CHAPTER SIX

 At eight thirty Averill met me over on the poor side of the marina where his dilapidated motor launch waited. He had discarded his blue apron but gained a bowler which he wore at a jaunty angle. As I handed him the mooring line he was chewing on a vile old cigar stub. “The ladies love it,” he explained to me. “It’s like musk or something.”

 “I knew there had to be a secret.”

 “At least I make an effort, unlike your raggedy self. I gotta say, Chief, you’re not representing your people very well. That’s the same jacket you fetch corpses in. Lord!”

 “I aired it out.”

 “Hmm….”

 Halfway to the party we got in an argument about who could win a hypothetical fight between Joe Louis and Superman and by the time we hit the shallows we weren’t speaking. The lee side of St Helena was black as ink and we bumped more than a few submerged rocks trying to maneuver into the cove, which somehow became my fault though Averill was at the tiller. A half moon was peaking around the trees but the moonlight could find no purchase on the dark water or the limestone sand crunching under our feet once we beached the launch. Looking back on it now, I guess it was about the most beautiful spot on earth; but at the time, I was still thinking about the Louis / Superman .match. 

 “He can run faster than a speeding locomotive,” I reminded Averill.

 “Yes, but he loses points for being fictional!”

 I shook my head. “That’s such an ignorant thing to say.” 

 Spanish moss towered over the cove, trailing fingers in the black water. As we pulled the boat onto the sand, snatches of laughter and music could be heard up past the rise. Torches planted crookedly in the loamy soil threw off as much smoke as they did illumination and the resulting flicker only confused the night air. That air was like a wet sponge in the face, all scented up with jasmine and pine tar. Averill and I walked through the sugarpine trees along a root bound trail to the commons. In the distance a trumpet was throwing blue notes into the night and as we approached the other instruments faded in and out of hearing.  

 We walked over that hill smack into the wildest fish fry in the history of Beaufort County and that’s saying something. A hundred torches burned across the flats, the thick smoke veiling and unveiling a hundred dancers. A fine sheen covered bodies slim and fat, young and old, colored and –well, me. The place was at a fever pitch; no lone white cop was gonna gum up the works tonight. Actually, there were folks of every shade. I was just at the extreme that was typified by freckles and sun burnt ears. But it didn’t seem to matter that night: I was the root doctor.

 “Hello Chief Root Doctor!” called a young gal as her boyfriend spun her close and then spun her away. 

 “Oh Lord here we go,” muttered Averill. “You still encourage this kinda talk, do you Chief?”

 I assumed an injured tone of voice. “I’m not encouraging a thing, Averill. What folks choose to believe is their business, I ’spect.”

 “Oh you ‘spect, do you?” Averill took a moment to appreciate a particularly fine colored girl dressed to the nines in blue satin. “I know for a fact you’re carrying a smelly old root around with you. And you an educated traveled man.” Averill shook his head and tisked me.

 “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio.”

 “See now, your average root doctor won’t be quoting Shakespeare.”

 “Well, I’m anything but average, Averill.” Now, all this time I wasn’t really tuning in to Averill’s wisecracking because dead ahead of us was a improbable group of tuxedoed musicians jamming so fiercely they were like to hurt themselves. Stomping at the Savoy I think they were playing, but it really didn’t matter. That sublime sound had me riveted.  

 “These fellas are pretty hot,” I whispered to Averill like we were in church or something. Things were taking an interesting turn. The air of intoxication was contagious and partly because some of the smoke drifting around was reefer. Folks were blowing off a lot of steam; I had no quarrel with that. Some were students from the Penn Academy, the colored school on the far side of the island. These revelers tended to modest but stylish city wear, the ladies in bobbed hairdos and silk stockings, the men sporting cuffed tweed pants and stickpins while their less educated Gullah cousins swirled and gestured in their indigo or Port Royal blue blouses, patterned with stars, moons and all manner of zig-zags. That the band performed in top hats and tails was just bizarre.

 Averill’s friend Dizzy was even younger looking than his picture, and although he wasn’t the band leader, he was clearly the standout talent, as they used to say at Bricktop’s Parisian review. Moonlight gleamed off his battered trumpet and quivered with the intensity of his solo. Root doctors weren’t the only ones able to cast a spell around here, apparently. And so I stood tapping my boot and not caring a whit about dead bodies and Mr. JP Morgan, listening to music I would never hear the equal of again in my life as Dizzy blew his heart out on that July night in 1932. Averill was right. This kid was gonna give Satchmo a run for his money.

 Averill was in a deep conversation with the blue satin gal so I went to inspect the eats. Three long plank tables had been placed end to end and covered with old lace cloth, on top of which sat just about every fish ever caught off the Sea Islands. There was tonguefish, perch, whitling and fat brown Georgia shrimp. butterfish, squid, weakfish and cod, not to mention loggerhead turtles, billfish, stripped bass, crab cakes, oysters, and scallops bigger than your fist. Then there were great mounds of okra and rice and more pies than you could shake a stick at. I found myself wondering what folks like JP Morgan could possibly have to top this.

 I was pondering this when a gravely voice addressed me. I turned to see two shifty looking characters that I recognized as the rhythm section, a slim, popeyed hipster with a long weathered face and a short solidly built youth with a goatee and extremely dark complexion. The younger one stood with arms crossed, regarding me with an air of skepticism. “You a bull, pops?” the tall one said. He meant a cop. 

 “I am. That rub you the wrong way?

 He thought it over. “Nah, everybody got to earn a living.”

 “Can’t go hungry,” said his friend in a low rumble.

 “Glad to hear that, gentlemen, cause I think I’m your newest fan.”

 The tall fellow smiled, and it changed every preconception I had formed about him. “Is that right? Most folks call me Popeye for obvious reasons. This here is The Tack, but nobody’s sure how he got that nickname.”

 “It’s a mystery,” the Tack observed.

  “So you dig the music, then?”

 “I love it man,” I said and offered my hand. Popeye beamed and shook it firmly. “It pains me to say I haven’t heard a band burn it up like that since I lived in Paris.”

 Popeye slapped his hands on his legs and laughed. ”Ain’t that a pisser? Hell, I’d be over there myself if I could afford a ticket. Tonight I’m working for shrimp, can you believe that? And I had to wear tails just to get that!”

 “Good shrimp, though.” The Tack offered his hand.

 We commiserated for a while about how the world was going to hell in a handbasket and then it was time for them to play again. Part of my plan for putting the partygoers at ease was to indulge in a healthy amount of drinking, and as it approached midnight I was pretty sure I had convinced more than a few of my sincere inebriation. 

 Dizzy raised his horn and made a simple declamatory statement, forelorn and world weary. Popeye coaxed a series of deep rumbling notes from his bass that sadly affirmed the trumpeter. But then the drummer kicked in and found the pulse; saying ‘wait a minute, life is still pretty sweet.’ A triumphant chord from the piano player and the transformation was complete. Trumpet and trombone locked into tight harmonies and everybody started grinning. The Charlston was almost passé by that time, which was a shame since it was our home grown source of pride round these parts. The new dance craze was the Blackbottom, which was just as scandalous and nasty as it sounds. Squeals of delight erupted across the commons as a particularly energetic couple cut it up. There is such a thing as a fever pitch, and as the night air hummed with a curious charge, that fever took hold. Normal rules of decency were tossed aside; an outburst of laughter became wild weeping, quickly lost among the cries of shock and delight. A glow of fireflies somehow pulsed in time to the call and response between trombone and drum. Dancers moved in and out of multicolored, flickering shadows, and revealed aspects of elemental demons and gods. Human restraint was a brittle film to be punched through and discarded. We were deep in it, alright.

 I was leaning against an old pine, watching a young man perfect his three card monte hustle. He was a fast enough talker but still had a ways to go in the misdirection department. The trick was to appear to turn the card over but actually show the same side twice. Hold the card face up in the palm of your hand near the finger tips. Turn your hand over but at the same time push your thumb under the card and turn it over. You are actually turning the card over twice which shows the same side twice. But the secret of the three card monte is knowing when to play it straight and when to play it crooked. Getting your audience to believe they can win then snatching that away with a quick sleight of hand.

  I pulled a long drink off my bottle. The kid would learn.

 Anyway, that’s when I saw her. She came out of the smoke kinda sauntering, looking back over her shoulder and laughing at some fool’s remark. Just a slip of a girl, not brassy or obvious, but possessing the kind of radiant beauty that takes a moment to wash over you. Her smooth, high toned skin caught the highlights a nearby torch and glowed against the backdrop of the summer Carolina sky. I suppose my jaw was hanging open like every fool she smiled at. She wore a light blue cotton dress that was modest enough, yet on her it seemed like an invitation. She was right there in the heart of that low down fish fry, but somehow far removed from it. Words like innocent and sinful no longer served to describe such a girl, and I’ve seen a few beauties in my time. Skilled as Averill Moore was, his photograph gave me no preparation for his second cousin

  When she finally looked where she was going, namely right at me, her eyes tried to swallow me up. At first I thought her no older than fifteen, just a filly flexing her tease muscles. She was literally golden. High yella they called it back then. But she was not flawless. Her ears stuck out a little and she wore her hair back on one side just so you could see it. It made me grin.

 “Chief Fell?” she planted herself in front of me and took stock. She assumed a cool, appraising look, feet apart, hands on hips. I revised my estimate to twenty. She held that pose for about two seconds and then began laughing in such non malicious glee that I again revised her age to fourteen. She covered her mouth with a hand the color of fine honey. “Are….are you alright, Chief?”

 I raised my bottle gallantly. “Aphrodite on the Sea Foam,” I said, or at least that’s what my brain intended. Later I was told it came out something like, “Ass no bitey onshhhh Fo.”

 She considered that for a moment, sat down beside me with a thump, and grabbed my precious bottle of rye. “I can’t argue with that, Chief.” she said and took a Herculean chug. “I’m Nadine.”

 I extended a hand. “I’m off duty.”

 She laughed again. “’Bout as off duty as one can get, I imagine.”

 I put my finger to my lips. “Shhhhh. It all a ruse to make folks underestimate me.”

 “It’s working real good, Chief.”

 I took one huge deep breath and things drifted a little more into focus. “I came to see you tonight, Miss Nadine.”

 “That’s what cousin Averill said, least as much as he could manage to explain between burying his face in some gals business and drinking scotch from a bottle.” 

 I sat up straight and found myself squaring my shoulders. That girl knew what she was up to. “So what do you think of Dizzy and the boys?” she asked, looking off over the commons.

 “He’s something else, all right. I once heard a sax player in Paris blew that hot. Name of Sidney Bechet. He played old time stuff compared to this, though.” That got her interest back,

 “You over there fighting in the Big War? My brother died in the Argonne Forest.”

 “Well I’m real sorry to hear that, miss. Lot of fine boys never made it back. Guess I was lucky.”

 She looked me up and down. “Guess you were. Like the jazz music, do ya?”

 “I do. I spent a considerable amount of time hanging out in disreputable jazz houses in Paris. They can’t get enough of this stuff over there.’

 “I’m gonna try to get Dizzy and his band hired to play on the Corsair for a party on Saturday. I suppose I’m gonna get you on board too.” She sat hugging her knees, chewing on a piece of straw and drinking my rye whiskey. “Although why I’d want to do that I have no idea.”

 “Well, because for one thing a murderer might be waltzing around on the ship where you work and for another…well, so I can hear Dizzy again, of course.”

 Nadine leaned back on her elbows. “Averill says you’re a rare white man. You sure aren’t like any cop I ever met.”

 “I suppose that’s true. I never asked for this job, Lord knows.” I found myself thinking this cute little number would make a pretty good detective herself. After knowing her for about five minutes I probably would have spilled my life story for those big brown eyes. “But I just couldn’t cut it in my chosen profession. How’s that for a confession?”

 “Well, gee, Chief, let me write all this down.” She giggled. ‘Okay I’ll bite” (flashing her gleaming white teeth.) What was your chosen profession?”

 “Hell no. You’re already laughing and I haven’t even got to it yet.”

 Nadine reached over and grabbed my jaw in her surprisingly strong little hand. I was so shocked I became obedient. Besides, it felt like silk

 “You tell me right now, tough guy,” she demanded, shaking my head for emphasis. I mumbled my embarrassed reply.

 “What? You wanted to what?”

 “Play the saxophone!” I shouted. Of course it happened right during a break in the music so half the party turned towards us. “I wanted to play in a jazz band but I sound like an old goose farting.” Well, everyone got a good laugh at the silly white man. Nadine was completely gone, laughing so hard I thought she might hurt herself.

 “Chief Fell,” she began, holding her hand over her mouth, “I don’t mean to make fu–“ It was an honest effort but halfway through, she began to howl again.

 Right about that time I became aware of some shouting and scuffling that had taken on a distinctly unpleasant tone. Time to sober up, I thought to myself. A group of young men had taken exception to the remarks of another group of gentlemen, it seemed. It might have blown over but some dandy just wouldn’t let it drop. Suddenly a girl got hit by an errant fist, and all bets were off. Blades were coming out and sooner or later a gun would follow. And that wasn’t the worst of it.

 The aggravated fella in the mohair vest was heading our way, and he was yelling Nadine’s name. I assumed I was the source of his anger and those other gentlemen had been trying to dissuade him. But he gave me only the most perfunctory of glances and honed in on Nadine. That kinda hurt my feelings.

 Hands were grabbing at his coat but he just shrugged them off. He was a big black fella and he was feeling his oats. “Nadine!” He roared. “Nadine, you bitch. You tried to grift the wrong man, Baby. Oh yeah!”

 I was on my feet and so was Nadine, both of us more or less backed against a big old pine and a stand of grass. “Listen, Buddy.” I began. “Everybody’s having a good ti –” That was as far as I got when he back handed me right into that rough old pine tree.

 “Henry, cut this shit out!” screamed Nadine, mad as a wet hen. “That there is a lawman.”

 I kinda wish she hadn’t pointed that out to the crowd in general since, so far, Henry had made me look pretty bad. But I was worrying about her more. Henry didn’t look too put off by my status.

 “I know who the fuck he is but it ain’t gonna help you. I ain’t scared of no cracker cop or root doctor neither.” The crowd was loving this and gasped appreciatively. “In fact, your peck boy better get lost right now. We got business, you and me.”

 “Henry,” I called out as I picked myself up.” You need to think real hard about this. Need to take a deep breath.” He kicked his leg straight out from his side faster than I would have thought possible, but I was ready for it this time. I ducked back, grabbed an ankle as it whizzed past my groin and used my own momentum to carry his feet right out from under him. We both went down but I slapped the dirt and exhaled at just the right moment to absorb the impact. I was on my feet in a heartbeat. 

 It took another beat for Henry to jump up, but he was an experienced street fighter that was obvious. Now he wouldn’t be taken by surprise again either. We circled around and I got myself between him and Nadine. I was waiting for the knife and he didn’t disappoint me.

 Henry pulled out a respectable sized toad sticker and tossed it from hand to hand, his eyes blazing. Behind me I could hear Nadine breathing in little gasps that I can only describe as carnal. Hope you enjoy the show, I thought, watching for the feint that would precede the real strike. I fleetingly wondered how far off my reflexes were but I was sobering up real fast. My blood was pumping, but I was cool.

 The knife arced though the space between us as Henry sidestepped and rotated. If I hadn’t fallen back once again I would have been stabbed. I wasn’t gonna win by backing up, though. I pulled my jacket off and wrapped it around my forearm, never taking my eyes off the knife hand. Although he out weighed me a sight, I rushed him low and quick, fending off the knife with my protected arm. I got inside his swing and popped him with all my might right under the rib cage, driving up and leaving no room for air in his diaphragm. At the same time I stomped hard on his left foot, but the sand was too soft and it did no damage.

 Henry was winded. He staggered a bit and gasped for air. The crowd whooped. Whatever thoughts of calming down he might have entertained were distant memories now. With a roar he came charging, all his battle plans out the window. So that was good. He was also an enraged man with adrenaline running high. That was not so good.

 I tried a little fancy footwork of my own, intending to slide away from the haymaker he was throwing with his free hand. But again, the sand was too damn soft, I moved half the distance I thought I would, and caught half a fist on my temple. Those cartoons where stars go circling around the chump who’s been KO’d, those stars actually do start twinkling and dancing if you get clocked hard enough. I wish I could recount how I avoided the knife in his other hand, but how ever I did it, it wasn’t a conscious act. I shook it off and we were circling once again.

 All this while the crowd was rooting and cheering but not interfering. I couldn’t count on that lasting forever. I needed to wrap this show up. I tasted my own blood, warm and coppery; I could not let him open up the cut on my head any further. I thought longingly about my revolver sitting at home in the closet.

 Henry moved in to finish me off. The knife snaked up from down by his belt, but he had to lunge forward with his knees bent low to make contact. He was planted good and would not be tripped by a scissor kick. I didn’t intend to trip him.

 I spun sideways, kicked with all I had and caught him just below the kneecap. His shin snapped with a sickening pop, and for a moment it seemed he had a second joint down there, kinda like a dog leg. Henry went down screaming. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

 I heard the crowd murmuring, “Root Doctor, Root Doctor.”

 No one seemed inclined to carry the fight any further so I sat right down on the sand and tried to staunch the blood gushing from my temple. Averill was there with a compress and hip flask.

 I looked around but Nadine was nowhere to be seen. Oh well. All in all it had been a pretty swell night. As he half steadied and half carried me back to the launch I remember saying, “That’s a hell of a second cousin you got there, Averill.” 

 ‘Don’t I know it,” he replied dolefully.