wasn’t he? Blond?”
“Sounds like him, Billy.”
“He was a helluva player, that boy,” Billy said, still staring out the window, not seeming at all interested in what was out there. Not seeming interested in anything. The world was a rundown record.
“When did you last see him, Billy?”
“Oh, about four years or so ago. He did a gig at Rush’s, then he moved on someplace.”
“Kansas City?”
“Mighta been.” Billy slowly shook his head. “Truth is, I disremember, Nudger. But I do recall how that boy played and sang. We used to jam in at Rush’s and listen to him. He was a draw in them days, him and Jack Collinsworth and Fat Jack McGee. They all played at Rush’s.”
Nudger wasn’t really surprised. “You know Fat Jack McGee?”
Billy almost smiled. “Sure, ever’body know the fat man. Jazz be a small world, Nudger.”
“Who were Hollister’s friends while he played in St. Louis?” Nudger asked.
“No friends. Hollister kept to himself by himself. Except for that Jacqui.”
“Jacqui?”
“Yeah, spelled it with a q-u-i , said she was some kinda Indian. No chance, the way she looked.”
“Do you remember her last name?”
“James. Jacqui James. Not her real name, I suspect. But then neither is Weep my real name.”
“Tell me about her, Billy.”
“She was a lady in the old true sense, Nudger. She sang a bit, but not much,’cause she knew she didn’t have it musically. What she did have was Hollister.”
Nudger sat down in an ancient wing chair with perpetually exploding cotton batting and leaned toward Billy. “Where can I find Jacqui James?”
Billy laughed a weak, airless kind of chuckle that was almost a gurgle. He didn’t have much lung left. “Ain’t nobody can find Jacqui James. She just up and went one day. Nobody ever found out where.”
“What about Hollister?”
“What about him? He was heart-an’-soul wrecked by her leavin’ like that, Nudger. You could hear the pain of it in his music when he finally admitted to himself that she was gone for good. He played real blues then. The best blues played in them days was at Rush’s, but none better than Willy Hollister’s blues.”
“Then you think he really loved this Jacqui James.”
Billy’s wide bloodless lips curled up in the cruel light. “Ain’t no doubt he loved her, Nudger.”
“Do you think he might have had anything to do with her disappearance?” Nudger asked.
Billy shook his head slowly. “Naw, that boy wouldn’t have done nothin’ to hurt Jacqui. She just up an’ gone one day, Nudger. Jacqui was like that. Pretty girl, red hair and green eyes, heart like a cottonwood seed . . . driftin’ here an’ away in the easiest wind . . .
Nudger stood up. He had to get out of there, away from the heat and stench. He wished he could get Billy away, but he knew it was useless to try. He wondered what the frail, used-up jazz man was taking that had eaten him up so from the inside.
“Thanks, Billy,” Nudger put his hands in his pockets. “You, uh...?”
“I don’t need nothin’, Nudger. I thank you, but I don’t. Never did. I’ll continue on that way, if you please.”
Nudger smiled down at him. “Okay. And I was going to offer you an air conditioner for that window.”
Billy grinned a toothy, yellow grin at him. “Your ass, you was, Nudger. The landlord here don’t allow no air conditioners. Anyways, you could never even afford a down payment on your bar tab.”
Nudger spread his arms slightly in a brief, helpless gesture. “That hasn’t changed, except from time to time.” He moved toward the door. The man under the car across the street began banging a hammer in slow rhythm against metal.
“Poverty’s a disease, Nudger, an’ you only got the sniffles.” Billy waved a misshapen dark hand around in an encompassing gesture. “This here’s what you got to look forward to if you don’t straighten out your act. Let me warn you, this is what happens to everybody’s good old
“Sounds like him, Billy.”
“He was a helluva player, that boy,” Billy said, still staring out the window, not seeming at all interested in what was out there. Not seeming interested in anything. The world was a rundown record.
“When did you last see him, Billy?”
“Oh, about four years or so ago. He did a gig at Rush’s, then he moved on someplace.”
“Kansas City?”
“Mighta been.” Billy slowly shook his head. “Truth is, I disremember, Nudger. But I do recall how that boy played and sang. We used to jam in at Rush’s and listen to him. He was a draw in them days, him and Jack Collinsworth and Fat Jack McGee. They all played at Rush’s.”
Nudger wasn’t really surprised. “You know Fat Jack McGee?”
Billy almost smiled. “Sure, ever’body know the fat man. Jazz be a small world, Nudger.”
“Who were Hollister’s friends while he played in St. Louis?” Nudger asked.
“No friends. Hollister kept to himself by himself. Except for that Jacqui.”
“Jacqui?”
“Yeah, spelled it with a q-u-i , said she was some kinda Indian. No chance, the way she looked.”
“Do you remember her last name?”
“James. Jacqui James. Not her real name, I suspect. But then neither is Weep my real name.”
“Tell me about her, Billy.”
“She was a lady in the old true sense, Nudger. She sang a bit, but not much,’cause she knew she didn’t have it musically. What she did have was Hollister.”
Nudger sat down in an ancient wing chair with perpetually exploding cotton batting and leaned toward Billy. “Where can I find Jacqui James?”
Billy laughed a weak, airless kind of chuckle that was almost a gurgle. He didn’t have much lung left. “Ain’t nobody can find Jacqui James. She just up and went one day. Nobody ever found out where.”
“What about Hollister?”
“What about him? He was heart-an’-soul wrecked by her leavin’ like that, Nudger. You could hear the pain of it in his music when he finally admitted to himself that she was gone for good. He played real blues then. The best blues played in them days was at Rush’s, but none better than Willy Hollister’s blues.”
“Then you think he really loved this Jacqui James.”
Billy’s wide bloodless lips curled up in the cruel light. “Ain’t no doubt he loved her, Nudger.”
“Do you think he might have had anything to do with her disappearance?” Nudger asked.
Billy shook his head slowly. “Naw, that boy wouldn’t have done nothin’ to hurt Jacqui. She just up an’ gone one day, Nudger. Jacqui was like that. Pretty girl, red hair and green eyes, heart like a cottonwood seed . . . driftin’ here an’ away in the easiest wind . . .
Nudger stood up. He had to get out of there, away from the heat and stench. He wished he could get Billy away, but he knew it was useless to try. He wondered what the frail, used-up jazz man was taking that had eaten him up so from the inside.
“Thanks, Billy,” Nudger put his hands in his pockets. “You, uh...?”
“I don’t need nothin’, Nudger. I thank you, but I don’t. Never did. I’ll continue on that way, if you please.”
Nudger smiled down at him. “Okay. And I was going to offer you an air conditioner for that window.”
Billy grinned a toothy, yellow grin at him. “Your ass, you was, Nudger. The landlord here don’t allow no air conditioners. Anyways, you could never even afford a down payment on your bar tab.”
Nudger spread his arms slightly in a brief, helpless gesture. “That hasn’t changed, except from time to time.” He moved toward the door. The man under the car across the street began banging a hammer in slow rhythm against metal.
“Poverty’s a disease, Nudger, an’ you only got the sniffles.” Billy waved a misshapen dark hand around in an encompassing gesture. “This here’s what you got to look forward to if you don’t straighten out your act. Let me warn you, this is what happens to everybody’s good old
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