Tiger Rag (5 page)

Are you Philippa Benoit?
Guideau asked the girl who answered his knock
.

You police?

No.

You don’t look like police.

I need to speak with her.

’Bout?

Are you Philippa?

No.

Can I come in?

She shook her head
. You from the landlord?

No.

And you not police.

My name is Myron Guideau. I’m a recording engineer.

A what?

I’m not the police. I need to ask Philippa about a man she was with at Mrs. Vance’s on Friday night. Late.

I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’Bout.

I think you do.

She shrugged, but he could see in her eyes she was interested. This was her, all right
. There’s a reward,
he said
.

For what?

Guideau took a silver dollar from his pocket
. Tell me about him and this is yours.

She thought about it for a moment, then opened the door
.
The room felt like a closet. Walls that had once been painted green. An oilcloth over the window. Clothes hanging on nails. A mattress. Two chairs. The smell of sweat and kerosene
.

The girl was wearing a torn shift. She was thin and flat-chested but had good legs. Guideau looked her up and down, which she was used to
.

They sat in the two chairs. Guideau unbuttoned his wet coat and waited for her to speak
.

Only man I was with Friday late was tall, good-looking. Wore a green suit. Young. Never seen him before.

How young?

Maybe nineteen.

What else?

She thought about it
. He was smoking a cigar,
she said, putting her hand out for the coin
.

What was his name?

Never said.

You’re sure?

Uh-huh.

Guideau made as if to pocket the coin
.

All right,
she said
. When he left, I heard one of the other girls call him Buck.

Buck?

They were down the hall, but it sounded like Buck.

Do you know who that girl was?

Could’ve been any girl. There’s a full shift on Fridays.

He put the silver dollar into her hand
. Anything else you remember about him?

Like?

Anything unusual he said or did?

She cocked her head
. S’what he didn’t do.

Oh?

He never done his business. Paid up front, but he never touched me, never lay down, nothin’. He hung up his jacket and sat down to take off his boots when he seen something under the bed. He went down on his knees and got it.

Guideau kept his voice level
. A small bag?

She nodded
. He asked me if it was mine, and I said no. He opened it and looked inside and put his hand in and looked some more. He asked me who left it and I said I didn’t know nothin’ about it, and that’s the truth.

Then what did he do?

Just sat quiet, like I wasn’t there anymore. Put on his jacket and give me another dollar and walked out.

With the bag?

Yeah, with the bag.

Damn.

Made two dollars off him. And now with your dollar, three. Anything else you want to know, Mister?

Guideau returned to Mrs. Vance’s and found Orson in back eating bacon and eggs, drinking black coffee. He was annoyed that Guideau was interrupting his breakfast
.

You got a burr up your ass?
Orson said
.

You know a man named Buck? He’s the one was with Philippa Friday night.

I don’t know no Buck. And I already told you, I don’t know who she was with. There’s twenty girls and more here. The johns come and go.

Young man, good-looking, wearing a green suit. Smokes cigars.

Orson hesitated, stabbing a slice of bacon with his fork
. Don’t know nobody like that.
He looked up
. What you want with him, anyway? He owe you money?

Something like that.

Well, I don’t know him. And he don’t owe me nothin’.
He put the bacon in his mouth
. And I’m ready for you to be on your way.

Guideau spent an entire week searching for the cylinder. After a while, it wasn’t to pacify Zahn or get his job back, but out of pride. He was furious at the man who snatched the cylinder. And he was puzzled. Why would this man prefer an Edison cylinder with Bolden’s name on it to the enjoyment of Philippa’s charms? It made Guideau think he might be a musician, or someone who knew music, rather than an indiscriminate thief, who more likely would have gone to bed with the girl and then run off with the cylinder. But even if he happened to be a musician—a good many of whom patronized Mrs. Vance’s—what could he possibly hope to do with the cylinder? It was no secret that Bolden had never been recorded, and such a recording might be worth some money, but how could that benefit anyone but Bolden himself? Zahn would sic a lawyer on any music dealer tempted to bypass Bolden
.

Guideau had returned to the sporting house, and after greasing the palm of a more compliant Orson Vance and questioning some of the girls, he came up with three men, regulars, who might have been in Philippa’s room that night. Two Bucks, a housepainter and a bargeman, and one Bunk. Two of the girls said this Bunk liked to light a cigar before he took his pleasure and then finish it afterward. Guideau grew excited
.
He knew of only one Bunk around Storyville, and he was a musician
.

Bunk Johnson was an ambitious young cornet player who had auditioned unsuccessfully for the Bolden Band before landing a spot in Lorenzo Tio’s Triangle Band. None of the girls had actually seen Bunk Johnson enter or leave Philippa’s room, but one of them swore he had been at Mrs. Vance’s that night. Guideau thought it almost too ripe a coincidence that of all the johns, and more specifically all the musicians, who might have entered Mrs. Vance’s and asked for Philippa, it would be Bunk Johnson, a man with a mighty grudge against Bolden. It was the sort of ill-fated coincidence that Bolden himself, quoting his childhood preacher with mock solemnity, would describe as
one of Fate’s dispensations.

Guideau tracked down Johnson’s address, a rooming house on Vine Street. But the landlady said he was out
. Try his brother’s pawnshop on Lafayette,
she said. Raoul Johnson’s pawnshop specialized in musical instruments. Musicians congregated around the bench in front, drinking rye and trying out the wares. Freshly discharged after the war in Cuba, military band members had hocked dozens of trombones, cornets, and tubas with pawnbrokers like Raoul. The old man in a leather vest watching over the pawnshop said Raoul was gone for lunch and that Bunk could be found most afternoons at Moorhead’s Saloon
. It ain’t no secret,
he added, relighting his pipe
.

Moorhead’s was a low dark bar on Julia Street with a pair of stuffed herons in the window. The clientele were black and mulatto. Bunk Johnson was there all right, in a back booth, sharing a pitcher of beer with Frankie Dusen, the trombonist, and Lorenzo Staulz, a guitarist. Johnson was tall and well built. He had a wide forehead and square jaw and his eyes
seemed fixed, as if he had to turn his head to shift his gaze even slightly. His shoulders bulged beneath his jacket, and even indoors, he didn’t like to remove his wide-brimmed hat. With no greeting or introduction, Guideau slid in beside Dusen and said
, I know you took that cylinder, Bunk. I want it back.

Johnson didn’t blink
. Who the fuck are you?

The man who left an Edison cylinder at Mrs. Vance’s sporting house.

Johnson remained poker-faced
. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Hey, get the hell out of here,
Frankie Dusen said, and Guideau smelled something stronger than beer on his breath
.

My name is Myron Guideau. I work for Oscar Zahn. He recorded the Bolden cylinder.

Staulz and Dusen exchanged glances
.

I know Zahn,
Dusen said casually, sitting back
.

Yeah? Then you know he’d be unhappy someone took one of his cylinders.

Bolden made a cylinder?
Staulz said, affecting the same nonchalance
.

Guideau knew Bolden had once fired Staulz from the band. He ignored him and turned to Johnson
. I want it back. No questions asked.

I had enough of this shit,
Johnson said, jumping up and reaching into his jacket
.

Suddenly they were all on their feet
.

You gonna pull a gun on me?
Guideau said, wondering where he was coming by the courage—or madness—to challenge a man a head taller than him and twice as strong
.

I don’t like guns,
Johnson said, flashing a knife
.

Put that away, Bunk,
Staulz said, genuinely alarmed that the
three of them, black men, were threatening a white man with a knife
.

Any man call me a thief,
Johnson said
, I’m gonna cut him.

I didn’t say you were a thief, I said you took something.

Dusen leaned close to Guideau
. You better leave, Mister.

Are you crazy?
Staulz said to Johnson
.

I’m gonna cut him.

You ain’t gonna do nothin’,
Dusen said
.

Let me know where you want to return it to me,
Guideau said, backing away from the booth
, and I’ll be there.

In hell,
Johnson shouted after him
. You’ll be in hell.

Walking back down Julia Street, his hands shaking, Guideau knew he had found his man. He couldn’t prove it yet, but he knew. But what would Johnson do now? Why would he want to keep the cylinder? And why has it become a point of honor for me to win the respect of a man like Zahn, who doesn’t respect me in the first place? Maybe I am mad, like my uncle who failed at everything, but was convinced if he murdered the president he could become president. When they hanged him, he was sure the spectators loved him, that he was a hero. He ruined my father’s life, and my brothers’, dirt farmers who lost everything and had to leave Ohio. I ran away first, changed that one letter in my name which maybe I should’ve changed altogether, and here I am, tired of running. I’m no murderer, but up to now I’ve been a failure, like my uncle. Up to now. Because if that damn cylinder is so hot, I’ll keep it for myself
.

At Moorhead’s, Johnson banged the table and shouted to the bartender
, Rye. Send the bottle.

You know anything about this, Bunk?
Dusen said
.

What?

You do know,
Staulz said
.

Johnson drained his beer
. It’s my business.

You took it,
Dusen said
.

Johnson shrugged
.

Why?

It was there for the taking.

Shit,
Staulz said
.

A waiter brought the rye and three tumblers. Johnson poured a shot and downed it
.

You know what’s on it?
Dusen said
.

Johnson poured himself another and glared at Dusen
. I’m gettin’ tired of your questions.

Take it easy.

You take it easy.
Johnson practically inhaled the second shot
. Yeah, I know what’s on it, Frankie. I listened to it down at Bailey’s music store on his Edison. Sounded like old “Number 2.”

“Number 2”?
Staulz said
.

Yeah. But with a twist I ain’t never heard before.

What kind of twist?
Dusen said
.

He just took it somewhere else.
He grimaced
. Anybody could do it.

Yeah?
Dusen said skeptically
.

Staulz shook his head
. Man, I don’t believe this.

So what you gonna do with it?
Dusen said
.

I’m gonna sell it, and put it out there.

As your own?
Staulz said
.

Why not?

You can’t do that,
Dusen said
.

Who’s gonna know?

Come on.

You gonna spill?

Jesus.

Are you gonna spill?

Keep it down.

Don’t tell me that. Who’s gonna know it’s not me on cornet?

Who?
Dusen rolled his eyes
. How about anyone who’s heard Bolden play?

Fuck you.

Come on, Bunk,
Staulz said
.

He ain’t that much better than me.

He’s better than everyone,
Dusen said
, and you know it.

You know how I feel about Bolden,
Staulz said
, but Frankie’s right.

Fuck the both of you.

You gonna make a fool of yourself,
Dusen said
, and cross a lot of people, not just Bolden. It could be big trouble for you.

You calling me a fool?

I’m saying it will be big trouble.

From who?

The music stores, the krewe …

I don’t give a shit about them.

Fuck it,
Dusen said
. Go ahead. Fuck yourself up.

Bunk sat back, thinking hard
. Maybe there’s something else, then.