Billy bounded up the steps of Central Station in search of the blues guitar. During World War II, the cavernous terminal had been packed with travelers, a hub for fifty passenger trains a day carrying thousands of troops and tons of cargo. Now, The City of New Orleans was the only train that looped between Chicago and New Orleans, stopping in Memphis, morning and evening.
The terminal was empty except for a young guy across the way, playing a Les Paul Goldtop through a mini amp. The kid wore alligator boots and high-dollar jeans with a manufactured rip in the knee. Had to be a college student with a rich daddy.
He was working his way through “The Gone Dead Train,” a delta classic by King Solomon Hill. The notes bounced off the walls and flew straight to the top of the terminal like they were steel-winged birds. The kid’s guitar chops weren’t bad, but nothing in his young life could connect him to those heartbreaking lyrics. What he was, wasn’t authentic.
Another man, old and brown-skinned, sat at the far end of the oak bench that ran the length of the terminal. His suit was stained and his tie hung askew. His legs were crossed at the knee, so a portion of one skinny calf showed above his sock. He’d twisted away from the kid and his guitar, head down and arms folded over the middle of his body as if he were being assaulted by the sound.
Billy recognized Red Davis, the bluesman whose song he’d just heard on the jukebox. Davis and his partner, Little Man Lacy, had come to Memphis in the aftermath of Katrina. He’d expected them to be the kings of Beale Street. Instead, they showcased at a couple of minor clubs and ended up living on the streets. Like so many other flood victims, Katrina had knocked the fight out of both men.
The kid’s guitar screeched and wailed through the final bars, making Red’s head jerk up. The old man glanced left, spotted Billy across the way, and came to his feet, eyes glistening with anxiety.
“What ’chu want from me?” he called in a hoarse voice.
Billy raised a hand. “Not a thing.” He took a step back, thinking he could still make Ruby’s set if he didn’t get caught up in this.
The kid broke in. “Mr. Davis, did you like that last riff? I wondered if I could sit in with you guys.” He beamed, apparently having heard the word “yes” all his life. “Mr. Davis?”
“Get out ’cheer, boy, you’re bothering me,” Red snapped. “I got a train to catch.”
Billy knew the train for Chicago was two hours gone and wouldn’t head back until tomorrow morning. He looked around, saw no bag and no guitar case for Red.
Still, the damned kid wouldn’t back off. “No one blows a harp like you. No one plays bottleneck guitar like you either, not even Furry Lewis.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wallet, held it up for Red to see. “I’ll pay if you let me sit in.”
Red swayed, the bulge of a pint showing through his suit pocket. “You can kiss my ass, son. That’s what.”
The kid’s face reddened, then he smirked at Billy and nodded toward Red. “I saw him come in the terminal so I played ‘The Gone Dead Train’ as a send-off. But he’s not going anywhere. He’s drunk. Guess people get old and lose it.”
Billy considered popping the kid for his insolence. “You heard Mr. Davis. He wants you out of here, so move it.” The guy shot him a belligerent look but went ahead and packed up the Les Paul. He left by a side door.
Red looked around, rheumy-eyed and unsteady on his feet, patting his jacket pocket with his hand as if reassuring himself. Before leaving for Atlanta, Billy heard Davis and Lacy had checked into Robert House to dry out. Judging by the pint in Red’s pocket, that was over. He’d like to get the old guy off the bench before security came along and booted him out of the terminal. Not what he’d had in mind for the evening, but it needed to be done.
“Nice night,” he said, walking over and picking up the street odors clinging to Red’s suit.
“You can kiss my ass too, Officer. I’m going to Chicago.”
No surprise Red had made him for a cop. The man must have spent a lifetime being hassled by rednecks carrying badges. He might be drunk, but his instincts weren’t far off.
“I’m Billy Able. We met the night you and Little Man showcased on Riddle Street. We talked about Blues Alley, the old club on South Front. Remember?”
Red studied him, still suspicious. “I remember. Maybe.”
“The jukebox at Earnestine and Hazel’s played ‘You Ain’t Enough for Me’ tonight. The crowd loved it.”
Red met his gaze, coming out of himself at the compliment. “That song’s about men making fools a theirselves over women. I had me a lot of women. Beautiful women. Now I’m just an old fool. Ain’t nothing so strong as old fool love.” He waved a finger at Billy. “Get old. You’ll know.”
“Ruby Wilson had a stroke a couple of years ago, and she still sings at Itta Bena. You and Little Man could play club dates any night of the week to keep your hand in. It’d be like picking up money off the ground.” He tried to soften the tone of his criticism, but it didn’t work.
Red reared back. “Ain’t none a yo’ damned business what I do. Me and Little Man worked twelve-hour days alongside grown men when we was kids. We got our reasons for not working now. And we ain’t worried about the music. Every time we put it down, it comes back.” He coughed and dragged his hand over his mouth. “It always comes back.”
Billy pictured Little Man Lacy, tall and agile, a man without the power of speech but who could say all that needed to be said when he had a sax in his hand. Come to think of it, where was Little Man? The two men were always together.
“Where’s your partner?”
Red coughed again and cut his eyes away.
Somewhere below the terminal, a door slammed. Red’s body jerked, and a shadow overtook his face. Fishing out the bottle, he collapsed on the bench, his fingers shaking as he struggled with the cap. He took a long pull.
How had a man like Red Davis ended up creeping around a train station at midnight, looking spooked out of his mind?
Red lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “That damned kid over there. He’s got no right playing that song. Shit. That song’s about dying. Heaven and hell. I know which direction I’m going. It’s not too late for me.” He peered up at Billy. “You know which way you going, son? Is Jesus gonna save your soul?”