Dead and Gone

was Zeffa.

“Son’ll be on in a minute,” she said to us both. “Should have been on already, but the first set ran long.”

We took seats. I was thinking … Son? … but didn’t get my hopes up.

I looked around for the woman in the red dress. There’s always a woman in a red dress in joints like this. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t sitting too close to her.

The drummer suddenly cracked out a back-beat, hammering the talk-buzz into silence. The guy working a stand-up electric bass added a line, the harp man cranked off a few sharp notes, and the rhythm guitarist carried the lead for a minute, building. An unmanned black guitar rested against the front-most microphone stand.

A slim man strode out on the little stage. He was all in black, including a cowboy hat with a heavy silver medallion just over the brim. His coat was so long it was almost a duster. He reached down, picked up the black guitar … and the crowd went berserk.

He smiled gently, a handsome man with strong cheekbones and a beard, bowed his head a few inches in acknowledgment. Most bluesmen open with an up-tempo number, get the crowd into the action. But he started with “Bad Blood,” a true-tale ballad that pile-drivered its way down to where you lived, if you’d ever lived at all. His long fingers were flint against the steel strings, drawing fire … and painting pictures with it.

I don’t know how he did it. I can’t imagine he’d be able to put it into words if anyone asked.

The crowd was insane … and under control. His control. He was dealing for real, and the crowd was in his hands—spontaneous reaction to spontaneous combustion. As he teased an impossible run of unreal notes out of the steel slide, a thick-bodied man in a yellow silk shirt stood up and yelled out, “That’s the real thing, brother!” as if he were waiting on a challenge.

You could almost see the notes flow out of that black guitar—a liquid ribbon of honey and cream, draped over concrete and barbed wire. For a slice of time, I was transported. Lost in the truth. Feeling … connected to something more than me and mine. I reached for a cigarette. Came up empty. Zeffa was next to me, on my left. Her hand dropped to her purse. She flicked it open one-handed, pointed to a pack of Carltons. The pack was right next to what else she was packing—a dull-black Glock.

I thanked her with a nod. Lit the smoke. Took a deep drag. It tasted like crap, no hit at all. I put it in the ashtray and let it burn down.

The man with the black guitar finished his set … barely. The crowd kept demanding “One more!” and he kept going with it. Finally, he just bowed slightly, touched the brim of his hat, and stepped off the stage and out the back.

“Son Seals!” the announcer shouted, as the man walked off with his black guitar.

“Come on,” Zeffa said.

We followed her to a basement where ratty old couches were stacked against one wall. Son was seated, alone, smoking a slim black cigar. Zeffa introduced us. I didn’t know what to say, so I just said the truth.

“You’re the ace,” I told him.

“Thank you,” was all he said. Not grabbing the title, but not disclaiming it, either.

Clancy made a motion with his head. I came over to where he was sitting. The basement was filling up, people clotted, waiting for a chance to spend a minute with the legend. Zeffa watched them warily, making the access decisions one by one.

“They’re gone,” Clancy said, no inflection.

“How do you—?”

“They slipped up. Or they couldn’t stand paying taxes under two IDs. INS still has them in Chicago, but that’s no big deal, they’re both green-carded, both waiting on citizenship. Once applicants get to that level, INS figures it’s their job to keep in touch, see?”

“Sure. If they miss an appointment, it’s their problem. Might even delay their application. But it’s not a problem for the government, so long as they pay their taxes.”

“Right. And they’re okay with the IRS. But we’ve got a state income tax here. And they haven’t filed in almost three years.”

“Maybe they didn’t have any income.”

“That’s possible. Here’s what’s not: neither of them has visited a doctor or a dentist for all that time.”

“How could you know that?”

“They have medical insurance. A very good plan, not one of those HMO deals. And they haven’t filed a claim. Not one.”

“Maybe they gave up the plan, and they’re paying cash. Or maybe they switched plans.”

“Sure. But if that’s so, why would they keep paying the premiums?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And why would they keep paying big numbers to insure their cars, but not maintain them?”

“How can you be—?”

“One,” he said, tapping his index finger, “they each have a Mercedes. Two, both of the cars are still under warranty. Three, neither car has been serviced at the local dealer in all this time. And four, both cars are insured to the max, including zero-deductible collision. And they haven’t missed a payment.”

“You think …?”

“What?”

“There’s a garage, right? Around the back, maybe?”