whose barn? what barn? MY barn!
It occurs to me that I have, in essence, written Jerry Lee Lewis fan fiction. I'm not sure what to make of this development. Also, by my standards, this is really long. Quite possibly the longest single thing I have ever written, outside of random thwacked things here. Longest polished thing I've ever written, let's say.
"Jellyroll Boogie"
Evert Hintwinch was hung over. Temporarily. He had arrived at his office rather the worse for the worthless 'talent' exhibition of the previous evening. Scotch enough to pickle a king, and nothing to show for it but more Sinatra imitators. And that beanpole bastard hadn't done anything since before the war, anyway. The president of Excelsior Records deserved better than punk crooning and a headache.
Excelsior Records was little more than the seven rooms above an uptown Manhattan laundromat. Reclining at his desk, Hintwinch cursed his luck, the world, and his hangover. The first he blamed on his A&R men, the fools that told him hillbilly music and race records would never make it big. The second and third he addressed by the same means: he opened the top left drawer of his desk and spilled some Old Fitzgerald into his coffee. Slim Cochran had begged him for a contract. He lit his second cigar, well before its intended lunchtime appointment.
His secretary cautiously stuck her head into his office, remembering the times she had dodged hurled bottles. “Mr. Hintwinch?”
“Grace, whatever it is, not now. It's cigar time.” He sipped his coffee around his cigar, twitching slightly.
“Your son is here to see you, sir.”
“That moron's back from Mississippi already? Better have something better than the Whiffles this time. Biggest gawdamt waste of...”
Hintwinch, Jr. walked into the room, as Grace moused away.
“Ah, favorite son,” Hintwinch said, approximating a smile. “What've you got this time, boy? Not another barbershop quartet, I hope.”
“Aww, gee, Pop, I'm sorry already.” The younger Hintwinch stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders. “I promise I found something real swell this time. I couldn't wait another second to come back up here and tell ya about him. I know how sore y'are about the Slim Cochran thing, and this fella I found makes him look like a real fuddy-duddy. Plays the piano like gangbusters!”
“Now, boy, I've told you, jazz is through.” He puffed his cigar. “We need a Perry Como.”
“Shucks, pop, it's not like that. Joe Jack Mason's like one of them rhythm and blues fellas. He's real keen, I promise.” Junior rocked back and forth on his toes. “The kids there go nuts over him. You just gotta see Joe Jack!”
Hintwinch took a slug of his coffee and considered the portrait of Warren Harding that scowled at him. He put his feet down. “It's coming out of your pay if he's another schmuck. Where's he playing?”
“Hobson's Big House, tomorrow night, in Yazoo City. You won't regret it, pop, I swear!”
---
That night, in Moorhead, Mississippi, Joe Jack Mason knocked over a piano bench in a juke joint, like a mule kicking a snapping mutt. He howled and slid his fingers up the keyboard, drawing the same coos and moans as the previous two hours. He never questioned why jukes bent so to his will. It was simply meant to happen, much like his whiskey breakfasts.
“Aww, ladies and gents, cats and kittens, rockers and rollers, swingers and sinners, it's been fun, it's been fun.”
The crowd moaned.
“Joe Jack's had some rockin' fun, some killin' times, some real swingin' times at the fabulous Stepchild Lounge, but even the Hawk must eventually fold his wings.”
“But I love you,” yelled a woman in the crowd, the seventh of the night.
“Aww, don't think the Hawk don't love you, too, baby. I'm gonna do this one for you,” he said. “How 'bout you break down and shake that jellyroll for me, babe?”
He slid his fingers up the keyboard again, this time breaking into “Jellyroll Boogie,” his favorite song since he had first heard it blaring from a whorehouse, when, aged eight, he had taken a trip across town to hear the source of the music his folks always put down.
“All right, shake it one time now.” His fingers peacocked across the keyboard, releasing the boogie woogie that seemed to run up and down his spine. Joe Jack thought of being thrown out of Kosciusko Baptist College for blaspheming “How Great Thou Art” three years previously, and rolled his tongue in defiance. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
The crowd cavorted, grinding and twisting, following the lead of the boogie. Joe Jack took a swig from his coke bottle and poured the rest of its clear contents in the body of his piano.
“Jellyroll boogie gonna set you on fire,” he sang. He struck a match and threw it into the piano. The corn liquor became hellfire. Joe Jack continued to play, the tune warping as the piano burned. The bleached tips of his hair fell across his forehead. “You better get down on your knees and shake that jellyroll.” He ran his right hand through his hair, pushing it back, as his left continued to play the tune. He returned to his scales, and saw the piano to its fiery doom. “Jellyroll gonna save your soul.”
“Follow that,” he mumbled to no one in particular, and staggered triumphantly off stage.
---
Meanwhile, Evert Hintwinch sat in the lounge car of a train headed for Mississippi. He watched the smoke from his cigar drift toward the ceiling and considered the new pursuit. Blasted son of his had no sense. Hintwinch had had sense. He'd had sense if he had anything. Hard to grow up in Ohio and end up any other way. He remembered the day he left his hometown for Ohio State. Punk hometown wasn't worth thinking about. He blocked the aroma of the paper mill from his mind. He'd had a time at college, but bingo. And they said studying business would be dry.
He chuckled softly and took a sip of his Heaven Hill, thinking of Professor Babbitt and his economics class. They didn't call him Engaging Evert for nothing...
“This seat taken, sweet pea?”
Evert stirred and his eyes focused on the source of the words. Quite the fresh young thing. “Oh, not at all, madam.” He stood up and pulled out the chair for her. “By all means.” Nothing like the bosom of the corn fed, he thought. Twin fawns grazing, I believe it goes. “Evert McGonigle's the name.” He kissed her hand.
“Well, ain't you just treating me like a starlet.” Annabelle eyed the gold fob hanging out the vest of his grey flannel suit. Probably got more money on him than Joe Jack. “I'm Lulu.”
“Well, Lulu, surely you are something of the kind.” A porter walked by, casting them a side-long glance. Hintwinch saw some promise in the trip. “Southbound from New York and all. You must be researching a role for a picture.”
Annabelle giggled. “Li'l ol' Lulu? Why, I got on at Philadelphia. I'm just trying to get me some work as a chorus girl.”
Hintwinch put an elbow on the rail against the wall. He thought of Gerda seeing him off that morning, wrapped loosely in a bathrobe, her hair in curlers.
“Hope you don't mind me smoking.” He puffed his cigar. “Funny you mention, though. It just so happens I'm one of the biggest Broadway producers in New York City.” He sipped his bourbon. Here's to the lass in every port, he thought.
“You don't say.” She was fairly certain his handkerchief was silk.
“Why, Lulu, I'll have you know that ol' Evert McGonigle discovered Doris Day. I'm working on a new show right now, in fact. The, uh, it's right at the tip of my tongue...”
Annabelle enjoyed the gleam of the hanging light off of his bald head.
“Ah, The Libertine. It's all Playbill is talking about this season.” Satisfied, he took another pull off of his cigar.
“Why, there ain't no chance you could find a spot for an a-spiring chorus girl like me, is there?” She smiled. He's a prize winner, she thought.
“Well, now, there just might be. I have a private berth here. What say we head back there and talk it over, Lulu.” He
finished his bourbon. And here's to the port wine in every lass, he thought.
“Golly, could we?” Sure beats churning butter, she thought.
---
Joe Jack awoke, stretched, and blinked his eyes cautiously. He eyed the empty bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Private Reserve that had served as a pillow, and looked around the hotel room. “Get the hell out of my room,” he said, noticing the girl. Must have been a good night.
She yawned. “Oh, Joe Jack. Stop kidding around.”
Joe Jack stood up. “Shut up, baby. The Hawk ain't no clown. I gotta be in Yazoo City by nightfall. Get out.” He kicked at empty bottles, until he found one half-filled with ol' Pappy. He idly tossed an empty bottle at the girl and opened the door, discovering the bottle of orange juice he had ordered the day before.
“See you soon, right, Joe Jack, darlin'?” The girl was hastily dressing.
Joe Jack looked up from mixing his orange juice and bourbon. “You never know where the Hawk's gonna fly, baby. Git.”
She left.
He tipped back and gulped a good half of the wan mixture. “How great I am,” he sang. Annabelle missed a helluva night. He reached low, holding the notes, “how great I am.” Kosciusko didn't miss him, and the feeling was mutual. He thought of his childhood. Glorified shack. He always had known he was destined for better. He'd be wearing purple any ol' day now. He thought of Kosciusko again. That cousin of his. Graduate from Kosciusko and suddenly he has the right to bother the Hawk about his lifestyle.
He realized he had finished the bottle, and heard a pounding at the door.
“The Hawk's busy,” he called out, searching the room for another bottle. The door burst open, and a man tromped into the room. Looks like he's right off the plow, Joe Jack thought. Dirty overalls and all.
“I hear you been runnin' round with my Blanche,” the man said, walking up to Joe Jack.
“She that red headed number?” Joe Jack was more concerned with the lack of Pappy Van Winkle. He carried the empty bottle around, hoping to exchange it for a loaded brother.
“You sonuvabitch,” the man said, following Joe Jack around. “You turn around and talk to me like a man.”
“The Hawk flies on the winds, feller” Joe Jack continued to amble around the room. “Now help me find some bourbon in here or I'll whup ya.”
“Boy, you pay me mind when I'm talking to you.”
Joe Jack stiffened and turned around. “Don't you call me that.”
“Stay the hell away from my girl,” the man said, with less conviction, noting the hardness of Joe Jack's eyes.
“Don't you ever call me that.” Joe Jack swung the empty bottle of Pappy, striking the man on the temple.
The bottle shattered.
The man crumpled.
“Bout time I got going to Yazoo City, anyway.”
---
Evert Hintwinch stirred in his berth, bumping his head on the wall behind his bed. Oh, the glories of travel. He dressed, and noticed Lulu had departed at some earlier point. Must have gone back to some dirt farm along the route, he figured. It was not long before he noticed his watch fob had also departed at some point in the night, along with the contents of his wallet. As the train arrived in Yazoo City, he made a note to dock Junior for both.
He exited the train, offering a mumbled “thanks, boy” and nothing else to the porter who handed him his baggage. The porter glowered at Hintwinch's back.
Hintwinch lit a cigar as he surveyed the landscape. The train station, such as it was, stood opposite what must have been main street, a rangy collection of one story buildings. Shacks, Hintwinch thought, exhaling smoke at them. He watched a dusty man in overalls ramble by across the street. Probably the mayor, Hintwinch thought. He had to time to kill, and caught up with the man.
“Pardon me, my good man, but where is the nearest watering hole?”
---
Joe Jack was doing ninety down Highway 49, headed toward Yazoo City, his eyes mostly able to focus. He had the top of his 1947 Ford Sportsman down, and was enjoying the rush down the two lanes. He swerved between cars, howling and laughing at their honking.
That kudzu's really getting out of control, he thought, as police lights lit up in his rear view mirror. “Damn,” he said, and laughed. He gulped from the bottle of Pappy in his hand and howled along with the siren. He pumped the gas pedal. His fingers slid up and down the steering wheel. The Sportsman roared away.
When the police lights were no longer visible, Joe Jack swerved around a hog truck and pulled off the road, coming to rest next to a tree. He jumped into the back seat, spilling Pappy around the interior of the Ford.
The police came to a stop in front of his Ford. The officers left their vehicle, drew their pistols, and approached Joe Jack's car. They looked in.
“Oh, thank the good Lord you gentlemen got here in time,” Joe Jack said.
“Hey,” said one of the policemen, “you're that singer feller.” They holstered their weapons. “I saw you in Itta Bena.”
“Yes, officer, I'm Joe Jack Mason, the Hawk, in the flesh.” He sat up, and set the bottle between his legs. “You gentlemen have saved the life of a genuine, guaranteer-ied music great.”
The officers looked at each other.
Joe Jack pointed off into the woods. “He took off that way.”
The other policeman spoke. “Wait, who did?”
“The madman that stole my car, yessir. You got here just in time.” Joe Jack kept a straight face. “He said he didn't like my music. Said he was gonna kill me, and dump my Ford.” Joe Jack took a drink. “I'm just glad you got here in time.”
The officers looked at each other again. “Better check that out, Floyd,” one said. The other headed off into the woods.
“Also, I gotta be in Yazoo City tonight. I'm due at Hobson's, and I ain't in no drivin' shape. How's 'bout you take me? I'd hate to spoil the crowd's night.” Joe Jack raised his eyebrows.
The officer obliged.
---
“Wine, wine, wine,” Joe Jack sang, drubbing the keys. He howled. “Pass that bottle to me.” He cocked a leg and kicked the final keys with his heels. The crowd wailed. Joe Jack faced them, said nothing, and walked off stage.
Hintwinch was waiting in Joe Jack's dressing room. “Hell of a version of 'Drinkin' Wine Spo-dee O'Dee,' Mr. Mason.” It was a small room, a glorified bathroom with a vanity mirror and a chair. He thought the music coarse, but such were the times. He regretted not having his fob to toy with.
“Yup,” said Joe Jack, staring at him. “The Hawk don't play no other kind of music. What's your point?” He sat down,
“A great like you ought to be on the radio. Oughta have hit records. Oughta be rich, and famous.”
“Yup,” said Joe Jack, staring at him. “What's your point?”
“Let me introduce myself.” Hintwinch grabbed the bottle of Old Fitzgerald he purchased for the occasion. “You a drinking man?”
“You a breathin' man?” Joe Jack put his heels on the counter, looked at the mirror, and resumed staring at Hintwinch.
Hintwinch poured two glasses and set the bottle down on the counter. “My name is Evert Hintwinch. I'm president of Excelsior Records.” Hayseed ought to be an easy sell. “Perhaps you haven't heard of us.”
“Got that right.” Joe Jack snorted.
“We're one of the larger labels in the New York City area. Perhaps you've heard of Guy Mitchell?”
“Hell, no.” Joe Jack's eyes turned to himself. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“He's just had a hit with 'Belle, Belle, My Liberty Belle.' He's a wealthy man now.” Hintwinch pulled two cigars from his jacket pocket. “Cigar, Mr. Mason?”
Joe Jack grabbed one. “I'm the Hawk.” He bit into it, and waited for Hintwinch to light it. Hintwinch lit it.
“Well, Hawk, point is, I can make you a wealthy man.” He lit his own cigar, exhaling at the ceiling. Chawbacon won't even have a lawyer, he thought. I can't lose.
Annabelle entered the room. “Joe Jack?” she said. She stopped suddenly, staring at the two.
“Lulu?” said Hintwinch, looking at Annabelle. His mouth opened. Smoke drifted out, slowly.
“Annabelle?” said Joe Jack.
“McGonigle?” said Annabelle, looking at Hintwinch. Her mouth tightened.
“Hintwinch?” said Joe Jack, looking at Hintwinch, his eyes kindling. “Doggone it, Annabelle. Again?”
Hintwinch stiffened. “Now, now, remember, we're talking about your career here.”
Joe Jack put his feet on the floor. “Doggone it.” He stood up, and drained his bourbon.
Hintwinch puffed desperately at his cigar. “I'm going to make you one wealthy fella, here.” He backed into a corner, straddling the toilet. “Calm down, boy.”
Joe Jack stiffened. “Don't call me that.”
Annabelle looked at her nails. “He is offering some money, Hawk.”
Joe Jack grabbed the bottle of Old Fitzgerald, took a swig, and broke it on the counter. He advanced on Hintwinch. Hintwinch thought of Professor Babbitt. Economics just didn't cover punk situations like this.
“C'mon, now. 'Jellyroll Boogie' will be riding on top of Billboard in a matter of weeks.” Hintwinch began to look pale. “Be reasonable, boy.”
“Don't you ever call me that,” Joe Jack said, driving the neck of the bottle into Hintwinch's throat. “Shake that jellyroll.”
Hintwinch gurgled. This would definitely come out of Junior's salary. He leaned against the wall, and slid down, collapsing upon the toilet.
“Dammit, Hawk,” said Annabelle. “He was our ticket outta here.”
Joe Jack threw Hintwinch on the ground and opened up the toilet tank. He pulled out a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Private Reserve and opened it.
“Shut up, baby,” Joe Jack said, taking a pull of Pappy. He threw his cigar down and ground it into the tile. “I gotta make it to Tuscaloosa by tomorrow night.”
Why?
"Jellyroll Boogie"
Evert Hintwinch was hung over. Temporarily. He had arrived at his office rather the worse for the worthless 'talent' exhibition of the previous evening. Scotch enough to pickle a king, and nothing to show for it but more Sinatra imitators. And that beanpole bastard hadn't done anything since before the war, anyway. The president of Excelsior Records deserved better than punk crooning and a headache.
Excelsior Records was little more than the seven rooms above an uptown Manhattan laundromat. Reclining at his desk, Hintwinch cursed his luck, the world, and his hangover. The first he blamed on his A&R men, the fools that told him hillbilly music and race records would never make it big. The second and third he addressed by the same means: he opened the top left drawer of his desk and spilled some Old Fitzgerald into his coffee. Slim Cochran had begged him for a contract. He lit his second cigar, well before its intended lunchtime appointment.
His secretary cautiously stuck her head into his office, remembering the times she had dodged hurled bottles. “Mr. Hintwinch?”
“Grace, whatever it is, not now. It's cigar time.” He sipped his coffee around his cigar, twitching slightly.
“Your son is here to see you, sir.”
“That moron's back from Mississippi already? Better have something better than the Whiffles this time. Biggest gawdamt waste of...”
Hintwinch, Jr. walked into the room, as Grace moused away.
“Ah, favorite son,” Hintwinch said, approximating a smile. “What've you got this time, boy? Not another barbershop quartet, I hope.”
“Aww, gee, Pop, I'm sorry already.” The younger Hintwinch stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders. “I promise I found something real swell this time. I couldn't wait another second to come back up here and tell ya about him. I know how sore y'are about the Slim Cochran thing, and this fella I found makes him look like a real fuddy-duddy. Plays the piano like gangbusters!”
“Now, boy, I've told you, jazz is through.” He puffed his cigar. “We need a Perry Como.”
“Shucks, pop, it's not like that. Joe Jack Mason's like one of them rhythm and blues fellas. He's real keen, I promise.” Junior rocked back and forth on his toes. “The kids there go nuts over him. You just gotta see Joe Jack!”
Hintwinch took a slug of his coffee and considered the portrait of Warren Harding that scowled at him. He put his feet down. “It's coming out of your pay if he's another schmuck. Where's he playing?”
“Hobson's Big House, tomorrow night, in Yazoo City. You won't regret it, pop, I swear!”
---
That night, in Moorhead, Mississippi, Joe Jack Mason knocked over a piano bench in a juke joint, like a mule kicking a snapping mutt. He howled and slid his fingers up the keyboard, drawing the same coos and moans as the previous two hours. He never questioned why jukes bent so to his will. It was simply meant to happen, much like his whiskey breakfasts.
“Aww, ladies and gents, cats and kittens, rockers and rollers, swingers and sinners, it's been fun, it's been fun.”
The crowd moaned.
“Joe Jack's had some rockin' fun, some killin' times, some real swingin' times at the fabulous Stepchild Lounge, but even the Hawk must eventually fold his wings.”
“But I love you,” yelled a woman in the crowd, the seventh of the night.
“Aww, don't think the Hawk don't love you, too, baby. I'm gonna do this one for you,” he said. “How 'bout you break down and shake that jellyroll for me, babe?”
He slid his fingers up the keyboard again, this time breaking into “Jellyroll Boogie,” his favorite song since he had first heard it blaring from a whorehouse, when, aged eight, he had taken a trip across town to hear the source of the music his folks always put down.
“All right, shake it one time now.” His fingers peacocked across the keyboard, releasing the boogie woogie that seemed to run up and down his spine. Joe Jack thought of being thrown out of Kosciusko Baptist College for blaspheming “How Great Thou Art” three years previously, and rolled his tongue in defiance. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
The crowd cavorted, grinding and twisting, following the lead of the boogie. Joe Jack took a swig from his coke bottle and poured the rest of its clear contents in the body of his piano.
“Jellyroll boogie gonna set you on fire,” he sang. He struck a match and threw it into the piano. The corn liquor became hellfire. Joe Jack continued to play, the tune warping as the piano burned. The bleached tips of his hair fell across his forehead. “You better get down on your knees and shake that jellyroll.” He ran his right hand through his hair, pushing it back, as his left continued to play the tune. He returned to his scales, and saw the piano to its fiery doom. “Jellyroll gonna save your soul.”
“Follow that,” he mumbled to no one in particular, and staggered triumphantly off stage.
---
Meanwhile, Evert Hintwinch sat in the lounge car of a train headed for Mississippi. He watched the smoke from his cigar drift toward the ceiling and considered the new pursuit. Blasted son of his had no sense. Hintwinch had had sense. He'd had sense if he had anything. Hard to grow up in Ohio and end up any other way. He remembered the day he left his hometown for Ohio State. Punk hometown wasn't worth thinking about. He blocked the aroma of the paper mill from his mind. He'd had a time at college, but bingo. And they said studying business would be dry.
He chuckled softly and took a sip of his Heaven Hill, thinking of Professor Babbitt and his economics class. They didn't call him Engaging Evert for nothing...
“This seat taken, sweet pea?”
Evert stirred and his eyes focused on the source of the words. Quite the fresh young thing. “Oh, not at all, madam.” He stood up and pulled out the chair for her. “By all means.” Nothing like the bosom of the corn fed, he thought. Twin fawns grazing, I believe it goes. “Evert McGonigle's the name.” He kissed her hand.
“Well, ain't you just treating me like a starlet.” Annabelle eyed the gold fob hanging out the vest of his grey flannel suit. Probably got more money on him than Joe Jack. “I'm Lulu.”
“Well, Lulu, surely you are something of the kind.” A porter walked by, casting them a side-long glance. Hintwinch saw some promise in the trip. “Southbound from New York and all. You must be researching a role for a picture.”
Annabelle giggled. “Li'l ol' Lulu? Why, I got on at Philadelphia. I'm just trying to get me some work as a chorus girl.”
Hintwinch put an elbow on the rail against the wall. He thought of Gerda seeing him off that morning, wrapped loosely in a bathrobe, her hair in curlers.
“Hope you don't mind me smoking.” He puffed his cigar. “Funny you mention, though. It just so happens I'm one of the biggest Broadway producers in New York City.” He sipped his bourbon. Here's to the lass in every port, he thought.
“You don't say.” She was fairly certain his handkerchief was silk.
“Why, Lulu, I'll have you know that ol' Evert McGonigle discovered Doris Day. I'm working on a new show right now, in fact. The, uh, it's right at the tip of my tongue...”
Annabelle enjoyed the gleam of the hanging light off of his bald head.
“Ah, The Libertine. It's all Playbill is talking about this season.” Satisfied, he took another pull off of his cigar.
“Why, there ain't no chance you could find a spot for an a-spiring chorus girl like me, is there?” She smiled. He's a prize winner, she thought.
“Well, now, there just might be. I have a private berth here. What say we head back there and talk it over, Lulu.” He
finished his bourbon. And here's to the port wine in every lass, he thought.
“Golly, could we?” Sure beats churning butter, she thought.
---
Joe Jack awoke, stretched, and blinked his eyes cautiously. He eyed the empty bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Private Reserve that had served as a pillow, and looked around the hotel room. “Get the hell out of my room,” he said, noticing the girl. Must have been a good night.
She yawned. “Oh, Joe Jack. Stop kidding around.”
Joe Jack stood up. “Shut up, baby. The Hawk ain't no clown. I gotta be in Yazoo City by nightfall. Get out.” He kicked at empty bottles, until he found one half-filled with ol' Pappy. He idly tossed an empty bottle at the girl and opened the door, discovering the bottle of orange juice he had ordered the day before.
“See you soon, right, Joe Jack, darlin'?” The girl was hastily dressing.
Joe Jack looked up from mixing his orange juice and bourbon. “You never know where the Hawk's gonna fly, baby. Git.”
She left.
He tipped back and gulped a good half of the wan mixture. “How great I am,” he sang. Annabelle missed a helluva night. He reached low, holding the notes, “how great I am.” Kosciusko didn't miss him, and the feeling was mutual. He thought of his childhood. Glorified shack. He always had known he was destined for better. He'd be wearing purple any ol' day now. He thought of Kosciusko again. That cousin of his. Graduate from Kosciusko and suddenly he has the right to bother the Hawk about his lifestyle.
He realized he had finished the bottle, and heard a pounding at the door.
“The Hawk's busy,” he called out, searching the room for another bottle. The door burst open, and a man tromped into the room. Looks like he's right off the plow, Joe Jack thought. Dirty overalls and all.
“I hear you been runnin' round with my Blanche,” the man said, walking up to Joe Jack.
“She that red headed number?” Joe Jack was more concerned with the lack of Pappy Van Winkle. He carried the empty bottle around, hoping to exchange it for a loaded brother.
“You sonuvabitch,” the man said, following Joe Jack around. “You turn around and talk to me like a man.”
“The Hawk flies on the winds, feller” Joe Jack continued to amble around the room. “Now help me find some bourbon in here or I'll whup ya.”
“Boy, you pay me mind when I'm talking to you.”
Joe Jack stiffened and turned around. “Don't you call me that.”
“Stay the hell away from my girl,” the man said, with less conviction, noting the hardness of Joe Jack's eyes.
“Don't you ever call me that.” Joe Jack swung the empty bottle of Pappy, striking the man on the temple.
The bottle shattered.
The man crumpled.
“Bout time I got going to Yazoo City, anyway.”
---
Evert Hintwinch stirred in his berth, bumping his head on the wall behind his bed. Oh, the glories of travel. He dressed, and noticed Lulu had departed at some earlier point. Must have gone back to some dirt farm along the route, he figured. It was not long before he noticed his watch fob had also departed at some point in the night, along with the contents of his wallet. As the train arrived in Yazoo City, he made a note to dock Junior for both.
He exited the train, offering a mumbled “thanks, boy” and nothing else to the porter who handed him his baggage. The porter glowered at Hintwinch's back.
Hintwinch lit a cigar as he surveyed the landscape. The train station, such as it was, stood opposite what must have been main street, a rangy collection of one story buildings. Shacks, Hintwinch thought, exhaling smoke at them. He watched a dusty man in overalls ramble by across the street. Probably the mayor, Hintwinch thought. He had to time to kill, and caught up with the man.
“Pardon me, my good man, but where is the nearest watering hole?”
---
Joe Jack was doing ninety down Highway 49, headed toward Yazoo City, his eyes mostly able to focus. He had the top of his 1947 Ford Sportsman down, and was enjoying the rush down the two lanes. He swerved between cars, howling and laughing at their honking.
That kudzu's really getting out of control, he thought, as police lights lit up in his rear view mirror. “Damn,” he said, and laughed. He gulped from the bottle of Pappy in his hand and howled along with the siren. He pumped the gas pedal. His fingers slid up and down the steering wheel. The Sportsman roared away.
When the police lights were no longer visible, Joe Jack swerved around a hog truck and pulled off the road, coming to rest next to a tree. He jumped into the back seat, spilling Pappy around the interior of the Ford.
The police came to a stop in front of his Ford. The officers left their vehicle, drew their pistols, and approached Joe Jack's car. They looked in.
“Oh, thank the good Lord you gentlemen got here in time,” Joe Jack said.
“Hey,” said one of the policemen, “you're that singer feller.” They holstered their weapons. “I saw you in Itta Bena.”
“Yes, officer, I'm Joe Jack Mason, the Hawk, in the flesh.” He sat up, and set the bottle between his legs. “You gentlemen have saved the life of a genuine, guaranteer-ied music great.”
The officers looked at each other.
Joe Jack pointed off into the woods. “He took off that way.”
The other policeman spoke. “Wait, who did?”
“The madman that stole my car, yessir. You got here just in time.” Joe Jack kept a straight face. “He said he didn't like my music. Said he was gonna kill me, and dump my Ford.” Joe Jack took a drink. “I'm just glad you got here in time.”
The officers looked at each other again. “Better check that out, Floyd,” one said. The other headed off into the woods.
“Also, I gotta be in Yazoo City tonight. I'm due at Hobson's, and I ain't in no drivin' shape. How's 'bout you take me? I'd hate to spoil the crowd's night.” Joe Jack raised his eyebrows.
The officer obliged.
---
“Wine, wine, wine,” Joe Jack sang, drubbing the keys. He howled. “Pass that bottle to me.” He cocked a leg and kicked the final keys with his heels. The crowd wailed. Joe Jack faced them, said nothing, and walked off stage.
Hintwinch was waiting in Joe Jack's dressing room. “Hell of a version of 'Drinkin' Wine Spo-dee O'Dee,' Mr. Mason.” It was a small room, a glorified bathroom with a vanity mirror and a chair. He thought the music coarse, but such were the times. He regretted not having his fob to toy with.
“Yup,” said Joe Jack, staring at him. “The Hawk don't play no other kind of music. What's your point?” He sat down,
“A great like you ought to be on the radio. Oughta have hit records. Oughta be rich, and famous.”
“Yup,” said Joe Jack, staring at him. “What's your point?”
“Let me introduce myself.” Hintwinch grabbed the bottle of Old Fitzgerald he purchased for the occasion. “You a drinking man?”
“You a breathin' man?” Joe Jack put his heels on the counter, looked at the mirror, and resumed staring at Hintwinch.
Hintwinch poured two glasses and set the bottle down on the counter. “My name is Evert Hintwinch. I'm president of Excelsior Records.” Hayseed ought to be an easy sell. “Perhaps you haven't heard of us.”
“Got that right.” Joe Jack snorted.
“We're one of the larger labels in the New York City area. Perhaps you've heard of Guy Mitchell?”
“Hell, no.” Joe Jack's eyes turned to himself. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“He's just had a hit with 'Belle, Belle, My Liberty Belle.' He's a wealthy man now.” Hintwinch pulled two cigars from his jacket pocket. “Cigar, Mr. Mason?”
Joe Jack grabbed one. “I'm the Hawk.” He bit into it, and waited for Hintwinch to light it. Hintwinch lit it.
“Well, Hawk, point is, I can make you a wealthy man.” He lit his own cigar, exhaling at the ceiling. Chawbacon won't even have a lawyer, he thought. I can't lose.
Annabelle entered the room. “Joe Jack?” she said. She stopped suddenly, staring at the two.
“Lulu?” said Hintwinch, looking at Annabelle. His mouth opened. Smoke drifted out, slowly.
“Annabelle?” said Joe Jack.
“McGonigle?” said Annabelle, looking at Hintwinch. Her mouth tightened.
“Hintwinch?” said Joe Jack, looking at Hintwinch, his eyes kindling. “Doggone it, Annabelle. Again?”
Hintwinch stiffened. “Now, now, remember, we're talking about your career here.”
Joe Jack put his feet on the floor. “Doggone it.” He stood up, and drained his bourbon.
Hintwinch puffed desperately at his cigar. “I'm going to make you one wealthy fella, here.” He backed into a corner, straddling the toilet. “Calm down, boy.”
Joe Jack stiffened. “Don't call me that.”
Annabelle looked at her nails. “He is offering some money, Hawk.”
Joe Jack grabbed the bottle of Old Fitzgerald, took a swig, and broke it on the counter. He advanced on Hintwinch. Hintwinch thought of Professor Babbitt. Economics just didn't cover punk situations like this.
“C'mon, now. 'Jellyroll Boogie' will be riding on top of Billboard in a matter of weeks.” Hintwinch began to look pale. “Be reasonable, boy.”
“Don't you ever call me that,” Joe Jack said, driving the neck of the bottle into Hintwinch's throat. “Shake that jellyroll.”
Hintwinch gurgled. This would definitely come out of Junior's salary. He leaned against the wall, and slid down, collapsing upon the toilet.
“Dammit, Hawk,” said Annabelle. “He was our ticket outta here.”
Joe Jack threw Hintwinch on the ground and opened up the toilet tank. He pulled out a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Private Reserve and opened it.
“Shut up, baby,” Joe Jack said, taking a pull of Pappy. He threw his cigar down and ground it into the tile. “I gotta make it to Tuscaloosa by tomorrow night.”
Why?
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