Southern Gods (4 page)

“Sure, Mr. Phelps. I keep busy. I run errands for Mr. Corso, the usual stuff.”

Phelps eyes brightened, and he leaned a little closer to Ingram in his seat.

“You go out and find folks who owe Corso money?”

Ingram remained silent.

“How hard is it to find folks?”

Ingram looked around the room. It was a mess. He thought about it for a moment and then said, “Not too hard. People can’t help talking. Nobody’s gonna uproot their life for a couple hundred bucks. And that’s what you’d have to do to get away from Mr. Corso. He’s gonna find you.”

“But you’re the one who does the finding?”

“Sometimes.”

Phelps smiled at the admission. He kept staring at Ingram intently, calculating. Then, as if he’d come to some conclusion in his internal dialogue, Phelps stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“OK, hoss. That’s fine. Lemme tellya a little bit about what we do around here, and then I’ll tellya what you’re gonna do for me.”

Phelps took a deep breath. “I come from Alabama, used to DJ down there. Didn’t come from no rich parents, and I worked hard every day growing up, out in the field, helping my family raise the crops. But I knew sure as shit from a very early age that I wasn’t going to be a farmer. I was too smart for that; I was a listener. I could hear things other people couldn’t hear, changes in voices, true meanings behind the words.”

Phelps smoothed his pants, stretched his back a bit, and resumed. “Now, I ain’t saying I was some kinda psychic or anything like that. I just got a good knack of hearing what’s behind the words, the tones, that people say… you know, son?”

Ingram found it strange to be called son by a man who, from the looks of him, couldn’t be more than three or four years older than him.

“You ever spoken with someone, and knew, just knew, that he was lying, or he was telling the truth but there was something behind that truth that he wasn’t telling? Or you just knew from the sound of his voice that he didn’t wish you no good? Huh?”

Ingram thought about some of the men he served with. “I reckon so. Couple of times at least.”

“Well, I’m good at it. Better than most. Might be the reason I became a DJ.”

He pulled open a drawer and removed a bottle of Wild Turkey. Phelps poured them both generous glasses.

Phelps drained his glass. “I’ve got some trouble I need you to take care of for me. The first is one of my boys is missing and I need you to find him.”

He pulled a picture from the same drawer and threw it on Ingram’s lap with a quick jerk of his wrist. Startled, Ingram took the picture carefully in his hand, trying not to smudge the glossy surface. In the picture, a lean man with a goofy smile and a blond crew-cut stood next to a black man in a shiny suit, guitar in hand. Obviously taken in the studio.

“Which one am I supposed to find?” Ingram asked.

“The white one, of course, son. Keep up with me. His name is Earle Freeman. We call him Early cause he’s always late. He’s a good kid, one of my scouts. Served in the Army, did his time and got through it, knows how to handle himself in a fight, and in general, a good man to have around. I sent him out hitting all the stations in Arkansas with the new presses of Sonny Burgess and Billy Lee Riley. Forty-fives.”

At the blank look on Ingram’s face, Phelps said, “Bull, it’s rhythm and blues. Ain’t you ever heard of it? Negro music. And it’s pure gold, let me tell you, gonna make me rich and Sonny and Billy too.”

He paused. “Don’t you know what I do here, son?” He sighed and then took another drag off of his cigarette. “What I do here is record black music. The boys come in, I flip this switch right here, and the microphones pick up all the sounds around them. Then we get records made of the songs we recorded. We send ’em out all over the South, to all the radio stations we can find.

“I started this company last year, and we’re going cannonballs right now. I sent out Early with a box of forty-fives of this music—”

“That the music you were listening to when I came in?”

“You like that? Yes, that’s the music. I sent Early out with a box of these here forty-fives and two grand to hit as many radio stations as he can. Now he’s two weeks late getting back and his wife hasn’t heard from him for a least ten days. I’m out a good man and two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand dollars seems like a lot of money for traveling around Arkansas. Ain’t like there’s nice hotels over there.”

“Well, the money isn’t all for traveling, if you know what I mean.” Phelps smiled. “It’s for promoting Helios artists and Helios products, that’s what it’s for.”

“I don’t follow, Mr. Phelps.”

“Well,” Phelps drawled, “Early drives around, might be Arkansas, might be Mississippi, might be Louisiana, just wherever we need more of a radio presence, and he visits every station, big or small—and, son, there’s some goddamned small stations peppering the countryside, especially in Arkansas. You go west and cross the 70 bridge, it’s like you’re entering a whole different country over there, and it ain’t friendly and it ain’t even making any attempts at joining the rest of the civilized world, except for buying radios. But they sure do love their race music. So Early drives around and visits all the station owners, makes the deliveries of the forty-fives, and he might take the owner out to dinner, or maybe throw a little party for him, or maybe just give him a little green to hold him over. You know, son, one hand washing the other.”

Ingram knew what Phelps was talking about; he’d seen it every day since arriving in Memphis. And Mr. Phelps had enough Memphis clout to arrange this meeting through Ingram’s boss, who wasn’t a man to trifle with.

“I understand,” Ingram said.

“I’m sure you do.” Phelps poured himself more whiskey. “So I need you to find Early and get back whatever forty-fives or money’s left over and bring him back here. I’ll split whatever is left of the dough with you. But it’s not the dough that’s the important part; Early’s a good kid, and I don’t think he’d run off. Or abandon his wife. So I’m a little worried about the goddamned idiot.”

“Why didn’t you just call the cops, put in a missing person’s report?”

“Well, son, we did. But we’re having a hard time figuring out who to call. We called the Arkansas State Troopers and let them know, and they said they’d keep an eye open for anyone matching Early’s description, but we couldn’t tell them a place to look because Early drives all over Arkansas. And maybe he hadn’t been too diligent about checking in with me, which is my fault; I should’ve ridden him harder about that. Then we called the police station at Brinkley—which is Early’s last known whereabouts, about four days old from the point he went missing—and the Brinkley police force has got a whopping two men, the sheriff and his deputy, and they sounded like they was going to tear up the earth looking for Early, at least once they got through with lunch. I tell you, it’s backward over there. So we need you to find him for us; we need somebody, if Corso is to be believed, who can get the job done quick and professionally, not pass on any word of the payola and entertainment aspects of Early’s job, and most important, keep his mouth shut. You got that, son?”

Ingram nodded.

Phelps pulled out his wallet and laid out five crisp twenty dollar bills on the studio’s console. “Here’s some operating cash, for gas, lodging, food. There’s juke joints and barrelhouses all over eastern Arkansas that Early would go to and scout talent when he was on the road. Maybe you can get wind of his trail either there or at the stations. The last station I could find record of him visiting was in Brinkley, a boil on the ass of the South, that’s for sure. KBRI is its call letters, broadcasting at 1570 AM. Man by the name of Couch was Early’s contact there. You might want to talk to Early’s wife, get the low down on his last call. Here’s her address. After that, I want you to report to me twice a week.”

“See Early’s wife. Couch in Brinkley. WBRI. Report twice a week. Got it.”

The older man drank, shivered with the alcohol, and said, “That’s the first part of the job. Here’s the second. Come over here and listen to this.”

Phelps moved his chair over and manipulated the controls of a reel-to-reel recorder. The tape hissed on the spindles. Phelps turned to Ingram, hand on the machine’s controls, and said, “The past month or so, we’ve been picking up a radio station out of Arkansas. It’s a pirate radio station, which means it doesn’t obey FCC regulations, doesn’t broadcast its call letters every hour. I want you to find out where it’s coming from. Who runs it.”

Phelps gave Ingram a penetrating look. “You’ll understand a little bit more after I play this for you.” He flipped the switch, and the machine began to play.

From the speakers came harsh fumbling noises. Then silence. More noises and then Phelps’ voice saying, “Get it over here. Just get the goddamned mic and put it by the radio’s speaker! Right there—”

Scared. He’s frightened.

More thumps and static sounded. Then Phelps screeched, “Turn up the volume! Turn up the radio!”

There were more hisses and scratches, then sound came from the speakers. A guitar, liquid and buzzing. But something else was layered over it, under it.

The guitar slurred out a melody, the player’s fingers obviously dexterous, quickly alternating from finger picking to buzzing the slide, always returning to a minor melody. The guitarist kept time by stomping his feet.

Ingram shifted in his seat, fists balled into hard knots. Something was coming with the sound that he couldn’t understand.

The stomps went beyond dull treads reverberating on wood. The percussion sounded like the foot of a slave still shackled and possessed. The percussive beat held the sound of a thousand slaves, bloody and broken and murderous, each walking forward with the rattle and clank of their broken shackles, knives whisking in their hands, walking through the night under black skies. The guitar’s atonal buzz reached places in Ingram that had been deaf until then, each note curdled with madness and hatred, each measure meted out in some ethereal range that was perceived by more than ears—as if Ingram, not the radio, were the receiver and the invisible transmissions emanating out of the deep and dark fields of Arkansas held some frightening and terrible message just for him. As he listened, Ingram’s skin grew clammy, and each hair stood on end.

Beyond the sun, beyond the stars

Beyond the long black veil

It whispers in the dark

Where light and love both fail

Where do you sleep?

Where did you fall?

Beyond the sun, beyond the stars

Waiting for our call

Beyond the sun, beyond the stars

Waiting for our call

The voice sounded hurt and reluctant. The lyrics repeated until they became a chant, rising and falling over the guitar and beat, rising and falling with little variation other than a growing sense of dread. More than the rhythm, more than the guitar, the man’s voice made Ingram feel like something was wrong, like something was not right with the world and this man’s words were the first outward sign of a deeply buried, world-spanning cancer.

Whoever is singing that horrible song… he doesn’t want to. Those words hurt him. Jesus Christ.

The chanting continued, Ingram clenching his fists, grinding his jaws. He reached for his glass and downed the whiskey. He felt like the only way to make this feeling go away was to kill. Phelps or himself, it didn’t really matter.

Behind the man’s voice Ingram perceived another voice, a voice singing the same words in a harmony that made a mockery of any song that came before, that mocked any idea of love, or light or warmth.

He brought is hands in front of his face, tried to lower them, but they seemed to have a mind of their own. He turned toward Phelps.

A hiss started building, static in the signal, and Ingram heard the recording-Phelps cursing, adding his own chant. “Goddamn. Goddamn. Goddamn.” The music crescendoed, the guitar fluttering and buzzing higher and higher, the voice (or voices, Ingram couldn’t tell) pitching higher and more frantic, the percussion thumping frenetically like a body spasming on the floor.

Then silence.

Ingram breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his hands.

What was I about to do there? Kill him?

A voice, a man with polished tones, came on the recording. “That was ‘Long Black Veil,’ by Ramblin’ John Hastur, a fella known about these parts. And a perfect tune to finish the night with. To finish all nights with.” A few clicks and pops sounded, then hissing.

Phelps turned off the tape machine and looked at Ingram.

“Kinda curdles your milk, don’t it?”

“I’ll say. Never heard anything like that before. Don’t know if I ever wanna hear anything like it again.”

Phelps grinned, showing uneven teeth. “I want you to find out where that radio station is, and who made that recording. I had a couple of fellows come in here earlier today, they’re from Arkansas, and players too, and they’ve never heard of John Hastur, nor heard that tune neither. And that’s a little strange. Blues musicians are about the most unoriginal people to walk God’s green earth. They won’t write their own song if they can play someone else’s, and they know every soul that came within a hundred mile of themselves, I guess from being so vain. Anyway, neither Hubert nor Jimmy had ever heard of the ‘Long Black Veil’ before. Not this version, at least. So I want you to find this Ramblin’ John if you can. Best way to do that is to find out who’s broadcasting him. So find that radio station, and from there, we’ll find Ramblin’ John.”