Free Leavin' Trunk Blues by Ace Atkins Page A

finger. “It’s parked outside.”
    Doyle lowered his eyes and blew smoke to the ceiling. Never knew he was so damned in love with his van. Maybe because he used to live in the thing in the early seventies.
    “If you’re looking for session players, good luck,” Doyle said, finishing the beer in a gulp and dumping the bottle in the trash. “You remember Franky Dawkins?”
    “Bass player?”
    “Dead for years. I think he was robbed or something … And what about Leroy Williams?”
    “Don’t know him.”
    “Barrelhouse piano man. Man couldn’t read music, but man, could he bang them keys. Listen to that old King Snake stuff— Ruby’s songs—and I promise you’ll hear his genius.”
    “Dead?”
    “With a capital D. Heard he was manic depressive. So, when the music scene started to bottom out in the early sixties, he took a swim in the Chicago River.” Doyle made a diving motion with his free hand. “Shit, you’re the historian, look it up. Be nice to get Leroy’s name back out there. He was a beautiful player. So, what else can I do for you? Want to hit the titty bars? Know this place where this woman makes her puppies into a hat.”
    “I want to talk to Jordan,” Nick said. “Figured you’d be my best intro.”
    “Sure, I’ve got every phone number for that, man. You want to talk to him in the toilet?”
    “Office would be fine.”
    Doyle picked up his phone and punched a number with his thick fingers. He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and stared at the ceiling. The kid from the cash register knocked and opened the door and Doyle waved him away.
    “Moses? You got a second, man?” Doyle smiled at Nick and nodded. “Can you do me a favor? No.” Doyle laughed. “No. No. You going down to the studio today? Great. Listen, I’m sending a good friend of mine over to talk to you. His name is Nick Travers, blues historian. You’ll like him. All right. All right. What time? Thanks.”
    Doyle hung up. “I just got the touch,” he said. “What can I say? How long you in town for?”
    “Till Christmas, then Tulane cuts me off.”
    “Jordan will be at the old Diamond studio in an hour.”
    Nick looked at his watch; it was almost 3:30.
    “What’d Ruby say?” Doyle asked.
    “Said she didn’t do it.”
    “You believe her?”
    “I’d like to,” Nick said. “But faith is a funny thing.”
    “No, faith is blind.” Doyle chuckled and put the needle back on the Memphis Slim record. The dead piano player sang on.

Chapter 13
    Nick headed south again on Michigan Avenue to the old Diamond Record studio where Jordan kept an office. Diamond was a recording powerhouse in the fifties and early sixties after a pair of Greek brothers started the company in June 1952. Somehow, two guys that spoke English as their second language had a knack for recognizing talent. Almost every great bluesman and gospel singer of that period cut a single for the brothers. Unable to read music, the pair would sometimes hum out a rhythm for the hardened musicians. Nick remembered a recent documentary when Elmore King made fun of them: “How the hell am I supposed to know what blues sound like to two old white guys?”
    Nick laughed at the thought as he passed boarded-up storefronts and warehouses in an area once known as Record Row. All the bruised buildings with shattered windows reminded him a bit of Julia Street on a weekend—a stillness. The recording companies were long gone and industry had found cheap labor somewhere else. This was the borderline, the industrial belt that once separated downtown from the South Side.
    Nick imagined Little Walter, Jimmy Reed, and Muddy walking down these same streets, a new song in their heads. But before those guys hit the scene, Chicago was already home to some established artists. A white record producer named Lester Melrose was recording Tampa Red, Memphis Minnie, Washboard Sam and Big Bill Broonzy for Columbia and RCA Victor in the thirties and forties.
    Some might think