Nighthawk Blues Read Free

the tour in the first place. But Jerry had seen it as the opportunity for one last payday. In the ten years that he and Hawk had been associated, trends and styles had several times changed, and the wave of nostalgia which had unearthed the great blues singers in their sixties and seventies had now passed on to something else, bookings were fewer and farther between, and old black men were no longer fashionable on campus. Jerry didn’t tell Hawk any of this, but he had conceived of this tour as a kind of farewell appearance on campuses across the country and promoted it as such. Three old black men. The Screamin’ Nighthawk. Alex Wheatstraw. T&O “Teenochie” Slim, the piano player.
    “How about Slim?”
    Hawk mumbled something.
    “What?”
    “Ain’t nothing wrong with Mr. T&O Slim that a gag in the mouth wouldn’t cure. Man, what you send me out with that sorry-ass motherfucker for? Always getting fucked up by them pretty young things. Oh, Mr. Slim, would you teach me how to tickle them ivories? Tell me about the time Mr. Lester Melrose brung you up to Chicago so’s you could make your classic sides with Big Bill and Tampa. Tampa, shit, can’t even tie his own shoelaces, and Slim couldn’t never keep his yap shut, dawn to dusk, drunk or sober, whether he knowed what he was talking about or not, he always be shooting off about something—”
    Oh shit. Oh shit. He was going to have to go out to Indianapolis, he knew he was, he was going to have to straighten out this whole mess—
    “Well, look, how do you feel? Do you think you can hang on for a little while? I’m kind of tied up here right now, but I can catch a plane later tonight or tomorrow morning.”
    The voice on the other end audibly weakened. “Well, you know, boss, I ain’t doing all that good, really, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Why don’t you just stay where you are, I don’t require nothing, ain’t no need to call Mattie, I don’t suppose. They say it must have been some kind of shock, but I’m coming along real good now. Won’t be no time, boss, before I can get around on my own, you know.”
    Jerry had visions of old black men reproaching him in his sleep. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his responsibility. “Look, I’ll be out,” he said. “You just tell the doctors or whoever that I’ll be out, I’ll straighten it all out—”
    There was only a satisfied silence at the other end.
    He hurried to get ready, called the airport, shaved around his beard and drooping mustache, observing himself all the while with soft self-pitying brown eyes. He packed a light suitcase, called back CBS, and then explained to Stephie what was going on. He gave her careful instructions to close the office at five, put the phone on answering service, and not bother to show up until he got in touch with her in a few days. He called the wire services and tried to think of anything else there was to do, and when he couldn’t then he made the call.
    She was in New Orleans for no good reason. She had gone down there with her bass player, who was black, fifty-two years old, a junkie, a physical wreck, and had played with every prominent New Orleans musician for the last forty years. By sheer chance he got her after only a couple of calls at some old jazzman’s house. He didn’t have to explain, he knew he wouldn’t; that quality of passionate intensity that seemed so at odds with her flat self-conscious speech patterns came into play almost before he got the words out. It was the same quality that transformed her singing voice into a graceful, soaring, instinctive instrument that seemingly had little to do with plan or intention. Was there anything she could do? She’d fly out right away. She would, of course, pay for Wheatstraw’s funeral, at least help out, she insisted, when he mumbled that wasn’t necessary. Here were some numbers where she could be reached. How was Hawk? Jerry answered all the questions slowly, patiently, all the while seething