The Chairmaker

THE CHAIRMAKER

1

A sea of bars, neon signs, and seedy motels greeted Cole and Missy as they turned off Telegraph Road on to Michigan Avenue. Missy twirled a strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger, noticing the rundown buildings.

"Think Detroit will treat us any better than Baton Rouge?"

"Oh yeah, no doubt," Cole assured her. "It's a big town, our luck is changing. Look!The Ford Museum is down that way. Ol' Belle would sure make Henry proud, wouldn't she?" Missy fidgeted in her seat without answering. "Listen, babe. I know it hasn't been easy the last couple months, but it's gonna be all right."

The array of vacancy signs represented a good omen in Cole's way of thinking. Sifting through the equally undesirable living accommodations, like miners panning for gold, was a way of life for "Fly-by-Nighters". In a drifter's world, combining random chance, superstition, and fate--embracing the obvious--was paramount to survival. Cole was living out a better-late-than-never dream as a wonering minstrel, and Missy just wanted to see the world. Booming around the country and experiencing life on their own terms made the couple happy. Lately, the road had been filled with potholes, detours, and wrong turns--leaving them three-hundred dollars, no prospects, and everything they owned stuffed in an old Ford van they called Belle.

The sounds of the night beckoned the pair like a pied piper. After four attempts, and the usual dickering, they finally secured a room at weekly rates. The night clerk even guaranteed to replace a broken television in the morning. In this part of town, a hundred dollars translated into a small fridge, desk, chair, a broken-down loveseat, and dubious assurances. A cheap print of a Model-T Ford rounded out the décor.

Cole sat his guitar on the soiled, burnt-orange carpet. Missy peeked through the stained Venetian blinds at the filthy window. I'll clean this later, she thought, cranking the handle to air out the stale cigarette odor. They collapsed in the sagging double bed, a welcome relief after sleeping in the van for weeks.

Wham--A sudden thud from the next room, then another, served as the wake-up call that Cole and Missy hadn't requested.

"What the hell ya doing?"

"I told you the next . . ."

"Shut your pie-hole! There's plenty money left for beer. Right here--look!"

"It's a damn good thing, a damn good thing by God." And just like that, the ruckus was over.

"Home sweet home," Missy mumbled as Cole rolled over.

"What's up, babe?"

"Nothing," she said. "I better get at it. This place is filthy. I'll need the coffee pot and the electric skillet first thing."

Cole admired Missy for making-do and turning every dump into a home. His sturdy frame appeared overly rugged for his studious face, which was accentuated by wire-rimmed glasses and curly, brown hair. He slipped into his jeans and Wellington boots. On the way to the van Cole rubbed his Mojo Bag, which he always carried in his front pocket, and then grabbed a discarded newspaper off the stoop--the seventh of August. He believed the number seven had magic connotations. Maybe lady luck will smile for us today, he reasoned, glancing through the classifieds.

Cole happily rearranged the van: a process he dubbed "landing mode".

A couple months had passed since their last landing, and Missy was nearing her breaking point. He'd never seen her this worried before.

After Missy borrowed sugar from next door, she searched Cole's face for any clues when he returned.

"Anything good in the paper?"

"The Inkster Day Labor Hall isn't far from here."

"Ya mean not much," she said, in a dismissive tone.

"Babe, what's the first rule?"

"Yeah, I know. Don't get excited."

"We're in Motown, babe. This is where Stevie Wonder got his start. I heard there's even a museum where Berry Gordy made it all happen."

Cole's mind drifted back to a simpler time when the Temptations, Diana Ross, and Marvin Gaye topped the pop charts, leaving an indelible impression during his coming-of-age. It not only shaped Cole's musical tastes, it cemented his outlook on life as well. "We'll have to check it out after we've landed real good." Sightseeing was the last thing on Cole's mind. Their uncanny run of bad luck was unprecedented; he knew Missy had a right to worry.

"The girl next door told me the café down the street might need a waitress," Missy said. "She looked terrible, a junkie for sure. And get this, according to her, we better watch out for the sand-niggers who own this place. Can you believe it?"

"I guess she won't be receiving any invitations to our up and coming social events."

"You ain't just whistling Dixie," Missy agreed. "Let's check out that café."

The Early Bird Café turned out to be the only bright spot on the otherwise dismal street, which was crowded with strip bars, porno shops, and shady characters. The job opportunity had been filled moments before they arrived, but the food was good and cheap.

"Babe, I could use a drink."

"Make mine a double."

Missy came from a hard drinking family and was thirty-one, eleven years younger than Cole. She was a redheaded fireball shaped like an hourglass, street savvy, and loved the bar room. Her earthy disposition blossomed in an atmosphere of drunken fantasies. She attracted men effortlessly, easily turning a dull afternoon into a special occasion. Cole always bragged how fortunate he was that Missy's free-spirited nature collided with her ex-husband's prejudicial ways. She had perfected her role to an art form--setting the mood was definitely her calling.

Missy prepared the crowd with the fervor of a Pentecostal and the sensuality of a Dallas cheerleader. Drinks began to flow and what happened next resembled an old-fashioned tent revival. Cole unveiled the sacred guitar and sang original compositions, sometimes composed on the spot, tailored for those in attendance. And as the spirit moved, he recited poetry, told stories, and bid for their very souls, and of course their money. The majority of the congregation was higher than the Rocky Mountains: the bolder hearts occupied the front rows, shouting and dancing, while the meeker members sat at safer tables, peering over their drinks attempting to escape their silent desperation.

"Look at this jukebox," Cole said, eyeballing Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. "It's got James Brown, the Beatles, Bluegrass, Blues, songs in Spanish, and even some Frank Sinatra."

This was right after the legendary singer's death and the disk played continually. The next two weeks Cole and Missy heard enough Sinatra to last a lifetime, yet only managed to save sixty dollars. The crowd was down and out and held on to their pesos like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. Having pawned everything of value in Nashville a month earlier, Cole realized the stop was a bust and another week's rent out of the question.

Cole's insatiable desire to follow his heart was driven by a mysterious force that propelled him on his journey. The quest had ultimately resulted in the dissolution of his first marriage. Cole, a self-educated non-conformist, had little respect for the Standard Bearers who couldn't keep their own standards. He would never be accused of being a blind follower of authority. He couldn't even bring himself to wear a tie to his mother's funeral, the saddest day of his life.

"There's nothing to do but pack up and hit the road," he said, with a look Missy knew all too well.

"What's going to happen, Cole?"

"You live by the sword, you know . . . "

Her voice quivered. "Tell me everything will be all right."

Cole tilted back his head and belted out the words from an old Muddy Waters tune:

"Everythang, everythang gonna be all riiight this mornin', yeaaah, yeah. Babe, this is the great contradiction in life--The Yin Yang. Don't you feel it? Ya can't have good without the bad, saint without sinner, up down, right wrong, yes no, rich poor . . ."

"Wait!" Missy screamed, stopping Cole in midstream. "What are you talking about? We can barely get the hell out of Dodge." He looked deep into her eyes, lowered his voice to a whisper, and spoke like an Old Testament prophet.

"It's impossible to enjoy the soft without first experiencing the hard. Not knowing what's coming next, that's what makes us alive! Don't you sense the urgency? Can't you hear the "beat"?"

He rambled on and on and Missy realized he sounded like a time bandit from another dimension, but trusting him gave her life meaning. Their wander-lust for adventure had brought them together. They were partners. There was nothing to do but pack--preflight mode.

"I'm going after the key deposit," Cole said, donning a straw sombrero. The flea-market acquisition shaded his eyes from the piercing sun. A few minutes later, a short, polite man of East-Indian descent greeted Cole.

"Good day, you checking out?"

"Sure enough," Cole said, sliding the key through the slot in the plexi-glass window. "We'll be leaving this morning."

The attendant pushed back two dollars. "May come in handy."

"I'm going to need it."

"Maybe you hit Lotto," the attendant said in broken English. "In Amerika anything possible." Cole hesitated--and thought about the junkie next door.

2

Thursday--Day One

The Fly-by-Nighters drove east across Detroit's busy streets, the scorching sun bouncing off the pavement. The temperature inside the vehicle rose oppressively; Bell's air-conditioner had given out two years earlier. They stopped at a quick store for cold drinks and Cole noticed a small man coming out of a storefront across the street, walking with a fever, like he had too much on his mind. The dilapidated building nearly engulfed the whole block, and the used furniture piled behind the windows gave Cole an idea.

"Here." Missy tossed a bottle of water through the window. "What's up?"

Cole pointed. "We might be able to sell that old rocker."

A young, black man joined the short man and they carried out dozens of assorted chairs and bar stools in quick order.

"It looks like a daily routine from their body language," Cole said. "See how neat and smooth they're working." Cole motioned at two elderly men discussing their wares on the corner. "Excuse me. Do you all know anything about the fella across the street?"

"Ya don't wants to know him," the first man said.

"Yes sir," the second man chimed in. "Best leaves him alone."

"Why?"

"He bad magic."

"What do you mean?"

"He bad magic, for sure."

"Does he buy chairs?"

"You best leave the Chairmaker alone."

Cole retrieved a straight-back, rocking chair from the van. It was unique because it folded making it portable. Missy anxiously watched as he made his way across the street.

"Top of the morning," Cole said politely, unfolding the chair. "Can I interest you in a nice seat?"

The man's eyes were cold and uninviting. "Who are you?" he asked, as if he were a lawyer performing cross-examination.

"Just passing through, ran short of money and thought . . . "

"What's your name?" the man demanded, cutting Cole short.

Cole hardened his voice. "What's yours?"

"Sully Greco. And I'm in the business of selling chairs, not buying." He moved within inches of Cole. Greco's physical presence was unassuming, but his voice projected an eerie confidence. "You best move along."

"Hey, we're in the same business," Cole returned. "You just have more chairs than me, that's all." Greco didn't respond. Cole picked up the chair. "Well, you just missed out on a dandy. Anyway, my wife uses this when she watches me play guitar."

"Guitar player. What else can you do?"

"What do ya mean?"

"If you can do anything else," Greco said, "I might put you to work."

"I've done a little this and that."

"Can you weld?"

"So happens I can."

"How's ten dollars an hour sound? Cash daily."

"What type of work ya need done?"

"You just be here tomorrow at 9 a.m., sharp." Cole reached to shake Greco's hand, but he walked away, speaking barely loud enough to be heard. "We'll just see the value of this guitar player."

Deciding to celebrate their good fortune, Cole and Missy gladly relinquished the remainder of their cash for a nice supper and a room. That evening Missy painted her toe nails and watched television, while Cole examined his tools and mulled over the details of the day's encounter. The welding wouldn't be a problem. Cole had welded in the Navy and later in a factory that armored Hummers for the Army. He knew daily pay was exactly what they needed. His only unresolved issue was the eerie warning from the two men in the parking lot.

"You best leave the Chairmaker alone."


Friday--Day Two

A man in a black Cadillac dropped Sully Greco off at 9 a.m.

"Morning," Cole said, holding a tool bag in his hand.

Greco spoke with a smug look. "Always park out front if you can. The darkie crack-heads will steal you blind on the side streets."

It was a look Cole had seen before--the face of a racist. Greco motioned for Cole to follow. A cluttered showroom, two offices, and several fat, old men drinking coffee awaited them. Strange, Cole thought. The men didn't look like they belonged.

It became apparent that the building had once been a theater. The lobby, now used for storage, was dirty and overrun with spider webs, giving it a Gothic effect. A large portion of the lower section had been transformed into an upholstery shop. Huge material rolls, stacked along the sidewalls, shared the room with tables covered with antique sewing machines and contraptions hanging from the ceiling. It reminded Cole of a science fiction movie.

"This is where I work," Greco said. "Never bother me unless it's an emergency. No exceptions." He was moving so fast that Cole had trouble keeping up.

"Upstairs," Greco grunted over his shoulder, "is where we manufacture the barstools. And where you'll be working. I've been waiting on the right person to build new fixtures. Jesus!" Greco said, tripping over a rusty I-beam. "The last darkie I hired wasn't worth a shit."

Normally, Cole wouldn't have worked for a guy like this, but they were in dire straits. Sully Greco started barking orders.

"Give this place a good cleaning. Get that welding machine hooked up by the fabrication table and check out the burning equipment. Arrange all this material by size in those bins," he said, waving his arms like a traffic-cop, "and build another fixture exactly like this one. The mig wire is under that ledge. There can't be any welding spatter on the finished product--absolutely none. Should take you all day, I guess. Shouldn't be a problem if you really want to work," Greco said, with an incredulous smile.

The shop was completely in disarray: piles of scrap metal, leaky pipes, and bare wires made the workplace a definite hazard. Overwhelmed by the shop's conditions, Cole couldn't fathom why the building inspector hadn't shut the place down. But what really intrigued Cole was his benefactor's Machiavellian behavior. Greco was obviously unprincipled and conniving, but Cole wondered what his new boss might actually be capable of. One thing is certain, Cole thought. He'll soon see what this guitar player is made of. Cole went to work like a beaver building a damn, and the day passed quickly. He completed the fixture as Sully Greco came up the stairs, whistling.

"The place doesn't look half bad, guitar man." Cole knew more could've been accomplished but the fixture was his first priority. Greco went straight to it. His examination was meticulous: fitting the tubular steel pieces in every jig, engaging all the rubber stops, taking measurements, and slowly moving his hands over every inch feeling for weld spatter. Greco built a chair without saying a word, pausing only to cast an occasional, daunting stare in Cole's direction.

"This will do," Greco finally said, glancing at his watch. I didn't see you take lunch."

"I ate a big breakfast," Cole replied. Greco handed him a hundred-dollar bill from the biggest roll of money Cole had ever seen.

"You're nigger rich, now. Probably feel like buying some gold rims for that van, huh?" Greco snapped the rubber band and returned the money to his pocket. Cole didn't answer; Greco modulated the tone in his voice. "You coming back, Monday?"

Damn it! This guy is too much, Cole thought, and answered with a bite in his voice. "Does B.B. King play the blues?" Greco started to frown but hesitated, offering his smug grin instead.

"I don't care about some darkie blues player. Are you coming back or not?" There was a long silence. Cole imagined himself at a Mexican standoff in an old movie. He contemplated the sequence of events that brought Missy and him to this point, and how far the hundred dollars would take them. It was during these random, life-changing moments that Cole could hear the beat . . .

"I'll be here Mr. Boss man." This guy has a black jockey holding a lantern in his yard for sure, Cole thought, stuffing the bill in his pocket and heading for the motel.

Missy was waiting at the door in a halter-top and Daisy Duke shorts, a welcome sight after a hard days work. "How did it go old man?" Cole flashed the bill. "Wooo-weee!" she cried out with a wiggle. "That's my daddy."

"Let me at that air-conditioning," Cole said, pulling Missy in the room by the seat of her pants. "I'll take care of you later."

With the bill dangling from her mouth, Missy danced the Tango to the music blaring from the room next door. Cole laughed and pulled off his shirt.

"You won't believe my day. This guy is worse than that old codger we worked for in the everglades--he just didn't have a plantation whip. Babe, you better go get some wine before you swallow that."

"Lambrusco all right?"

"Perfect."

Missy winked.

This was what Cole lived for, the joy of the moment. He felt like Will Rogers working as a cowboy in some strange land, or Woody Guthrie outsmarting the railroad bulls during the Great Depression. Cole and Missy made love as the full moon peeked through the cracked motel window. Afterwards, he rambled on and on to complete the catharsis.

"Babe, the man that does the same ol' thing day after day, plans out all of his tomorrows, knows how much money he's gonna make and where it's going--can never, ever, feel like I do tonight."

3

Saturday--Day Three

The next morning Cole and Missy found a diner alive with activity. The waitresses buzzed around like honeybees from flower to flower. The short order cook was slinging hash and the bus boys were clanging dishes.

"Make those eggs over easy and put it all on the same plate, with gravy and biscuits," Cole said. The waitress was stunning, sporting an expensive hairdo and white, exotic nails that stood out against her smooth, black skin.

"So, you like it all mixed together?" she said, fluttering her fake eyelashes.

"It's been my experience that when you mix two good things together, everything gets better."

Missy laughed. "Quit flirting. I'm sure she has bigger fish to fry."

The waitress giggled, "I don't know, he looks like a kingfish to me."

"I guess she made your day," Missy said, opening the Detroit News and watching the waitress sashay away.

"Babe, you know I love people and never forget a face."

"How about this face?" Missy said, visibly shocked and shoving the paper into Cole's hands.

"That's the guy who helped Greco put out the chairs . . ."

"He's dead! We better get the hell out of Dodge."

"Let me read this, babe. 'A known addict, apparently killed during a drug deal, was found Friday morning in a dumpster on Gratiot Avenue.'"

"That's not far from your job," Missy pleaded. "You said Greco was a racist."

"Yeah, but this doesn't jive."

"Come on. I've invested too many miles to see you get killed playing Dick Tracy, let it go. I know I've been stressed lately, but we can find something else."

"Babe, the cops will be investigating, let's not get carried away. I got a feeling we should hang around."

"Sully Greco might not want us hanging around. How's that for a feeling?"

"Look, we need the money," Cole said, leaving a five-dollar tip. "One more day couldn't hurt."

"Let's go kingfish," Missy said under her breath, not knowing whether to laugh or be mad. They spent the rest of the day locating the places it took to complete their world: a pawnshop, thrift store, music store, flea market, library, a green park, and a friendly pub.


Sunday--Day Four

"Seems like there's a Driftwood Saloon in every town," Missy said.

Cole smiled. "Someone has to take care of us drifters"

Two police officers at the end of the bar had a man corralled asking questions. "I'm going to check out the back porch," Cole said, eyeballing the cops. Several tables, a makeshift bar, and a small stage filled out the deck. The joint was run down with no evidence of regular entertainment. Cole envisioned the possibilities and speculated about the quality of their congregation.

Missy showed up a little later with beers and a tall, sexy, hunk of woman. She had blonde hair, muscles on her muscles, and was clad like a Greek goddess from Harley-Davidson heaven.

"Honey, I want you to meet Tiny, she's the manager."

"Missy tells me you're a guitar picker."

"I'm a humdinger, folk singer, poet, philosopher, and bull-shitter extraordinaire. Permit me, Fraulein," Cole said, pulling out a chair.

"And polite too. We'll get along fine." Tiny made herself comfortable; a barrage of screams came from inside the bar. "Sunday is hockey mania," she said, with an exhausted expression. "Redwing fans are nuts."

"Is that why the cops are here?" Missy asked.

"No. They found a dead junkie in the neighborhood. Listen, this isn't a good day for guitar. I've been thinking of trying something on Wednesdays. You can start for tips. I'll throw in food and drinks, for the both of ya, and see were it leads."

"Sounds like a winner," Cole said. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Nein danke. I quit drinking on duty years ago. That's how I keep my girlish figure."

"And we sure appreciate it," Cole said.

"Oh, don't mind him," Missy quickly offered. "He's on a roll this weekend."

"Welcome to the neighborhood," Tiny said, smiling, and flexing her biceps on the way back inside. She hollered over her shoulder. "Auf Wiedersehen."


"Babe, you sure know how to find a friend," Cole said, absentminded, watching Tiny walk away. "Her sincerity is as apparent as her female charms."

"We just started talking at the jukebox. I mentioned you played some blues, and the rest was history."

Cole finished his drink. "She's one big German woman, for sure. What else did ya talk about?"

"Sounds like she might need a barmaid soon, and they have rooms for rent upstairs."

"This is a nice set up, regardless of what happens with Sully Greco."

"Cole, I don't want you to go back there."

An ambivalent facial expression was his only answer.


Monday--Day Five

Having won the go or stay argument, Cole arrived on time at the old theater. His orders were to salvage all the usable steel from his predecessors failed attempts at fabrication. Scarfing metal off angle iron was a hot job, especially in summer. Greco decided to watch.

"When you're done with this mess, I want you to build another fixture."

"No problem," Cole said. "What's the deal with those old guys always sitting around downstairs?"

"They're retired friends of my father's, never mind them."

"Why do they hang out here?"

Greco's face grimaced. "They know the upholstery game and help me lay out jobs sometimes. It gives them a place to get away from their wives--forget them! The police may ask you some questions today. Some bum helped me move chairs Thursday, and later died of an overdose. The guy reeked of alcohol. Hell, he was so stoned I had to run him off before lunch. You couldn't help those people if you wanted to. Did you happen to see him?"

"Yeah. I saw him."

"Listen, just tell the police you started Friday, and you don't know a thing."

"I don't know anything," Cole said, "other than I saw him working with you on Thursday."

"That's what I mean," Greco snapped back, "I'm closing early. See me at four o'clock," and disappeared downstairs.

Cole couldn't keep his mind on work. The story didn't jive, no way. It had been ten-thirty in the morning when Cole and Missy saw the young man, and he didn't appear drunk. Greco said he had to let him go before lunch. That didn't leave him much time to get smashed.

"Excuse me. Are you Cole Flagler?" It was two men in suits. Cole nodded.

"My name is Detective Max Johnson, and this is my partner Detective Louie Ward." Johnson was a tall, well-built, black man and did most of the talking. Ward was a short, white man sporting a boxer's nose and ears.

"Mr. Greco informed me that Friday was your first day."

"That's right," Cole said. "I talked to him Thursday and started to work on Friday."

Detective Johnson showed Cole a photograph. "Do you recognize this man?"

"That's the guy they found in the dumpster. I saw his picture in the paper."

"Did you ever see him in person?"

"I saw him Thursday," Cole admitted.

"What time was that?"

"Around ten-thirty in the morning. He was helping Greco put out chairs. Greco told me to come back the next day, and I split."

"Did Mr. Ramsey smell or look intoxicated?"

"He didn't look drunk to me."

Johnson looked directly at Cole. "Did Mr. Greco mention anything to you about Mr. Ramsey?"

"He said the guy was so messed up that he had let him go before lunch."

"What was your impression of Mr. Ramsey?"

Cole remembered how neatly and quickly the man put out the chairs. "He looked like he was doing a good job, that's all I can tell ya."

"We appreciate your time," Detective Johnson said, handing Cole a card. "If you think of anything, I'd appreciate a call. One more thing--how do you like your boss?"

"Is this confidential?"

"Absolutely."

"He's a racist."

"And you know this in two days?"

Cole's spoke with authority. "My first payday, he asked me if I felt nigger rich."

"We'll be in touch, Mr. Flagler." This was what Detective Johnson suspected. Black residents had filed numerous complaints against Greco for threatening their kids. Greco claimed he was only protecting his merchandise and nothing ever came of the accusations. But the word on the streets was clear: Sully Greco was a bad man.

"The I.R.S. is after him for back taxes," Detective Ward said, "and from the looks of things, he's paid off the local building inspector. If he's our man, he'll make a mistake."

"Or he's already made one," Detective Johnson replied, rubbing his goatee. He suspected Greco for the murder, but knew without physical evidence it would take an eyewitness to put him away. Detective Ward pulled the unmarked Ford Marquee out into the crazy Detroit traffic.

Cole finished his work as Greco topped the stairs.

"Did you finish the fixture?"

"No problem."

"That takes care of the No-Backs," Greco said. "Tomorrow, I want you to build a Low-Back. Get a chair from the showroom and make sure it works. Got it?"

"I got it. You got my money?"

"Seventy dollars, right? He handed Cole a hundred-dollar bill. "That's a bonus; it's not your fault I'm leaving early. You could be important around here, if you keep your head on straight. I need a right-hand man. Tomorrow, Cottonpicker will be building chairs on the new fixtures. He's not too bright, but he's fast. I want you to help him after you finish the Low-Back. He'll show you what to do. A strip club uptown needs seventy-five chairs Friday. Don't let me down."

Greco spoke like he was the C.E.O. of the Ford Motor Company and was so pretentious that Cole almost lost his composure. He felt like telling Greco to shove the whole shebang where the sun didn't shine. This guy is crazy if he thinks I'm going to be his whipping post, Cole thought. If I can hold Missy off a few more days, maybe I'll find out what was going on around here.

4

Tuesday--Day Six

A towering black man, maybe in his late twenties, stood by the welding machine eating a sausage biscuit. He was dressed like a gangster rapper off MTV: the obligatory gold hoop in his ear, baggy pants pulled down revealing his underwear, expensive gym shoes, and a sleeveless, purple T-shirt pulled over a regular, bright-orange T-shirt.

"What's up white bread? You must be Greco's homeboy who been all up in my crib buildin' fixtures."

Cole dropped his bag and moved in full stride toward Jake Sampson. The rules of the road were carved in stone for a drifter: never let another man intimidate you.

"One, my name is Cole Flagler. Two, Greco ain't my homeboy. I'm just making a quick buck and don't figure on staying long. Just lucked into this thing for a minute. And it would be best if we get off on the right foot--don't make me say three."

Jake Sampson didn't show any fear. He was a head taller than Cole, and this was his turf.

"Hey, we're cool Gringo. I just don't know if I'd call this here being lucky, dude. Has Greco been greasing your palm?"

"Everyday," Cole said. "And he called you Cottonpicker." Jake couldn't hold back the smile.

"Can you dig it? That's his nickname for me. Greco is a piece of shit. He didn't get the word."

"What word is that?"

"That Lincoln let us go, ya know. But he pays good, when he's payin'. Better keep an eyeball on him, brother-man. He'll juke you sooner or later."

"How so?"

"Dude, he's psycho. I've worked here two years and been fired six times. But it doesn't bother me. Sully Greco hates me and I hate him, but he still has to call when he gets an order--comprendo? Who's he gonna call?" Jake did a little dance before answering his own question. "Chair Busters! Greco had to come off two hundred to get me here today. Sure, I'll let him call me Cottonpicker."

"I'm gone the first day he shorts me," Cole said.

"Word brother, that's all on you." Jake showed off his moon walking skills. "Michael Jackson can't touch this."

"Well, I got a fixture to build MJ. Greco told me to help you with those chairs when I'm finished."

"Nothing to it, partner. Two days to build the frames and another day installing the seats and hardware. It's like taking candy from a baby. Hey, I didn't mean anything by that white bread stuff. "

"Listen," Cole said, realizing Jake was all right. "I'm playing the blues at the Driftwood tomorrow night. Why don't you stop in?"

"Come on now, it's so obvious," Jake said. "Playin' the blues and all that suntan lotion."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't tell me all you honkies don't wanna be black." Jake did a little dance, let out a high-pitched scream, and jumped right in Cole's face. "And don't make me say three--that was the bomb dude!"

They both had a good laugh. Cole knew that he had made his first friend in Detroit. Later that day he got around to asking Jake about Ramsey.

"What's Ramsey's story?"

"How do you know Ramsey?"

"I saw him putting out the chairs, Thursday," Cole answered.

"Well, I know he wasn't a junkie like the paper said. He'd been clean for six months.

"How were things between him and Greco?"

"They didn't get along, at all," Jake said. "Ramsey wasn't down with all that jive, slave-owner lingo. I haven't been 'round lately. I do know Ramsey been workin' a lot of hours. The grapevine, ya know? He lived with his grandmother on the Westside. I got a sweet little thang over that way."

Cole moved closer. "Do you think Greco could have murdered Ramsey?" Jake's face turned sober.

"Dude, he's capable of anything. I'm living on the edge just working here."

"If he killed this kid; I wanna find out."

"Listen up, brother-man. I wouldn't be messin' 'round in Greco's business. Some say his father was connected to the Mob."

Cole pressed. "Do you believe it?"

"I don't know--and I don't want to know. Messing in another man's affairs can get you hurt 'round here". Jake couldn't understand why this honky was worrying about a "brother" that he didn't know. Jake longed for a better world, but he couldn't bring himself to believe anything would ever change. A slumlord had recently evicted his grandmother for one late payment, forcing her to live at the Y.W.C.A. Jake had everything figured out in his world: the big guys always won. It was going to take more than some gringo talking trash to change things.

5

Back at the motel, Missy was thinking about supper, and a cold beer. She decided to walk to the market and get some fixing for hobo stew: potatoes, hamburger, carrots, onions, and green peppers. It was a cheap meal that would leave leftovers. She planned to fry the hamburger in the electric skillet, wrap it in foil, and then cook it in their portable toaster oven.

Missy strapped on her backpack and joined the menagerie of people shuffling along Eight Mile: kids on summer break, working stiffs, punks, prostitutes, business men, and of course the homeless. The saturnine expressions in the faces of the indigent looked like sound bites in a warning bulletin--beware of the impending doom.

"Excuse me. Could you spare a dollar?" It was a bag lady pushing a shopping cart. Her hands were twisted from arthritis, her legs full of varicose veins.

"Here." Missy handed the woman a dollar as the light changed, wondering how someone that old could survive on the streets. These encounters always seemed surreal to Missy. It was hard for her to imagine that Americans could be reduced to this. After securing her supplies, and getting "hit on" by a guy dressed like a pimp lost in the seventies, she arrived at the Driftwood Saloon with a healthy thirst.

"Hey, girl," Tiny hollered from behind the bar. "How 'bout a cold one?"

"Just what the doctor ordered," Missy said, taking a seat and dropping her load.

"So how's it going?"

"Not bad, just been to the market. Cole's working at the chair factory."

"For the Chairmaker?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Two detectives were just in here asking questions about him," Tiny said, lowering her voice. "Turns out, the dead junkie worked at the chair factory--Cole better be careful. People say the Chairmaker is dangerous." Tiny went to re-up two construction workers at the end of the bar. Budweiser and Jack on the side for the last two hours. "I doubt those guys are going back to work," Tiny said, when she returned, realizing she may have upset Missy. "You guys still on for tomorrow?"

"Sure thing; Cole's looking forward to it."

"Cool beans!" Tiny said. "About six would be great. We'll see what Cole and that guitar can do with happy hour."

"I gotta get home with this hamburger." They exchanged good-byes and Missy returned to the sidewalks of the Motor City. This additional news only added to her anxiety; she knew Cole's curiosity wouldn't be easily quenched.

Absorbed in thought, Missy's jouney back to the motel only seemed to take a few minutes. She glanced at the abandoned building across the street--a glaring monument to the changing attitudes in America. It had once been a homeless shelter before the trickle-down administration cut the funding. An old woman sat on a milk crate in the shadow of the forgotten mission. Hobo stew is appropriate, Missy thought, deciding to share supper with her new neighbor. Cole had mingled with these forgotten souls a little more than Missy really wanted. He had a soft spot for the down and out. At times, it almost seemed like an obsession.

"How can an artist write a song about human suffering without experiencing suffering, first hand," Cole would say. When he hocked his guitar, he always quoted an old blues man named Frank Edwards. "If it ain't been in a pawn shop, it can't play the blues." Cole's journey had taken them to the very doorstep of the disenfranchised. Missy had seen her share of suffering souls and empathized with their plight. But this was as low as she cared to go.

"Surprise!" Cole came bolting through the door and grabbed Missy around the
waist. "If I had been a bad man, you'd be in trouble."

"You are a bad man," she said, giving him a generous hug. "Look. This must be her alley. I'm gonna ask her over for stew."

"Sure. What did Tiny say about tomorrow night?"

"It's a done deal, six o'clock."

"I could tell her word was good," Cole said. "I invited my working buddy. Wait 'till you catch his act. He calls himself Jake the Snake."

"Listen. There were detectives at the Driftwood asking questions about Sully Greco." She rehearsed the conversation, hoping to make some headway for getting out of Dodge.

"Let's relax tonight and think this thing through. That stew smells good, babe. I'll check out our neighbor."

Cole knew the old woman might not accept the food, or request something entirely different. Homeless people, who have been indigent for a long time, develop their own codes to live by. It's a matter of honor and survival; it only has to make sense to them.

"Good evening," Cole said, keeping his distance. The homeless woman didn't respond. "Is this your alley?" he tried again.

"Yes it is. What do you want?"

"My wife made some stew and thought you might like some."

"I'd appreciate her bringing me a bowl."

"No problem. My name is Cole and hers is Missy."

"Mine's Abigail."

A few minutes later, Missy appeared.

"I know you," Abigail immediately pointed out. "You gave me a dollar today."

"That's right. Looks like we're neighbors. It's a small world after all."

"It's a dangerous world young lady." Abigail huffed, tasting the stew without looking up. "And looks like you and your man are living close to the edge."

"Cole's a poet and songwriter. He believes that living close to the edge is the only way you can hear the beat."

Abigail wore beads around her neck and a shawl pulled over her head. She pulled back the worn cloth and looked up into Missy's eyes.

"Child, you gotta be careful when you get close enough to hear the drums." Missy glanced at the woman's meager belongings.

"You can keep the bowl," Missy said. "Cole will be making chairs tomorrow, but I'll be home if you want more." The old woman eyes widened.

"Your man works for the Chairmaker? Does he know where you live?"

"I don't think so. Cole thinks he may have killed a young man," Missy blurted out.

Abilgal demanded,"I must talk to Cole. The Chairmaker is the devil's child!"

After accepting a beer, Abigail retraced her steps that Thursday night. She had been on her way to help a young girl who was bleeding from a botched, back room abortion. (Abigail had been a nurse during World War II.) "I had to pass right by the Chairmaker that evening," Abigail said. "I saw a black car back up to the loading dock. Two fat men were putting something in the trunk. It was dark and I couldn't see very well. But I heard the Chairmaker say, 'Take him to the yacht and get him ready for a swim.'"

"The river," Cole said.

"What happened next?" Missy asked, tugging at her hair.

"The car just pulled away."

"Why haven't you gone to the police?" Cole questioned. The accusing tone was harsher than he intended. Abigail glared.

"They never listen to me! I'm just a crazy, homeless lady."

Abigail had her own demons. A severe case of post-traumatic stress syndrome left her severely depressed after the war. She had witnessed horrendous injuries and suffered terrible nightmares. An abusive husband, from whom the city afforded no protection, only added to her misery. The State of Michigan wrongly accused Abigail of child endangerment and made her daughter a ward of the state. The ten-year old girl was later raped and killed. The foster parents claimed an intruder committed the crime. Abigail eventually spent time in a mental institution. The system failed her at every turn, and now, was an anathema to her. Abigail had been living on the streets for thirty-five years.

"Wait a minute," Cole said. "The paper said the man was found in a dumpster."

"Understand this," Abigail warned. "People have a way of getting hurt around the Chairmaker."

"What did you mean when you called him the devil's child?" Missy asked, still fiddling with her hair.

"I knew his father."

6

On the Westside of town, Detectives Johnson and Ward were talking to Ramsey's Grandmother, a shut-in who needed kidney dialysis twice a week. The uniform cops had already interviewed her, but Ward wanted to follow up.

"How bad was your grandson's drug habit?" Ward asked.

"He didn't have a drug problem; he turned his life around," Mrs. Ramsey said. "I already told the other policemen." A picture of Jesus stared down from the wall behind her. "The Lord was working in his life. I don't know what I'm going to do without my grandson."

"Are you sure Mrs. Ramsey? The autopsy revealed he had cocaine in his system."

"No way! That boy only had one problem--Trying to get his money." Her hands began to tremble. A tingling sensation quickened Johnson's neck.

"Are you saying that Greco was shorting John's pay?"

"John told me that monster cheated him every week. I have so many bills," she said in a high-pitched voice, holding back the tears. "My grandson was trying to be a man and take care of me. But I was worried about him. He said his boss didn't scare him--and he would get his money. I told the other policemen all this." She broke down crying. The detectives offered their condolences and let themselves out. The particular cops that originally interviewed Mrs. Ramsey were unconcerned with what she had to say. She was just a hysterical, black, grandmother of a black, dead junkie.

"I feel so sorry for her," Detective Ward said. "John Ramsey could've been lying to his grandmother, but she made a believer out of me."

"You got that right," Detective Johnson agreed, flipping through his notes. "Greco is dirty for sure. I can feel it."

"What's our next move? The autopsy hasn't connected Greco."

Johnson answered quickly. "Let's pay Mr. Greco a visit. Let's see if he will let us search the premises. If not, we'll get a warrant based on the grandmother's statement."

"It's late. What are we gonna say?"

"Whatever it takes," Johnson said. "I think it's time we rattle the bushes."

Detective Ward pointed the big Ford in that direction. Sully Greco lived in Mt. Clemens, thirty minutes north of the chair factory, on the Clinton River, which emptied into Lake St. Clair. Greco had moved there several years earlier, trying to distance himself from the darker element in Detroit.

Sully Greco answered the doorbell. "Detectives. Can I help you?"

"Sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Greco," Johnson said. "There were a few loose ends we needed to clear up. Do you mind if we come in?

"It would really help," Ward added.

"We're going to bed shortly, for a minute I guess." Greco had built a sprawling brick ranch in an upscale yuppie development.

Detective Ward admired the fine Italian furniture. "Nice place you have here."

"About these loose ends, detectives."

Detective Johnson came directly to the point. "John Ramsey's grandmother told us you were shorting her grandson's paychecks. Could we see the payroll receipts?"

"First of all, he was casual labor--I paid him cash. Hell, he only worked a couple days. He did complain about needing more money, but did you ever know a crack-head that didn't? He wouldn't work half the time, and the other half he was stoned or drunk."

"You see Mr. Greco that's one of those loose ends. Mrs. Ramsey said he had been clean and sober for six months."

"And been working everyday," Ward added.

"I'm sure that's what he told her," Greco shot back. "Truth is, he was a no-good junkie who thought the world owed him a living." Greco couldn't stand the thought of a black man sitting on his couch doubting his word.

"Mr. Greco do you mind if we take a look around?" Johnson asked.

"What the hell for?"

"Settle down Mr. Greco," Ward said, stepping in between Johnson and Greco.

If this darkie wasn't a cop, Greco thought. "Unless you have a warrant, you can get the hell out of my house."

"We appreciate your help," Ward said, quickly directing Johnson out the door.

"Partner," Johnson said with a smile, "the snake just crawled out of the bushes.
We're going straight to the district attorney for a warrant."


Even though the moon had replaced the sun, the pavement was hot and the humidity intense. Abigail had returned to her alley, and Cole and Missy couldn't sleep.

"I feel like Abigail isn't telling us something."

"You do believe her, don't you Cole?"

"Sure. It just doesn't make sense. Unless Greco changed his mind about dumping Ramsey in the lake."

"Or he killed two people," Missy casually suggested. "That's it!" Missy shouted, surprising herself. "Sure. There must be two dead people."

"That makes perfect sense," Cole exclaimed. "He put Ramsey in the dumpster, and the other man is at the bottom of Lake St. Clair. I'm going to the police station first thing in the morning."

"I'll tell ya this much Dick Tracy, you sure won't be making anymore chairs."

7

Wednesday--Day Seven

The next morning Detective Johnson was fuming over being denied the search warrant.

"This guy is going to get away with murder," Johnson said, pacing back and forth. "It's always the little people that get the short end of the stick. I became a detective to make a difference--to help people."

"Relax, partner," Ward said. "We'll catch a break. I'll get some coffee and we'll go over it again."

Detective Johnson identified with people occluded by poverty. He had been raised in the ghetto and witnessed first hand how poverty shuts its victims off from normal life, leaving them exposed to the elements. For many, this storm never ends until their lives are completely destroyed. It was the same in every ghetto neighborhood: white, black, Hispanic, and Chinese. Johnson strove to change the cycle of desperation, and violence, that went hand and hand with extreme poverty. He knew the kind of terror that John Ramsey experienced growing up. Johnson had watched violent men have their way with his mother. He remembered being pushed around by people he didn't know--people shooting and people selling drugs. Johnson was forced to go days at a time on small amounts of food and usually had to fight his way to and from school.

Detective Ward brought in the coffee.

"Partner," Johnson said, looking despairingly at Louie Ward. "The poor kid was finally getting his act together."

An assistant came to the door. "Cole Flagler is here."

"Send him in."

"I have a story you guys need to hear, " Cole said, not borthering with any small talk. "You need to find out if Greco, or one of his fat cronies, has a yacht." Cole retold Abigail's account of last Thursday. It didn't take long for the experienced detectives to solve the puzzle.

"John Ramsey had taken a friend to strong arm Greco for his money," Johnson quickly surmised.

"And Greco killed them both," Ward quickly added. "That's the whole schemer. We got him."

"Bingo!" Johnson voice echoed, dialing the district attorney on the phone. "I bet we get a warrant now."

Cole explained Abigail's reluctance to come forward and the importance of the police listening to the street people.

"Poor lady," Johnson said. "I'll see what can be done when this is all over. But I don't want you leaving town Mr. Flagler."

"Just call me Cole, all right?" Cole whispered something in Johnson's ear. "Remember to ask him that, for me. I'll be at the Driftwood Saloon until it's finished."



Sully Greco paced back and forth at the shop; he had a feeling something wasn't right. The detectives showing up at his home was one thing; Cole's absence from work compounded his suspicions. Greco knew the guitar man was going to be trouble, but Greco thrived on challenges. Using people, like pawns in a chess game, made him feel superior. He enjoyed hiring the down trodden, so they had to kowtow to him.

Greco went over every detail in his mind: the needle he used to inject the cocaine into Ramsey's vein had been destroyed--there had been no mistakes. Greco loved staging the overdose. He wanted to prove these animals would never change; they would always be worthless. He figured it was only a matter of time before Ramsey started using again. Greco couldn't understand why the government wasted money trying to help drug addicts, and then harassed decent people over back taxes.

Greco reveled in his brilliance: Ramsey's buddy had to be disposed of--that smart-ass darkie will never be found.

"It's the survival of the fittest," Greco's Father had always said. But Sully's arrogance, coupled with his racial beliefs and false sense of power, finally led him to murder. He nervously checked his 38 snub-nose revolver.

At that moment, investigators with warrants were going through Greco's house and black caddy. A fisherman reported a large object being thrown off a yacht last Thursday evening. The name on the vessel: The Chairmaker. The coast guard had divers in the water. A bullhorn sounded as they pulled the body of a black man from the lake. The officer in charge telephoned Detective's Johnson and Ward, who were waiting across the street from the old theater.

"It's time we take in a show," Ward said. "This was why we become detectives--to get the bad guys.

"We were too late to help John Ramsey," Johnson said. "But it's never too late for justice."

To everyone's surprise, Jake Sampson came strolling out of the building.

"Where's Greco?" Ward shouted, displaying his gold shield. "Answer me!"

"Hold on, man, he's upstairs."

"Who else is in the building?"

"Everybody's gone but Greco."

"Go home," Detective Ward instructed Jake, who displayed his moon walking skills before breaking into an all-out sprint. Police were at every exit.

The investigation had indeed uncovered Mob connections. Sully Greco supplied furniture, along with a host of other unlawful services, for joints owned by organized crime. He was a ruthless thug who had managed to stay below the police radar. But he had gone too far with murder. To sweeten the pot, one of his father's cronies had been fingered on another beef and gave Greco up for a lighter sentence.

Detective Johnson made his way up the stairs, 9mm in hand, with Detective Ward right behind him with his Colt revolver. Sully Greco was whistling, checking Jake's production for the day. "That darkie can sure weld fast to be so stupid," Greco joked out loud.

"Put your hands in the air," Johnson demanded. "Down on the floor--Right now!" For a split second, Greco thought about pulling his gun. But he was a coward. Ward quickly relieved Greco of his piece and slapped on the handcuffs.

"You can't get away with this you piece of shit," Greco ranted, spitting in Ward's face. Ward delivered a fierce blow to Greco's stomach, doubling him over, and one more for good measure.

"You don't have anything on me," Greco cried. But reality was quickly setting in. His world was crumbling.

"No?" Johnson said, jerking Greco to his feet. "Just a witness that heard you give the order, and the body tossed off your boat. Your plantation days are over."

"You don't know who you're messing with, nigger," Greco screamed, with as much disdain as he could muster.

"Sure I do," Johnson said, realizing Greco was starting to panic. "You're just some punk that went too far, a liability your friends don't need anymore. Their loyalty was for your dead father, not you. Hey, don't worry; we'll get you to the joint alive. But how long you make it after that is anyone's guess--I'll be informing all the "brothers" you're coming. By the way, your right-hand man wanted me to ask you a question. Who's singing the blues now?"


Later that evening, the Driftwood Saloon was in the midst of a full-fledged revival; the joint was hopping! The outside deck was filled to capacity and the congregation rejoiced and reveled in the excitement. Tiny knew a good thing when she saw it; her managerial intuition paid off. The Fly-by-Nighters filled a void for those eager to hear tales of adventure. They were Don Quixote's seed; modern day gypsy's from a time gone by, allowing the willing to experience the "moment" first hand. Missy had a table full of tourists buying drinks and Cole was on top of his game. He finished the set with Every Day I Have the Blues right as Jake Sampson walked up.

"Not bad, gringo."

"I want you to meet my wife," Cole said, laying down his guitar. "Babe, this is Jake the Snake. Michael Jackson doesn't have a thing on this dude."

"I've already heard," she said, giving Jake a big hug.

"Pleased to meet you, Missy. If you couldn't get a black man, I guess Cole's the next best thing." Missy could see why Cole liked him.

"Dude, the police came storming in like gangbusters," Jake said, hardly able to contain himself. "I can't believe it really happened. I never thought they'd get Greco, especially not for murder. I guess I was wrong 'bout you messin' 'round in the man's business?"

"Hell, Jake--he made me say three."

They all laughed and danced long into the night. The Motor City had slowed down long enough to let one more person off the roller-coaster ride. For the first time in his life, Jake Sampson felt real hope--a connection to a better world.

It had been seven days since Cole and Missy first saw Sully Greco and John Ramsey setting out the chairs. Was it merely a random event, or some heavenly gambit designed for the greater good? It didn't matter to Cole or Missy . . . these were the moments they lived for.

Jake handed Missy a piece of paper. "I came by your motel and a bag lady asked me to give you this." Missy sat down and read the note.

Dear Cole and Missy. The Chairmaker's father killed my daughter. Thanks for living close enough to hear the drums. Abigail.

*******

Sully Greco is now serving life without parole in a federal penitentiary in the Upper Peninsula. Detective Max Johnson befriended Abigail and facilitated her admittance to a veteran's home for nurses in Pontiac, Michigan. Detective Louie Ward regularly checked on John Ramsey's grandmother, until she passed away three years later. Jake Sampson dropped snake from his name, quit selling drugs, and joined a community dance theater. He eventually became a famous choreographer. Cole and Missy stayed upstairs at the Driftwood Saloon for two months. They were recently spotted in the Old Spanish Quarter of St. Augustine--listening to the magnanimous beat that goes on and on.


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