“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
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.
“Gentlemen,” Trumbo started, a crack in his voice, “I’m not here to cause any trouble. I only-”
“And who might you be, sir?” The question came from the dealer, a middle-aged dark brown man with peculiarly straight hair that just touched his shoulders. The dealer laid down three cards for Beauregard without looking up.
“My name is Marshall Trumbo. I’m a news reporter by trade, but that isn’t why I’m here. It’s about the Carolla child-maybe you’ve heard-”
“Newspaper man, eh?” the dealer said, still not looking up. “You fellas did a helluva job crucifying those Sicilians. Shameful stuff, that.”
Trumbo paused, decided on honesty: “Actually, I agree with you. That whole ugly business made me reconsider what I do for a living.” Trumbo got the impression no one was buying that line of talk, however true it might be. No matter. “But I’m here about the child of one of the Sicilians-the man’s name was Carolla…”
Beauregard, now wide awake and stone sober, laid down his losing hand with a grunt, “I’m done.” Gave the reporter a hard stare.
“I’ve heard about the child,” said the dealer, making a mental note of Beauregard’s reaction. “What interest would newspaper folk have with that sort of trouble-other than for a good ol’ eye-poppin’ story? Sell some papers, a story like that, I guess.”
“I was there today-at the Carolla house-looking for a story, like you said. But the doctors left. The priest called Morningstar-he was there, too-but also left.”
The girl broke her gaze from Buddy momentarily to throw Trumbo a suspicious glance.
“No one wants to help-and I promised the mother I would try. The boy-he’s…well, he’s in a desperate state. You wouldn’t believe me if I told-”
“How does this Doctor Jack person fit in to this goodwill expedition of yours, sir?” the dealer interrupted, still looking down, still laying cards.
A moment’s pause, then: “I had heard, well, I’d heard stories…”
The dealer laughed. “Stories, eh? Well, don’t believe everything you hear, mister. Lots of superstitious folks in Orleans Parish, y’know. Yes indeed.”
“Yes, yes, of course-I know that. But today I saw things-that, well, that gave me pause.” He pulled a folded paper from his inner breast pocket, began to unfold it. “That one-year-old boy, a boy who before today could neither speak nor walk, scribbled letters of the alphabet on the floor of his mother’s house. I wrote them down here.” Trumbo held the page up.
“Lemme see that, mister,” said the dealer.
Trumbo pulled it back. “No. I need to find this Doctor Jack fellow.” Refolding it. “So please, if you would only-”
“What if I were to tell you that I was this Doctor Jack fellow, mister?” Eyes hard, yellow, streaked with red. Green with black in the middle.
Trumbo turned to Charley the Barber who nodded. Trumbo’s hand lowered, holding the paper out to Doctor Jack, the dealer.
Jack unfolded it and looked hard at the words. “A one-year-old baby wrote these letters?” he asked.
“Yes. On the floor. With charcoal.”
“Hmm.” A pause. Beauregard and Marcus were looking over Jack’s shoulder, staring at the sheet with wide eyes.
After about thirty seconds, Doctor Jack refolded the page and attempted to hand it back to Trumbo. Instead of taking it, Trumbo only stared. Jack answered Trumbo’s stare:
“Means nothing to me, Marshall Trumbo. Ain’t no magic or hoodoo I never heard of. Just gibberish. Sure is strange a little baby wrote it-but it means nothing to me. I’m sorry.”
Trumbo barely had time to open his mouth in protest when Marcus Nobody Special spoke up:
“Means something to me.”
