass ... Scotty with his guitar ... D.J. on drums ... but they were just background noise. The lead singer was the main event, the crooner every girl from thirteen to thirty and beyond would drive anywhere and pay any price to see. Elvis thrust out his chin, rocked his hips, and let music pour from his soul. His lips snarled. His face sharpened. His throat warbled. At one moment, his eyes would shut out the world. In the next, they would open toward a distant horizon. The song became him, and he became the song.
Len rejoined us and studied my reaction. Becoming self-conscious, I cleared my throat and tried to look unfazed in the presence of musical god who wasn’t half-bad to look at, either. Len grinned. Starr frowned. When the song ended, Len beckoned us to follow. “Something I want you to see.” In the studio, he showed us a sewer pipe with a microphone rigged at one end and a speaker wired at the other. “Our newest invention. You like?”
Elvis strolled over and greeted me with a chaste kiss.
“I like,” I said, drooling like a teenybopper.
Len signaled the colored singer over and introduced us. “Chuck Berry, Iris Grenadine.”
Up close and personal, Chuck seemed taller, skinnier, and almost beautiful in the sharp definition of his cheekbones, the highness of his forehead, and the cut of his jaw. His athletic build and appealing smile didn’t work against him. We shook hands. His fingers were long and calloused, and his hand was massive. He looked me over inch-by-inch, his brooding eyes hypnotic.
“Treat this young lady with respect, my dear fellow,” Len said. “When she writes you up in her newspaper, you’ll want her to say something flattering.” Chess turned to me. “We just released Chuck’s first record. Maybe you heard it on the radio. Maybellene.”
“I love that record,” I said, gushing.
“I wrote it,” Chuck said.
“It’s going to be a big hit,” I said. “It’s going to make you a star.”
Chuck snapped his fingers. One of his gofers brought over a platter. “If what you say is right,” he said, “should be worth something someday.” He autographed the sleeve.
Len finished setting up the amplifier. “If you wouldn’t mind, Chuck.” Chuck sang a few notes into the mike. A booming effect blasted out of the speaker.
“Wow,” I said. “An echo chamber.”
Starr scratched the back of his neck. “Still looks like a sewer pipe to me.”
Berry cued up for his final take and began singing. I pantomimed to Elvis that we had to get going. He gestured a ‘hold on’, and after saying something to the boys, grabbed his guitar. “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, I was wondering if I could hitch a ride. Left my bag at the hotel.”
“When’s your flight?”
“Later this morning.”
“Starr won’t mind, will you, Starr?”
When we stepped outside, I was slobbering all over Elvis. Hanging back, Starr mimicked his competition: swiveling his hips, playing an imaginary guitar, mouthing lyrics. I threw out a backhanded slap.
Just as we reached the Buick, a ’53 Chrysler Imperial stretch limousine with blacked-out windows roared onto the scene. In a blitz of confusion and commotion, we were grabbed, jostled, manhandled, and catapulted into the back seat.
