Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.

A knock on the back door. A secret knock, a passcode for members. Gin joints like this were not strictly legal and faced away from the street for a reason. Charley unbarred the backdoor to reveal the imposing figure of Beauregard Church.

Pre-liquored up for reasons of economy and grinning like a skull, Beauregard carried with him an old leather sack containing a few odd items meant for luck, ready for a few hands with the boys.

“Damn, Buddy-cain’t you play that thing any quieter? Have a little respect for the dyin’, wouldja?” Beauregard pointed to a large bandage covering the left side of his head. The kid, Buddy Bolden, stopped blowing momentarily, and the sudden absence of sound turned the girl’s face tragic.

“I think it’s beautiful,” she said, with eyes wet and dreamy.

“Man, that’s what I call true love!” one of the card players piped up. A round of wheezy snickers filled the room.

“Let the boy practice, Beauregard,” said Charley, still smiling. “If he don’t, he won’t get no better-then we’ll all be hurtin’ for a much longer section of time.”

Snickers blossomed into full out laughter as Buddy stabbed thick air with the loudest, most annoying note his skinny body could push clear of the horn. The girl smiled triumphantly and Beauregard winced mightily.

Like most in his profession, Charley the Barber possessed some basic doctoring skills and so walked over to Beauregard with a look of mild concern. “Let me have a look at that, old man.” Beauregard sat low on a crate near the basin so Charley could remove his bandages and clean the wound, dabbing away dried bits of blood and skin with a dampened cloth. Marcus looked away-he saw dead folk everyday, but the sight of real human suffering always made him uneasy. Charley applied fresh cotton and cloth to Beauregard’s head and Marcus sighed with relief.

Before an hour could pass, Beauregard found himself down to his last four nickels and dozing off with a jack, two tens, a five, and a four held loosely in his right hand.

BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP!

A knock on glass, hard and fast and not in code. Beauregard’s droopy eyes propped open, wide and quick. Buddy stopped playing; everyone instantly quiet without need of being shushed. Though it wasn’t in code, the knock was familiar. A cop knock.

The girl jumped to her feet as a lone mosquito broke the silence; flying too near an oil lamp, crackling into oblivion.

“Goddamn,” whispered Charlie, pressing extra hard on the “damn.”

Marcus scratched thoughtfully at the hole where his nose used to be. “Prob’ly nothin’, cap’n,” he offered quietly to no one in particular, attracting a handful of irritated, nose-wrinkled glares. Damn their noses , thought Marcus.

Spell of quiet.

Then:

BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP!

This time accompanied by unintelligible, muffled shouting.

“Lord, Lord.” Charley shook his head with casual dread before snuffing all but one of the hanging oil lamps. “C’mon, boy,” he said, looking at Buddy. The usual drill was to march Buddy out, explain to the copper that Charley was giving the boy a horn lesson, that the time had slipped away and he hadn’t realized the hour. Charley opened the door leading from the backroom to the barbershop, just enough for himself and Buddy to pass through.

The man outside was no cop. White fella; dressed nice, built thin.

Charley’s mood dropped from nervous to put-out. What’s this dumb cracker want this time of night? “Closed!” yelled Charley towards the assaulted but so-far-unbroken pane of glass positioned decoratively across the door’s upper third-as if this fancy white cat might be looking for a haircut in the dead of night from a black barber who doesn’t even cut white people’s hair.

BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP!

Louder than before this time, near to breaking glass.

“Son of a bitch,” Charley spat, barely under breath. Then, louder; “Don’t be breaking my damn glass, now! I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” He walked to the door quickly, turned the key, cracked it.

Turned on the Uncle Tom way of talking that grumpy white folks seemed to like so much: “Sir, if we’s makin’ too much noise, I’s shore sorry. I’s just giving some music lessons to the boy.” Charley motioned to Buddy who stood by the back door, smiling and waving his horn perfectly on cue, “and I guess we just-”

“Are you the one they call Doctor Jack?”

“Am I the…? Well, no sir. No, I ain’t-”

“I was told he would be here. It’s very important that I-”

“No one here by that name, sir. Just me and the boy-I’s just giving him a lesson and we went a little late is all-”

“I swear to you that I’m not a police officer. It’s very important that I talk to Doctor Jack. Please.” The man’s voice was fake-calm, panic leaking through at the edges.

“Like I said, mister, we was just-”

“I’m not a police officer, damn you, but if you try my patience I can be provoked into providing one.” Getting that all too familiar I’m-white-and-you’re-black-so-do-as-you’re-told kind of huffiness-but there was also a cold desperation in the man’s eyes, and this fact rang a bell of sympathy in Charley’s cautious heart. “Now, please,” the intruder continued, “understand that I mean you no harm. This is very important business.”

Charley the Barber looked the man up and down, then asked, sans Uncle Tom, “What sorta business?”

The man let out a breath of relief, measured his tone, “Medical business. Emergency medical business. The kind that most doctors don’t do. It has to be Doctor Jack. Please.” He placed a hand on the door as if to push it open.

Charley softened his eyes, but held the door firm. Said:

“No coppers?”

“No. Absolutely not. No police. I swear it.” The man offered Charley his hand, but Charley only looked at it-pretty, soft, white, spidery little thing; not telling of a single day’s hard work. Charley couldn’t bring himself to shake it-afraid he might scuff it up. But he did open the door.

“Follow me.”

Marshall Trumbo followed Charley through the darkened barbershop towards the backroom entrance where young Buddy Bolden stood, horn in hand. “I could hear you playing from outside,” said Trumbo.

“Sir?” Buddy’s voice sounded nervous. Wasn’t accustomed to white folks talking directly at him in soft tones.

“I heard you playing. Sounded nice.”

Catching the compliment as he opened the gin joint door, Charlie broke into gentle laughter. “You really do need a doctor. Lord, Lord! Sounded nice ? Ha!”

Buddy Bolden grinned.

The door to the adjoining card room opened wide, and the first set of eyes to meet Trumbo’s were the ones closest to the surviving lit lamp; pale brown eyes pounding like cool sun into his own. Trumbo found himself staring at a weathered, coffee-colored face framed with white blotchy hair, a terrible scar where a nose used to be. The urge to shudder came and went quickly, Trumbo fighting it off through force of will and sheer good manners. Charley lit a thin stick from the remaining lamp before making the rounds again, relighting the seven lamps he’d snuffed only moments ago. The flames caught quickly, and the lamps illuminated just fine. The girl refocused on Buddy with loving eyes; still looking sick, still smiling.

Charley made a move towards breaking ice: “This nice gentleman wants to know where he can find a person called Doctor Jack. Any of you fellas know what he may be talkin’ ’bout?”

A beat. Then: Heads turned down, card game resumed. Beauregard pulled some cards from his lousy hand, slapped them down, said, “Hit me three times,” when he should’ve just folded.