NUMBER NINE: Mississippi Black
To the tune of You’re Lost by Jim Morrison, Jake is betrayed by an Apache brother as Ruby is abducted in St. Louis. Chapter 16 from the novel NUMBER NINE: Adventures with Ruby by Jack Random.
FADE IN:
EXT. – MOONLIT WATERS – NIGHT
We hear the voice of Jim Morrison and The Doors singing…
You’re lost, little girl
You’re lost, little girl
Tell me who are you, dear?
Through the dark waters, just below the surface, we see floating corpses.
INT. – ST. LOUIS BAR – DAY
From above, we see the crack and scatter of billiard balls as the eight ball settles in focus.
We think that you know what to do…
You’re lost, little girl…
______________________________________
On the passenger side of the old truck, Jake was tossing, turning, moaning and groaning too much to ignore. Ruby pulled over and awakened him just outside of St. Louis.
"What is it, baby?"
A dance with the devil in the deep dark sea, something was holding him down, his arms tied behind him as he clawed and crawled toward the light of Ruby’s voice.
"Talk to me, baby."
There is an element of the human species that would sacrifice humanity and the sanctity of life for the mere joy of observing the effect. There is a part of us all that has an endless thirst, a hunger, a dark gripping need that can never be satisfied or satiated. It cowers in shadows and avoids reflections not for fear of what it does not reflect but fear of what it does.
Jake was subsumed by the black waters of the Mississippi and only Ruby could drag him out of it. She kissed his rolling eyes and lips, wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled at his loins to awaken him. His eyes flickered open and Ruby pulled him in, holding him to her beating heart.
"What’s wrong, baby?"
He could only shake his head, clearing his mind and adjusting to light. He had the sensation of drowning but it was not he, it was Ruby sinking into the black.
"Something dark," he said, knowing Ruby would never turn back.
Destiny was in charge and the Mississippi was destiny’s chosen path. The nightmare was a warning meant for him; it told him to be alert and vigilant. There was a darkness hovering over Ruby’s life and her soul was in peril.
They pulled into a Holiday Inn, booked room 909, and paid cash for the night. They would not rush to meet fate’s embrace. They would take their time and greet whatever waited with open eyes, defiant and steady.
They opened the curtains and gazed at the city skyline, clustered towers and the St. Louis arch. They drank to the glory of life on earth and made love in moonlight on the motel floor, bathing in each other’s desires, sharing sensual dreams and lusting fantasies.
When two bodies destined to ignite, come together in the moonlight, angels dance in heaven and sirens serenade. No words could reach the divine essence, the eternal flame and insoluble mystery of love and lust at a crossroads. Their senses tuned to a collective heartbeat, they drank the warmth and texture of the flesh, taste, tongue and soul.
They feasted until the strength of their bodies succumbed to a driving need for release and rebirth: Sleep pulled at them like a stone in black water.
They awoke to the clear blue skies of a bright summer day in the city of the arch and turned their backs on the world surrounding them. The Mississippi Queen would dock at sunset but the day belonged to them.
Together they explored second hand shops, cafes and bookstores in old St. Louis, buying costumes for the Queen. By late afternoon, they settled in a workingman’s bar with pool tables, a line of video poker machines, and a long bar with backless stools.
Jake had the discomforting feeling that someone was following. He could feel their eyes hiding in shadows, masked in crowds, cautious yet piercing. He was on alert until the second Jack Daniels settled in his gut and his vision adjusted to the dim light of a workingman’s bar.
About a dozen men, playing pool, drinking beer and sharing sorrows, slumping in barstools and leaning on round wooden tables, took turns looking Ruby over, pawing her with their minds, wondering if they could be so lucky.
Only a matter of time, thought Jake.
A cowboy with a clean-cut look, worn out white plastic hat and polished boots, approached the table, pool cue in hand.
"M’am," he said, "would you like to play?"
Ruby liked to play and didn’t need to be asked twice.
"Rack ‘em up, cowboy," she replied. "I’ll break."
Crack! The sound of billiard balls in chaotic collision rang in the caverns of Jake’s brain. Ruby damn near ran the table and finished the route on her second try.
"This time, I break," said the cowboy.
He sunk two on the break and went on a run of his own. The game was on and the two of them got down to some serious pool.
A man at the bar with the markings of a Mescalero Apache – bola, turquoise and moccasins – caught Jake’s eye with a few pointed glances before wandering over to introduce himself.
"Don’t I know you?" he inquired.
Gazing through whiskey vision, Jake failed to find a glimmer of recognition and wondered what was up. This was not a town where you ran into someone from the reservations.
"Nice move!" the man smiled.
Jake laughed, remembering the three Indians who witnessed his defense of Ruby’s honor in an Arizona motorcycle bar. It seemed a million miles and a hundred years away. What were the odds?
"What brings you to St. Louis?" asked Jake.
"A job," said the man, offering his palm for a firm handshake and taking a seat across from Jake. "The name’s Wiley," he said.
"Like the coyote?"
The man nodded.
What were the odds?
A crowd gathered at the pool table where Ruby was prepared to make a behind the back bank shot. A collective cheer was followed by a groan as first the eight ball dropped and then the cue ball slid into a corner pocket.
"Shit," said Ruby to a round of laughter. Money changed hands as Ruby returned to their table, followed by the victorious cowboy.
"This is Cowboy Bob," said Ruby. "He’s alright."
"This is Wiley," introduced Jake. "From Arizona."
"No shit," said Ruby. "Small world."
Ruby gave Jake a kiss, whispering that they were going out back for a smoke. Jake nodded and the two of them slid out the back.
"Pretty woman," said Wiley.
What were the odds?
Wiley ordered a pitcher of beer and rambled on about life on the Rez, the Apache tradition and the suffering of the people under two centuries of white man rule. He offered tributes to Red Sleeves, Cochise, Geronimo, Marcos and Gomez and lamented the absence of contemporary native leaders.
Jake nodded in agreement with Wiley’s sentiments though he held out hope for many contemporary leaders, like Russell Means, Leonard Crow Dog, Leonard Peltier behind bars in a Kansas penitentiary and White Wolf. There were many great tribal leaders but few with a platform to air their grievances.
"There’s one thing I need to ask you," said Wiley, his eyes narrowing to reveal a glimpse of his duplicity. "How is it you follow a white woman?"
Jake sprang to his feet and ran to the rear exit where the light of day nearly blinded him. He waited for his vision to clear before he found what he already knew: Ruby and the cowboy were nowhere in sight. He walked back into the bar where the coyote was no longer.
It was not the first time he had felt the sting of native betrayal. He left home when a man he called a friend seduced his woman with a promise of adventure. The ghost of Marie’s madness would never stop haunting him. The sight of her still, lifeless body on the side of the road, twenty paces from his and the burning remains of an old Apache motorcycle, was burned into his mind. It clung to him like Louisiana sweat. He wanted to kill or die but he ran instead.
The bartender wore a quizzical look but said nothing. Jake ordered a whiskey and promptly hurled it against the wall where it shattered and bled. No one moved. No one said a word.
"I’ll never drink again," he said to no one but himself.
He did the only thing he could think to do. He went back to the motel and fell into a deep, deep sleep.
There was something about the cowboy’s drawl – not Texan, not western but sticky and slow like Louisiana molasses. No wonder Ruby was drawn to him. He was pulling her to her destiny in New Orleans.
Ruby was no longer a Vegas babe or a woman on the run. She was a prize, a jewel, a treasure to be claimed and bartered. The New Orleans mob was in on the hunt.
It was a classic Apache double cross. Like the scouts that tracked down Geronimo, the coyote was hired by the Vegas mob to track down an Indian brother but somewhere along the path, he found Cowboy Bob and a better deal.
Jake felt it in his bones and saw it in his dream vision: Mississippi black. Ruby was where she intended to be: On the Mississippi Queen bound for the Easy. She was there but she was no longer in her skin. She was possessed and she was losing hold of everything that made her Ruby Daulton: her freedom, her untamed spirit, her singular soul.
Jake fell like a stone in black water, deeper and deeper asleep.
You’re lost, little girl…
JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS) AND GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS). THE CHRONICLES HAVE APPEARED ON THE ALBION MONITOR, PEACE-EARTH-JUSTICE, THE NATIONAL FREE PRESS, PACIFIC FREE PRESS, LEFTWARD, DISSIDENT VOICE AND COUNTERPUNCH. SEE RANDOM JACK: JAZZMANCHRONICLES.BLOGSPOT.COM.
EXT. – MOONLIT WATERS – NIGHT
We hear the voice of Jim Morrison and The Doors singing…
You’re lost, little girl
You’re lost, little girl
Tell me who are you, dear?
Through the dark waters, just below the surface, we see floating corpses.
INT. – ST. LOUIS BAR – DAY
From above, we see the crack and scatter of billiard balls as the eight ball settles in focus.
We think that you know what to do…
You’re lost, little girl…
______________________________________
On the passenger side of the old truck, Jake was tossing, turning, moaning and groaning too much to ignore. Ruby pulled over and awakened him just outside of St. Louis.
"What is it, baby?"
A dance with the devil in the deep dark sea, something was holding him down, his arms tied behind him as he clawed and crawled toward the light of Ruby’s voice.
"Talk to me, baby."
There is an element of the human species that would sacrifice humanity and the sanctity of life for the mere joy of observing the effect. There is a part of us all that has an endless thirst, a hunger, a dark gripping need that can never be satisfied or satiated. It cowers in shadows and avoids reflections not for fear of what it does not reflect but fear of what it does.
Jake was subsumed by the black waters of the Mississippi and only Ruby could drag him out of it. She kissed his rolling eyes and lips, wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled at his loins to awaken him. His eyes flickered open and Ruby pulled him in, holding him to her beating heart.
"What’s wrong, baby?"
He could only shake his head, clearing his mind and adjusting to light. He had the sensation of drowning but it was not he, it was Ruby sinking into the black.
"Something dark," he said, knowing Ruby would never turn back.
Destiny was in charge and the Mississippi was destiny’s chosen path. The nightmare was a warning meant for him; it told him to be alert and vigilant. There was a darkness hovering over Ruby’s life and her soul was in peril.
They pulled into a Holiday Inn, booked room 909, and paid cash for the night. They would not rush to meet fate’s embrace. They would take their time and greet whatever waited with open eyes, defiant and steady.
They opened the curtains and gazed at the city skyline, clustered towers and the St. Louis arch. They drank to the glory of life on earth and made love in moonlight on the motel floor, bathing in each other’s desires, sharing sensual dreams and lusting fantasies.
When two bodies destined to ignite, come together in the moonlight, angels dance in heaven and sirens serenade. No words could reach the divine essence, the eternal flame and insoluble mystery of love and lust at a crossroads. Their senses tuned to a collective heartbeat, they drank the warmth and texture of the flesh, taste, tongue and soul.
They feasted until the strength of their bodies succumbed to a driving need for release and rebirth: Sleep pulled at them like a stone in black water.
They awoke to the clear blue skies of a bright summer day in the city of the arch and turned their backs on the world surrounding them. The Mississippi Queen would dock at sunset but the day belonged to them.
Together they explored second hand shops, cafes and bookstores in old St. Louis, buying costumes for the Queen. By late afternoon, they settled in a workingman’s bar with pool tables, a line of video poker machines, and a long bar with backless stools.
Jake had the discomforting feeling that someone was following. He could feel their eyes hiding in shadows, masked in crowds, cautious yet piercing. He was on alert until the second Jack Daniels settled in his gut and his vision adjusted to the dim light of a workingman’s bar.
About a dozen men, playing pool, drinking beer and sharing sorrows, slumping in barstools and leaning on round wooden tables, took turns looking Ruby over, pawing her with their minds, wondering if they could be so lucky.
Only a matter of time, thought Jake.
A cowboy with a clean-cut look, worn out white plastic hat and polished boots, approached the table, pool cue in hand.
"M’am," he said, "would you like to play?"
Ruby liked to play and didn’t need to be asked twice.
"Rack ‘em up, cowboy," she replied. "I’ll break."
Crack! The sound of billiard balls in chaotic collision rang in the caverns of Jake’s brain. Ruby damn near ran the table and finished the route on her second try.
"This time, I break," said the cowboy.
He sunk two on the break and went on a run of his own. The game was on and the two of them got down to some serious pool.
A man at the bar with the markings of a Mescalero Apache – bola, turquoise and moccasins – caught Jake’s eye with a few pointed glances before wandering over to introduce himself.
"Don’t I know you?" he inquired.
Gazing through whiskey vision, Jake failed to find a glimmer of recognition and wondered what was up. This was not a town where you ran into someone from the reservations.
"Nice move!" the man smiled.
Jake laughed, remembering the three Indians who witnessed his defense of Ruby’s honor in an Arizona motorcycle bar. It seemed a million miles and a hundred years away. What were the odds?
"What brings you to St. Louis?" asked Jake.
"A job," said the man, offering his palm for a firm handshake and taking a seat across from Jake. "The name’s Wiley," he said.
"Like the coyote?"
The man nodded.
What were the odds?
A crowd gathered at the pool table where Ruby was prepared to make a behind the back bank shot. A collective cheer was followed by a groan as first the eight ball dropped and then the cue ball slid into a corner pocket.
"Shit," said Ruby to a round of laughter. Money changed hands as Ruby returned to their table, followed by the victorious cowboy.
"This is Cowboy Bob," said Ruby. "He’s alright."
"This is Wiley," introduced Jake. "From Arizona."
"No shit," said Ruby. "Small world."
Ruby gave Jake a kiss, whispering that they were going out back for a smoke. Jake nodded and the two of them slid out the back.
"Pretty woman," said Wiley.
What were the odds?
Wiley ordered a pitcher of beer and rambled on about life on the Rez, the Apache tradition and the suffering of the people under two centuries of white man rule. He offered tributes to Red Sleeves, Cochise, Geronimo, Marcos and Gomez and lamented the absence of contemporary native leaders.
Jake nodded in agreement with Wiley’s sentiments though he held out hope for many contemporary leaders, like Russell Means, Leonard Crow Dog, Leonard Peltier behind bars in a Kansas penitentiary and White Wolf. There were many great tribal leaders but few with a platform to air their grievances.
"There’s one thing I need to ask you," said Wiley, his eyes narrowing to reveal a glimpse of his duplicity. "How is it you follow a white woman?"
Jake sprang to his feet and ran to the rear exit where the light of day nearly blinded him. He waited for his vision to clear before he found what he already knew: Ruby and the cowboy were nowhere in sight. He walked back into the bar where the coyote was no longer.
It was not the first time he had felt the sting of native betrayal. He left home when a man he called a friend seduced his woman with a promise of adventure. The ghost of Marie’s madness would never stop haunting him. The sight of her still, lifeless body on the side of the road, twenty paces from his and the burning remains of an old Apache motorcycle, was burned into his mind. It clung to him like Louisiana sweat. He wanted to kill or die but he ran instead.
The bartender wore a quizzical look but said nothing. Jake ordered a whiskey and promptly hurled it against the wall where it shattered and bled. No one moved. No one said a word.
"I’ll never drink again," he said to no one but himself.
He did the only thing he could think to do. He went back to the motel and fell into a deep, deep sleep.
There was something about the cowboy’s drawl – not Texan, not western but sticky and slow like Louisiana molasses. No wonder Ruby was drawn to him. He was pulling her to her destiny in New Orleans.
Ruby was no longer a Vegas babe or a woman on the run. She was a prize, a jewel, a treasure to be claimed and bartered. The New Orleans mob was in on the hunt.
It was a classic Apache double cross. Like the scouts that tracked down Geronimo, the coyote was hired by the Vegas mob to track down an Indian brother but somewhere along the path, he found Cowboy Bob and a better deal.
Jake felt it in his bones and saw it in his dream vision: Mississippi black. Ruby was where she intended to be: On the Mississippi Queen bound for the Easy. She was there but she was no longer in her skin. She was possessed and she was losing hold of everything that made her Ruby Daulton: her freedom, her untamed spirit, her singular soul.
Jake fell like a stone in black water, deeper and deeper asleep.
You’re lost, little girl…
JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS) AND GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS). THE CHRONICLES HAVE APPEARED ON THE ALBION MONITOR, PEACE-EARTH-JUSTICE, THE NATIONAL FREE PRESS, PACIFIC FREE PRESS, LEFTWARD, DISSIDENT VOICE AND COUNTERPUNCH. SEE RANDOM JACK: JAZZMANCHRONICLES.BLOGSPOT.COM.
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