Out of the Blues Page 9

  “I’m not leaving you to deal with this asshole by yourself,” he said.

  “Cunt cop, you’re not arresting me, and she”—he pointed to the woman still frozen to the chair—“ain’t going nowhere.”

  Salt slid her ID to a pocket and moved to the woman. “You’ll need to stand up.” She put her right arm around the woman’s shoulders and handed her to the bartender. The man shoved at the table and stumbled up, his chair scraping on the rough concrete floor.

  Salt put her hand to her waist. “Sir, turn around, face the wall, and put your hands behind your back.”

  In the otherwise silent blues club, wind blew through a high transom with a sound like a distant train whistle.

  She asked the man again. “Sir, is there anything I can do or say to get you to comply with my lawful order?”

  The boxcar thunder rattled the walls.

  “You must be feeling lucky. Fuck you.” The light caught on a silver-colored chain that hung in a wide U from the drunk’s leather belt. As he began to draw back his fist, Salt fluidly slid an expandable baton from her waist. The metal shaft clicked and briefly flashed overhead just before the thud that dropped the drunk to one knee, his left shoulder and arm dangling. He vomited on the floor.

  “911, an ambulance,” she called out over her shoulder. “His collarbone’s broken.” She pinned the man’s good arm behind him, leveraging it with the baton. Dan moved forward. “Dude.”

  Melody sang in the background, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “Get the knife off his belt,” she said, pulling the man to his back as she reached into his pants pockets and pulled out a leather sap. “Take off his boots.” Dan got the knife and pulled at the boots. A small revolver clanked to the floor. Salt scooped it up and tucked it into her jeans.

  “What else?” she asked the man, who just coughed and then moaned. She patted her palms all along his pant legs, up to his crotch, turning her hands so that she felt his groin with the backs of her hands.

  There were distant sirens, then nearer, and then from the parking lot the sound of spraying gravel.

  “I’m not going to press charges.” The lanky-haired woman was back, tears running down her face, holding ice in a bar towel to her lip. “You can’t arrest him,” she pleaded.

  “Ma’am, he committed an assault in front of me. You’ll go to court. The judge will make him go to counseling.”

  The woman cried louder.

  The double entrance doors slammed into the walls as two uniforms rushed through with long strides. They homed in and were at her side in half seconds. “Salt, damn, are you okay?”

  Dan expelled a laugh that was close to a yelp or a cry.

  “Nice to see you, Sarge,” she said.

  “Mercy.” Melody’s voice echoed through the room.

  —

  THE HOUSE LIGHTS went down on a full room; patrons of every hue stood against the walls, and every chair and table was taken. A wash of blue lit the stage, empty except for instruments catching the light on their corners and curves, like a promise. The noise in the room lowered as the owner of the Notelling, wearing a tie-dyed jacket, bounded to the stage under a spotlight at the mic, center stage. “True blues lovers, tonight is your night. Put your hands together and welcome to the stage of the Notelling, where there’s no telling what will happen and no telling what does, the Old Smoke Band.” Applause, whistles, and foot stomping vibrated up through the floor to the tables, where pitchers and glasses of beer splashed.

  The crowd quieted as lone Mustafa came onstage, striking a beat hard and sharp with his hickory sticks. He carried the beat to his drum kit and another spotlight came on as he set into a blues shuffle. The audience clapped on his two and four beats. A second light opened to Pops on bass, laying heavy in the groove as Blackbird moved across the stage to the keyboard. The third light bloomed as his hands hit the keys. Women in the audience stood up and started moving their hips. Goldie and Dan came on unnoticed until Goldie blew a first skronky peal from the sax and all the stage lit up.

  Dan stepped up to the center mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are the Old Smoke Band and here’s our Boss of the Blues, Baileee Brown!”

  A fifth and last spotlight followed Bailey as he hefted his bulk to the riser, ambled to his chair, and picked up the old Gibson Byrdland. The crowd, already on its feet, screamed when he hit the first fierce squawl. He leaned over the guitar, suit coat open, beads of sweat at his hairline already threatening to become glistening streams.

  Young Mustafa’s eyes watched Bailey with a reverential focus, barely suppressing his joy, doing better than best to push the band. Dan and Pops built a base with their groove. B-Bird made it full, and when Goldie and Bailey reached out to each other, the band brought both old-time believers and converts to the congregation of “Everyday I Have the Blues.”

  —

  THE STAGE HAD EMPTIED. Waiting for Dan, Salt swiped one finger down the condensation on the bottle of beer she was nursing.

  He came up from behind and leaned close to the silver ring in her right ear. “Are you always this calm after beating the crap out of people?”

  “You should see me after I’ve killed folks.” She turned her face up. “Do you have time now?”

  “After seeing what you did to that guy, I guess I wouldn’t want to obstruct anything you’ve set your mind to. I’ve got nothing to hide. Was I imagining things, or did you have some sort of magic wand you waved over that dude?”

  She stood and they made their way to the front door. “Retractable baton, regulation issue—good when you don’t want to use pepper spray, like in a club.”

  Outside he said, “Sorry for earlier. It’s just that going over this stuff about Mike, bringing it all back up—well, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’ has been my motto. I don’t like to think about his death. You got any other ninja shit you do?”

  “I’m working on my teleporting and time travel.” She stiffened her legs and crossed her fists in front of her chest, superhero-style.

  A porch with broken-slat rockers and worn, wicker lemonade tables fronted the club. The rain had ended and the lights of the parking lot sparkled off the water beads on the cars.

  “I didn’t know cops could drink on duty.”

  “I’m not on the clock. I’ve got to get something from my car. Be right back.” She sat her beer down.

  “Again, I apologize for uncovering old wounds,” she said, coming up the steps carrying the envelope. She sat down with it in her lap, took up her beer, and rocked. “My dad had a love for the blues,” she said.

  Dan scratched at his wrists. “This club must have gotten fleas since I was here last.”

  “When was that?”

  “I guess about two years or so ago when we came through Atlanta last. Even though it’s on the blues highway, we just had gigs elsewhere. Scene hasn’t changed much at all. Always struggling. The blues always struggling.”

  “Struggling?”

  “That’s what Mike used to say. ‘Blues is like Atlanta,’ he’d say, ‘struggling.’ He loved this city, he said because it got no natural gifts—no coast, no bays or mountains or lakes. Just a crossroads. And he loved the old musicians here. He hated that people wanted to forget them and the hard times they sang about.”

  “Speaking of hard times, do you remember a singer went by the name of Pretty Pearl?”

  “She was terrific. But I lost track of her after Mike died. She was a friend of his.”

  Bailey began a soft solo, opening the second set alone.

  “Isn’t that your cue?” She nodded toward the inside.

  “Lots of times I sit out on the first numbers of the second set. I recheck the sound. And usually they open with numbers that don’t have to have rhythm guitar.”

  Salt closed her eyes, listening to the music, then asked, “Do you pay attention to your dreams?�
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  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Her eyes were still closed. “Maybe that dog is talking to you.”

  “Dog?”

  “The one you and the band joke about. Maybe you got a hellhound on your trail. I think I had a dream about him.”

  Dan started to scratch his leg but stopped himself.

  She slipped eight-by-ten photos from the packet and held them out. “These are of Mike.”

  “You mean the crime scene?” He shook his head.

  She handed him the stack of pictures.

  The top photo was a distance shot of the car, the old Pontiac wagon, cream and green. “‘Old Ironsides,’ we called her.” Dan stared at the stark, overexposed picture. “It’s his baby all right, but not like I remember. Last time I was in this car was that night. We played The Pub. I remember the chalkboard sandwich board—‘Avocado/sprouts sandwich special, $3.19, and a draft Michelob’—beside the open double doors and underneath the name of our band, Leaves of Great Grass. We were pretty good, played everything rock and roll, rhythm and blues, Motown, and, of course, the blues. Mike was like a god to us, our band. He was on the road a lot, but when he was home he hung out with us, me and the guys.

  “That last set I was swinging—Bob practically swallowing the mic on vocals, flinging ourselves into James Brown’s ‘Sex Machine,’ everybody dancing with everybody, tables dripping spilled beer and sweating pitchers. Mike ambled in along the wall and stood in back, looking like all he cared about was our music—smiling. He gave me a ride home. And I’ll never forget—about three blocks from the house he looked at me. ‘Man, you guys were brangin’ it tonight, great, really great.’ He said it twice, ‘Great,’ with that quizzy smile he had. I clearly remember looking out at the passing streetlights, trying to memorize how I felt, to hold on to that moment when one of the most admired bluesmen in the world said I played great.”

  The sole of Bailey’s shoe smacked the floor in a chain-gang rhythm.

  In the next photo the glare from the camera had made the windows of Mike’s car opaque, obscuring the interior. Dan slid it from the top to the bottom and looked at the next photo, which had been taken from the open door on the driver’s side. Mike’s body leaned, his head against the window. Bathrobe, legs, uneven hair, closed eyes, blue lips in a slack oval. Dan covered the photo with both hands and looked out toward the rows of cars. He handed the photos back to Salt, got up, and stood at the rail with his back to her. He used his heel to rake his ankle.

  She waited again, then said, “God is in the details. I know this is hard, but I would like for you to look at them, at everything, pieces of paper, the folds of his robe, the floorboard, anything that might spark your memory. You’ve scratched at your ankles several times, you know.”

  Dan looked down and brushed at the legs of his jeans. “I don’t believe in dreams.”

  “Will you try again?” She held out the awful photographs.

  Bailey’s voice had trailed off to a lonesome blues moan.

  HOPE

  Salt switched radio channels over to the central city frequency. “4133 raise any HOPE Team unit.”

  “5582,” dispatch called.

  “5582.”

  “Can you name a location?” Salt requested, asking where she could meet the unit.

  “Right now we’re on the tracks under Piedmont.”

  “Cross street?” Salt transmitted her willingness to meet them where they were.

  “We’ll be out at Ansley in about thirty,” replied the officer.

  “Copy, thirty at Ansley,” repeated Salt, confirming the location and her intention to meet there.

  “Radio, can you have an ambulance meet us there as well?” continued the HOPE unit. “For an eighteen-year-old white female, mentally ill. And start a sex crimes detective.”

  —

  HOPE, Homeless Outreach and Proactive Enforcement, emerged over the rim of the railroad gulley. They rose from below, heads and chests upright, and, like almost always, together in a pack, rarely less than all four. They patrolled a citywide beat, mostly in places that most folks didn’t know existed; wherever their people were found that’s where they went. Treading the hill, over the rim, with heavy boots and the dark uniforms, they came up to the asphalt of the strip mall lot. An emaciated white girl was supported between them, a small blonde, hoisted by the two female team members, Leeksha Johnson and Joy Adams. Salt had a special regard and fondness for them. They taught classes at the academy on managing people with mental illness, skills for de-escalating those in crisis, often psychotic and off their prescribed medications. The last class she’d taken from them was an advanced, weeklong session led by the two HOPE guys, Swain Blackmon and Jackson Thornton.

  Atlanta was an example of the “build it and they will come” consequence as concerned its history with homeless people. The largest city in the Southeast, it also had the largest homeless population in the region. Years ago the city had begun to provide services—shelters, food distribution, hygiene supplies—and the homeless came from all over. Some jurisdictions had finally admitted to dumping their homeless inside the city limits. The HOPE Team had documented and reported people sent from all over the country and the places that had paid people’s way to Atlanta just to get rid of them.

  Simultaneously with the team’s emergence from the tracks behind the businesses, an ambulance and the detective from Special Victims arrived near where Salt had parked.

  “We heard you made detective. Congratulations.” Leeksha hugged Salt.

  “That’s great.” Swain beamed at her.

  “We were so glad to see one of the good guys get the promotion,” said Joy.

  “This is Jennifer,” Blackmon said, touching the girl’s shoulder. The girl’s eyes were everywhere but on what was in front of her or the cops that led her out. “Come on, child.” They continued on over to the paramedics and the female SVU detective. The girl was silently compliant, getting her vital signs taken, blood pressure and heart rate and a preliminary exam for any obvious injuries, all while the detective talked quietly to her. The girl’s hair was matted and clumped. She was wearing men’s pants and a sweatshirt, so it was hard to determine how thin she might actually be. Her hands were brown from exposure to dirt and the elements, her nails rimmed with grime.

  Joy came over to Salt, her back to the ambulance. “One of our regulars called us. Said men were using her down under one of the bridges.”

  The ambulance stowed the girl on a gurney and took off. The team watched until the ambulance was out of sight, then let their shoulders fall, bowing their heads and giving a collective sigh. “Damn,” said Leeksha.

  “Damn is right,” repeated Jackson.

  “Does this ever get any easier for you guys?” Salt asked.

  “When it does, we’ll know it’s time to go,” said Joy, all the rest nodding in agreement.

  “Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues,” added Swain.

  “What he means is, like we tell folks in training, ‘empathize.’ It hurts but it helps, if you know what I mean. If we get in their shoes, get what’s going on with them, then we’re better able to find a way to help, to make them feel safe.”

  “And if they feel safe . . .”

  “We’re safer,” Salt finished with the words from the team’s training. “I brought you something.” She went to the trunk of her unmarked car, got out a box, and handed it to Leeksha. “It’s the cedar stuff I told you about, organic. I buy it by the gallon for using around my place—on the sheep and on the dog. I use it on myself when the horseflies are bad. And it smells good. I put it in some recycled spray bottles.”

  The team regularly came in contact with body lice, mosquitoes, fleas, red bugs, gnats, stinging insects. They sometimes wore surgical masks and gloves to protect themselves from HIV, hepatitis, TB, scabies, flu, even impetigo. They encounte
red feral dogs, snakes, rats, opossums, and rabid raccoons, and often were seen painted in calamine after climbing through poison ivy, oak, or sumac in a quest to reach someone, often in bad shape, homeless, mentally ill, addicted, ones who had slipped off society’s grid.

  And then they were scoffed at, called “social workers” by some officers. Until those officers, like Salt, would witness Leeksha, Joy, Jackson, or Swain manage a crisis where people who, terrified and out of their minds, would otherwise have injured themselves and probably officers. Salt had been there when Joy de-escalated a man who was bare-chested, bleeding from test cuts all over his upper body, holding a large shard of glass to his neck beneath a vein. When a woman blinded by rage, a gun to her elderly mother’s head, had been talked into putting the gun down by Swain. There had been many others.

  “Follow us back to our cat hole, Salt, so we can clean up a little. We’ve been out since five this morning, before the sun was up.” The team went out early and late, to make contact with the homeless before they left or after they came home to the camps and hidey-holes.

  The team had the worst cars, as if working with the homeless warranted shabby vehicles. Salt followed their rattletrap van to a derelict office, a classroom in back of an elementary school that had been closed for years. “Nice digs,” Salt said, following them in.

  “We don’t mind it. Nobody bothers us here and our consumers don’t bother anybody when we invite them over.”

  Mug shots and missing-persons flyers hung from a blackboard and were tacked all around the large classroom. The small hard-plastic desk chairs were still in rows as if the children were expected back.

  “I have another one to add to your gallery.” Salt motioned to the photos lining the room. She slid out copies of Pearl’s mug shot from the envelope she was carrying. Like many of the homeless and mentally ill, Pearl had been arrested multiple times, mostly for petty charges and usually when officers had no other option for her care. In Georgia, if a person wasn’t psychotic enough to qualify as being an immediate danger to themselves or others, then the law for involuntary hospitalization did not pertain.