Part 8 (1/2)

I copied the phrases over and over: Road. Eyes. Lined. Red.

I wrote them on the page horizontally, vertically.

Road. Eyes. Lined. Red.

Road Eyes Lined Red ROADEYESLINEDRED.

I found myself giggling suddenly. If you said it really fast it sounded like-like ”Rhode Island Red”. A rooster? A hen?

I'd heard of Baltimore Oriole-that was by Hoagy Carmichael, I thought, or maybe it was Johnny Mercer. There was a mockingbird on a hill. There was a yellow bird in a banana tree. A rooster who crowed at the break of dawn. A s...o...b..rd, a bluebird, a yardbird, a flamingo. But, as far as I knew, n.o.body had ever written about a Rhode Island Red.

Rhode Island Red. That's what the b.a.s.t.a.r.d said to Inge before he took her life? No, that was crazy. Or I was.

I stoppered the cut gla.s.s brandy bottle.

On another sheet of paper I drew a crude, outsized chicken, its mouth gaping open, eyes bugged. The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth, as Billie Holiday had described the body of a lynching victim. I stared at the terrible drawing as I finished my last drink.

I had to do something about all the havoc I'd caused. I had to. Ernestine was popping up everywhere in the kitchen-accusing me, chastising me. And she was right. But I wanted to shout back at her that if she hadn't bugged me to get Sig's money to his lady, Inge might still be alive.

A plan came to me. I would start with that mean old Negro, Wild Bill. I was going to go to him again and talk to him about Inge. Yes, if I woke up tomorrow, and looked at these insane scribblings and could remember what had happened today, that was what I was going to do.

I took a final look at the slips of white paper strewn over the kitchen table. I would crack up soon if I didn't stop this nonsense.

The weariness overtook me then, and the need to sleep. I staggered back to my bed.

CHAPTER 8.

Criss-cross I didn't get out of bed till 10 A.M. I felt like I weighed three hundred pounds. Plus, I was good and hung.

Taking a pee, I sat looking at the crazy bird I had drawn last night. Drinking super strong coffee, I read the words Rhode Island Red over and over.

It didn't make sense. But on the other hand, it didn't make no sense. So the decision was sealed. I was going to look up my man Wild Bill.

Henry called while I was dressing. I said no to his lunch invitation and told him I'd probably be tied up all afternoon looking for the cantankerous Wild Bill.

”You should not, you know. Your heart is so generous,” he said, ”but perhaps you too do not know when to stop.” Henry was worried about me.

”I'm cool, Henry. Nothing to it. You just be a good little s.e.x G.o.d and I'll tell you how to order the tape of a radio interview with you-know-who's first wife.”

”You mean Rebecca Parker is still alive?”

”That's right, Henry O'Rooney.”

”Be careful, Nan.”

So lightning struck twice. My best beau was only a block away from the spot where I'd first found him, just south and west of Penn Station. I hung back while he tried to blow some Art Farmer changes on Funny Valentine, but he was nowhere near it. He was sweating a little in his tan suit and robin red vest. If I had to guess, I'd say Wild Bill needed a drink. After a while, he gave up and pulled a mouth harp out of his pants pocket. Playing that didn't seem to tax him so much. He did some standard blues riffs. Not bad, but Muddy Waters he wasn't.

The quarters clinked into his case as the noon crowd shuffled along. I looked down at Wild Bill's feet and saw that he was wearing red patent leather shoes-a Salvation Army loss leader, no doubt-and for a minute my heart softened toward him.

”Aw, s.h.i.+t ... If it ain't old Salt Peanuts again.”

He was talking to me, of course.

”How's it going, Mr. Bill?” I folded a dollar and dropped it in his case.

He made a faintly lewd sound back in his throat.

”Let me ask you something,” I said. ”You read the papers much?”

He startled me then, raising the harmonica to his lips and blasting me back with a tuneless fanfare.

”Inge is dead. She was murdered the other day,” I shouted viciously.

He didn't respond at all, not at first. Then he lifted up his nappy head and sang scratchily, directly into my face, ”Flat Foot Floogie with the Floy Floy.”

Wild Bill was a hard guy to love. I had tried my best to have a little sympathy for him. Who knew why he was so b.l.o.o.d.y to me-maybe I looked like his ex-wife or something. ”Do you remember the other day, when I asked you-”

”I remember you the mailman,” he interrupted, ”but you ain't brought no news I want to hear.”

That deriding laugh of his drove me crazy. I knew I wouldn't be able to take a great deal more from him, so I asked simply, ”What do you know about Rhode Island Red?”

No comeback. No nothing. Without saying another word, Wild Bill gathered his stuff and turned on his heel.

”Hey!” I called out when he stepped into the Eighth Avenue traffic.

That old guy really picked up his feet then. I ran to the uptown corner, trying to catch the light before it changed, trying to cut him off before he could head into the train station.

I couldn't. I caught sight of his stained suit jacket just as he disappeared into the tunnel leading to the IRT. By the time I'd fought my way through the milling knot of commuters and homeless and pickpockets and cops, Wild Bill was gone. I knew finding him a third time was not going to be the basic falling off a log that encounters one and two had been.

I knew something else: The word combination I'd come up with-Rhode Island Red-couldn't be very far off the money. And it was obviously something more than a tune that never made it out of Tin Pan Alley.

Roots do tell, don't they? Middle cla.s.s is middle cla.s.s. I was stumped, a little frightened, and really depressed. And so I went shopping. At Macy's.

I bought a good black wool sweater on the fourth floor and some divine Parma ham in The Cellar. I had walked home, made lunch, put on coffee, even listened to all my messages before it occurred to me what today was. I ran to the radio and locked in KCR. I had utterly forgotten Thelonious Monk's birthday. Come October 10, I usually do everything short of baking a three layer cake to celebrate that man's birth. But it had slipped my mind this time. d.a.m.n. WKCR each year holds a twenty-four hour marathon during which they play Monk exclusively. That, along with the April 7 Lady Day salute, is the signal reason I've been sending in my yearly twenty buck donation to the station since I was old enough to vote.

The announcer reeled off all the great stuff I'd missed just in the previous half hour alone. I was plenty p.i.s.sed, but I took consolation in the thought that I had the next ten hours or so to lose myself-and some of my troubles-in the music.

Then the phone rang.

Against my better judgment, I answered it. It was Earl, the barkeep at the Emporium, the joint where Aubrey worked. He said she was working the early s.h.i.+ft today and needed me to stop by late in the afternoon.

I knew what it was about.

Aubrey was a great deal more solvent than I ever hoped to be. She was a great deal more enterprising too, but I never knew the exact character of her enterprises. A few years ago she had entrusted me with a large envelope containing savings pa.s.s books issued by three or four different banks. At various times during the year she summoned me and the books, did G.o.d knows what kind of business and a few days later returned the envelope to me. It's Aubrey's mystery and Aubrey's business. I've never pried, I only oblige her. Not being much of a Monk fan-Luther Vandross was more her taste-she had no idea how big a favor she was asking of me on this particular day.

I dug up the envelope and set it on the kitchen table alongside the rooster drawing.