Searching for Caleb

The following morning, he was up unusually early. He ate breakfast in a coffee shop near where he had been the night before, and he strolled past the same bars, but they were closed now. Farther down, an aproned man was sweeping the entrance of a strip joint that looked cheerful and homely by daylight. "Tell me," Eli said to him. "You know that little old bar back there? Easy Livin'?"

The man squinted. "What about it?"

"You know what time it opens?"

"Most likely not till evening," said the man. "You got a wait, fellow."

"Well, thank you," Eli said.

This morning he did not delve any further into the archives of jazz. He bought a paper and read it in a park. He had a second cup of coffee and a glazed doughnut. Then when the movies opened, 'he toured the city catching Jimmy Stewart films. Eli very much admired Jimmy Stewart. , At six o'clock he had a plate of scrambled eggs in a diner, followed by another cup of coffee and apple pie a la mode, then he set off toward Easy Livin'-on foot, since it wasn't far. He took his time. He nodded soberly as he walked and he looked about him with $ well-meaning expression such as Jimmy Steward might have worn. When he reached his destination, he straightened his string tie before stepping through the battered door. , Easy Livin' was dark even now, when it was barely twilight. There was a bar with a brass rail, a few scarred tables, and at the end of the room a raw wooden platform for the entertainers. At the moment, there were no other customers. Only a boy behind the bar, and on the platform the black man who had sung the night before. He was squatting to hitch up some sort of electrical wire. He didn't even look around when Eli came up behind him, "Say," said Eli. "Could I ask about a song?"

The singer grunted and then rose, brushing off his dungarees. He said, "This here is not one of them jazz joints, baby. Go on up the street."

"Last night you were singing," Eli said.

"Only the blues."

"Ah," said Eli, who did not see the difference. He pondered a moment. The singer looked down at him with his hands on his hips. "Well," Eli said, "you were singing this here song I was wondering about."

"Which."

"Song about a train."

"All songs got trains," the singer said patiently.

"Song about Whisky Alley."

"Mm-hmm."

"You recall it?" Eli asked.

"I sung it, didn't I?"

"You know who wrote it?"

"Now how would I know that?" the singer said, but then, all of a sudden:

"Stringtail Man."

"Who?"

"The Stringtail Man."

"Well, who was that?"

"I don't know. White fellow."

"But he's got to have a name," Eli said.

"Naw. Not that I ever knew of. White fellow with a fiddle."

"A fiddle," said Eli. "Well-I mean, ain't that a little peculiar for jazz?"

"Blues," said the singer.

"Blues, then."

'"Now I don't know a thing more than what I told you," said the singer.

But he hunkered down, anyway, getting closer to Eli's level. "This fellow was away back, long before my time. He was lead man for White-Eye, old colored guitar man that used to play the streets. Now White-Eye was blind and the fiddler would lead him around. But whenever he fiddled, looked like the music just got into him somewhat and he would commence to dancing. Old White-Eye would hear the notes hopping to one side and then to the other and sometimes roaming off entirely if the music was fast and the fiddler dancing fast to match. So White-Eye hitched his self to the fiddler's belt by means of a string, which is how we come by the Stringtail Man. Anybody roundabouts can tell you that much."

"I see," said Eli.

"How come you to ask?"

"Well, there used to be this tavern in Baltimore, Maryland, called Whisky Alley," Eli said. "Close by the waterfront."

"So?"

"You don't recollect where this Stringtail fellow was from, by any chance."

"Naw."

"Well, how about White-Eye?"

"Him neither."

"No, his name. Didn't he have a name?"

"White-Eye. White-Eye. White-Eye-Ramford!" said the singer, snapping his fingers. "Didn't know I could do it."

"I'm very much obliged," Eli said. He dug down in his trousers pocket.

"Can I buy you a Dr. Pepper?"

The singer looked at him for a moment. "Naw, baby," he said finally.

"Well, thanks, then."

"Nothing to it."