Dark End of the Street

AFTER BEING SHOT AT, killing another man, and ultimately being called a liar, about the only thing I could think of that would really soothe the problem, mend my psyche, and possibly motivate me to find the answers I was looking for was simple: a plate of ribs from the Blues City Café. I know most real hard-core barbecue folks swear by Cozy Corner on North Parkway or Payne’s down on Lamar. But although I have to admit Payne’s makes a truly beautiful pork sandwich, there is nothing like dipping your steak fries in some of that sweet molasses-fused sauce down on Beale.

I ordered a large slab. U refused to eat anything deep-fried or barbecued. Abby ordered a Coke.

“You sure you don’t want some gumbo?” U asked, polishing off the last spoonful of his. It looked like a mean batch, but I sure missed Loretta’s cooking.

Abby shook her head. She fiddled with the old watch on her wrist. It was gold and tarnished and looked like it was made for a man.

Apparently, she never quite warmed up to Bubba Cotton. He’d kept Days of Our Lives cranked to volume eleven while she stared out his window and played a little with his cat. But U said Bubba didn’t mind. U said he’d only known Bubba to say a couple of sentences in the last ten years. Bubba grunted all he wanted you to know.

I looked over at U as he pushed away his bowl and smiled.

“Better than tofu?” I asked.

“Much. Although, a little teriyaki sauce can make a tire taste good.”

He stared over at Abby and then back at me. He nodded. Slowly, keeping eye contact. It was time.

“Abby, look, I know this is tough as hell. I can’t imagine what you went through at that casino. But we need to know about those folks.”

Abby kept on with the watch. She suddenly stopped, letting it hang loose, and pulled out a couple of sugar packets from a bin on the table. She poured them into a small mountain before her and then raked through the mass with a fork. A tiny Zen garden on the table.

She never broke concentration as she shook pepper on the pure cane and mixed it through the white. She clenched her jaw as if grinding her teeth would stop whatever pain she’d endured.

“What was it?” I asked. I grabbed her hand and she pulled away. The Zen garden swept away under her hand and onto the floor.

U kept silent. He leaned back in the chair pretending not to pay attention.

“Can we walk?” she asked. “If I stay here another moment I’m going to puke. I need some air.”

“Sure,” I said, pulling out my wallet and dropping money on the table. She was already gone, through the restaurant and out the front doors to the mouth of Beale Street. I pushed through a couple of drunk businessmen in ties and plastic derbys and found her walking down a pathway. She was hugging herself. Head down.

Beale was the black business district that had recently become tourist central for the city. I loved the stories of the old sin dens, told by blues musicians who’d played Handy Park back in the day. Pool halls. Whiskey joints. Grocery stores. Pawnshops. Now the historic street was just a neon strip mall filled mainly with bars that exuded as much cultural importance as a Gap in Des Moines. Who came to Memphis to eat a burger at a Hard Rock Café? Like my old buddy Tad Pierson always says, people want to see the grit.

Funk pulsed from some no-name bar. Jazz floated from the open door of the next. A daiquiri stand advertised with a warped sheet metal sign like it was an old-time juke.

“Abby?” I yelled, finally catching her at the intersection of Rufus Thomas Boulevard. I grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the road as a horse-drawn carriage passed. “C’mon. Someone tried to kill both of us last night. Now they’re jerking me around and pretending like the whole thing was a joke. Please.”

“I need your help,” she said. “I need your word.”

“You got it.”

She was a head shorter than me and I could see the darkened roots of her hair, which was loosely parted in the middle and smelled of hotel soap. She didn’t wear makeup and her face was flushed with embarrassment like she was about to tell a dirty story that she’d begun but didn’t want anyone to hear.

“Will you go to Oxford with me?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I have a cousin,” she said, her teeth chattering. “And I can’t reach her.”

“You’re afraid they will?”

She nodded. A panhandler walked up to me and grabbed the edge of my jean jacket as a cold fall breeze shot down Beale like an icy river. He said he’d lost his bus fare and needed to see his sick wife. I didn’t turn to him but handed him a couple of bucks.

“What do they want?” I asked her.

“My parents were murdered. I left town and came back a few days ago to get some of my dad’s things. They were waiting for me.”

“Who was your dad?”

“A lawyer.”

“Why would they…?”

“I don’t know. I swear to you, I don’t know.” Her tired eyes grew larger as the din of the music down the street grew into a pulsing beat. The steady rhythm seemed to pick up energy and pace as a saxophonist played to an empty street.

I handed Abby my threadbare jacket.