Purple Sunshine

By Bob Calverley

Jimmy's a door gunner with a taste for drugs and a talent for combat. He just wants to survive his year in 'Nam. From a longhaired killer guitar player in a psychedelic band, he's turned into a real killer in the gun platoon. It's bad enough when his friends die but back in the World, Gloria, his troubled musical savant girlfriend is in more danger. She can be Sunshine singing for her supper and dazzling music professors or the crowd at an antiwar rally with ease. But she doesn't like what she's learning about herself, and the secrets she and Jimmy know could kill them both. A trail of murders stretches from Detroit to Vietnam and the media thinks Jimmy and the U.S. Army massacred unarmed civilians. Beginning with the 1967 Detroit riot and moving to a heart-pounding conclusion during the 1968 Tet Offensive, Purple Sunshine explodes across the world with fast-paced action and unexpected twists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Calverley
• Release date: Apr 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393872832

Book preview

Prologue

May 3, 1945, 9:14 p.m., Berlin, Germany

Matthias Dorrinian shot the shivering little girl in the back of her head with the Walther and watched her tumble into the big bomb crater with the others. She was about thirteen years old, pretty, blond and with a blossoming maturity that was still more potential than reality. That was the core of her appeal. He’d trained her a few years earlier. She and her older sister had been two of the first and her sister one of the very best; compliant, delicately responsive, and well received by his clients. She had been a real moneymaker because she was Nordic, not Jewish. Not that the clients ever asked. He had forgotten about this girl and he wondered what had happened to the older sister. As soon as the girl stopped moving, Bucholz shot the last boy in the head. By Dorrinian’s count, they’d shot thirty-seven children, mostly girls, ranging in age from seven to eighteen. Only a couple of the children tried to run and Bucholz quickly cut them down with a burst from his Schmeisser.

A bad business, Bucholz said as he holstered his pistol and draped the Schmeisser by the sling over the remains of an iron fence. Dorrinian didn’t say anything but placed his re-loaded Walther carefully in a pocket. The two of them spent the next hour shoveling dirt and rubble into the crater to cover the bodies. Hard work, but the evening was cool. The bodies might be found, but there were thousands of bodies all over Berlin now. Dorrinian thought most of the fighting was over. It had been difficult to gather the children while the fighting was going on, but he had spread word that he had shelter and food and many had found him. As long as they worked and obeyed him, he had always treated them well.

Dorrinian had heard that Russians were raping women, some of them very young, and killing civilians by the hundreds and maybe thousands. He wasn’t sure that they had to cover the bodies, and killing the children had been a risk, but Bucholz insisted. The children could identify not only him and Bucholz, but also dozens of their clients, who included many high-ranking government officials and wealthy businessmen. There were undoubtedly still some children out there who could do the same, but now there were thirty-seven fewer.

A client had probably decided that eliminating the children was necessary. There were a few clients among the Gestapo, and Dorrinian suspected that Bucholz had been ordered to do it. Bucholz needed Dorrinian’s help because only he knew where to find the children. On the other hand, only Bucholz knew about Dorrinian. Dorrinian had been careful never to deal with the clients directly, and he had tried not to let any of the children learn his real name. His relationship with Bucholz had made both of them a lot of money and Bucholz trusted him. It had apparently not yet sunk in with Bucholz that his superiors were no longer in power.

Dorrinian worried that the gunshots might attract the Russians, but no one had noticed. They still heard sporadic distant gunfire and were in an area so flattened by bombing that people had left long ago.

As they shoveled dirt, Bucholz again bragged about his plan to escape by slipping through the American lines. He expected to be detained, but was confident in his ability to convince the Americans that he was a businessman. He did, technically, have a small security business in addition to his job in Department C of the Gestapo. Buchholz was a liaison to Albert Speer’s operations, where Dorrinian was a little-known consultant. Bucholz had been spying on Speer for the Gestapo and everyone knew it. That was where Bucholz and Dorrinian had discovered their mutual interest in children and profit.

For the third or fourth time, Bucholz was telling Dorrinian that he had a list of German businessmen and party officials who were hiding financial assets. He had been working on the list for more than a year. Millions, maybe billions, he said, smiling and patting his breast pocket. In his mind, he was already spending the money. He had offered to share with Dorrinian, but Dorrinian had declined.

Dorrinian didn’t think Bucholz’ escape plan had any chance of success. He had never been impressed with the man’s intelligence, though the list was a clever idea. Bucholz had probably stolen it. The Russians would just shoot him, and he was more likely to run into them than the Americans. The Americans might shoot him too, but they certainly wouldn’t let him go when they found his list. However, Dorrinian had decided that neither of those outcomes would occur.

With the bodies finally covered up, the gasping Bucholz, a large man, dropped his shovel and wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his brow. He had been a mediocre heavyweight boxer before the war, but was now at least twenty kilos over his fighting weight. Dorrinian took the pistol out of his pocket and shot Bucholz in the head just as he completed the head swipe. He bent over and removed the packet of papers in Bucholz’ breast pocket and stuffed them into his own pocket without looking at them.

He dropped the pistol beside the body. Looking carefully around one more time, he left the Schmeisser where it was. He thought carrying a weapon of any kind increased his chances of being shot. He’d heard that the Germans had surrendered, but the sporadic gunfire indicated the fighting was not quite over. It was dangerous to be outside. Among his many languages, Dorrinian spoke both English and Russian fluently and had documents to show he was from Azerbaijan. He wanted to get back to the bunker he had built in his basement and hide the papers he’d taken from Bucholz.

He had already made contact with both an American and a Russian. Now he had a simple bargain to negotiate: his life for the papers. Now that he had the list, he thought it might work. He didn’t want the money. That just increased his chances of being killed. He preferred to deal with the Americans. He thought the Russians would kill him no matter what they agreed to. He had already decided to hold back some of the papers, for years if necessary, in order to guarantee his continuing safety.

A full moon, fat and a sickening, pallid grayish-green, bathed the rubble in pale light casting weak, ghostly shadows. Dorrinian barely noticed. Walking back to his underground hideout, he didn’t think of the moon or the looming negotiations for his survival but about the blond girl, remembering the pleasures of training her, and wondering whether he should have kept her alive for a few more days. But that would have been too great a risk, and besides, she was almost too old.

Shit, he said. He’d been thinking in Armenian but it was the same word in English.

-1-

July 22, 1967, 3:35 p.m., Grosse Pointe, Michigan

She was five-foot-four, just like the song said, and her name was Gloria.

Maybe she was more than five-foot-four. Might have grown since she’d measured herself, right after the first time she’d listened to Them pounding out Gloria on a 45-rpm record. Learned to play the song on her guitar, the first real rock and roll song she ever played. Learned Baby Please Don’t Go too, which was on the other side of the record and was actually the A-side. She’d wanted to change her name, Gloria being too ordinary, but decided maybe it was cool. Couldn’t think of anything better.

In the summertime, she’d be outside all day in her bathing suit singing and playing guitar, tanning to a rich dark brown that never really went away in the winter while her wavy golden hair got lighter and brighter. Her hair framed a glistening, smooth-skinned face ruled by wariness that sometimes gave way to a tentative smile. Slender but full-figured, she looked older than her fifteen years, and knew it. She’d been turning men’s heads since she was twelve.

Her guitar was a gorgeous Epiphone FT120 Excellente made of Brazilian rosewood with an ebony fingerboard decorated with little clouds and an abalone peg head inlay. The big black pointed pick guard was engraved with a golden eagle. She should have sold it like the others, but she was too attached to it. Gina bought it for her fifteenth birthday. But Gina had died.

Gloria sat in her stepfather’s red 1967 Corvette Stingray, rain drumming on the garage roof as thunder rippled above. She hated the car, but her stepfather loved it. Loved it more than he loved any human being. It reeked of cigarette ash, a sour bouquet of sweat, Jade East aftershave and very faint, Juicy Fruit gum. Made her queasy. A weak brown aura surrounded the car and it would get stronger if she sat there much longer.

Gotta get away, she chirped. She preferred singing to speaking so much that she often spoke by pretending to sing, her words coming out in a strange singsong lilt. In a song, there was a structure on which she could hang the words. She knew where she was going, what she was singing, and she could play her guitar to make it better, just like the blues. Sing a line and answer on guitar with notes that feel like the words, emotion flowing from her long, articulate fingers and out through her guitar, sometimes generating colorful auras, happy colors, pinks, oranges and turquoises. Playing guitar gave her hands something to do. Her whole body worked in marvelous, coordinated ways that never happened any other time. But when speaking, she got mixed up, or locked up. She just couldn’t keep going.

The rain stopped and she turned her attention back to the car. She’d been practicing driving up and down the long driveway for three months, ever since Gina died. She no longer ground the gears. The car was so powerful that she squeaked the tires even though she tried not to. She’d made several middle-of-the-night runs around Grosse Pointe and, once, onto the freeway when her stepfather was out of town. She’d learned to power shift, got it up to almost 100 miles an hour one night. Slowed down because she didn’t want to get stopped.

Yeah, she could drive the car—she could do anything if she tried—and she could do it better than the boys.

She opened her big purse and looked one more time. Four hundred twenty-three dollars and change. Her single suitcase laid on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Her guitar, in its case, resting across the seat alongside the big handbag. She turned the key and the Corvette started. Her stepfather would be home from the airport soon from his long Asia trip and he’d have the bamboo cane. She’d overheard him talking about taking her on his next trip, maybe leaving her there.

Where would she go? Could she look for her real mother who might be in Las Vegas? She had no idea who her real father was. Could she drive to California? She wanted to see hippies and San Francisco. The magazines called this the Summer of Love, and she wanted to find somebody to love. The song, Somebody to Love was special. She longed for somebody to love, and for somebody to love her. But before she got to San Francisco her stepfather would have reported his precious missing car to the police. What if she got stopped? Maybe she could go to Ann Arbor or East Lansing. There were universities there where she’d probably find some hippies.

I have to leave, she said, then started singing Gotta Get Away, tapping the dashboard in time to the Rolling Stones pulsing through her head.

She revved the engine, popped the clutch and the car screamed out of the garage, leaving two black smoking streaks of rubber on the dry concrete. Then skidding and skittering on the wet pavement of the driveway it veered into the grass as she power-shifted into second, spraying a cloud of muddy dirt before she got the car back on the concrete. She kept the gas pedal all way to the floor through another power shift and slammed on the brakes to skid to a stop at the end of the driveway. She couldn’t see oncoming cars l because of the hedges. She looked back at the steam rising from the wet pavement and grinned.

* * *

Gloria drove to Belle Isle. It continued raining a little and she saw few people. After driving around, she finally parked on some grass by a fountain at one end of the island. The rain stopped. She walked out to a point and stood looking at the Detroit River running by, deep and cold, still thinking about where to go and what to do. Then she went back to the car and drove across the grass, stopping just short of the point. She looked around. No one in sight. So she took all her things out of the car placing them on the wet grass, careful to put her guitar in its case on top of the suitcase. When she opened the little trunk—she’d never opened it before—and found an old black leather briefcase. Took that out too.

She picked up a flat, heavy rock and laid it on the front seat. Carefully, she depressed the clutch with her right foot and shoved the shifter into first gear with her right hand. Then she placed the rock on the gas pedal, making the engine roar. As she slid her foot off the clutch the car lunged forward, bumping her hip. It bounced up when it hit the rocks lining the shoreline. She was surprised at how high the car sailed. It looked like an airplane taking off before it plunged into the water tail first with a huge splash. It floated for a few seconds then sank. The last thing visible was the menacing black stinger on the hood sliding into the water.

She brushed herself off, picked up her things and trudged back to the road thinking what a stupid thing she’d done but not caring because she hated her stepfather so much. She continued along the road until she found a spot where the grass looked dry beneath a large elm tree and she sat down. She took out her guitar and started strumming randomly, found a sequence of chords she liked just as the sun broke through the clouds and began to warm her.

And inspire her.

My name is Sunshine, she chirped, and I will love you.

And as a pink aura grew, words bubbled up:

"I got the blues when Gina left me out Eight Mile way.

A great big truck came and took that poor soul away.

She never meant to treat me bad; she was the only mom I ever had.

We never said good-bye, and it made me cry.

Got down so low that I thought I might die.

"Well I got four hundred dollars, and a few extra nickels and dimes.

Ain’t never goin’ home, or I just might lose my mind.

Be on the road for days, startin’ brand new ways,

Walkin’ across Belle Isle on a bright sunshiny day.

"Well, I’m sittin’ under this damn tree, wonderin’ what’s in store for me,

Feelin’ crazy, happy and lazy, but oh so ever so free

Might take a train, or maybe a bus, but I won’t be feelin’ down.

Gonna ride to the end of the line, no one’s ever gonna see me frown.

"Well I barely got a nickel, or even a lousy dime.

My ol’ man finds me, think I’m gonna lose my mind.

I ain’t never going back to stay; I’m startin’ a brand new day,

Walkin’ ‘cross Belle Isle on a bright sunshiny day.

Walkin’ ’cross Belle Isle on a bright sunshiny day.

Walkin’ ‘cross Belle Isle on a bright sunshiny day."

After awhile, she opened the old black leather briefcase and examined the bankbooks and papers, absorbed the numbers as best she could and stuffed them into her suitcase. She thought she understood. Most of the bank books were from other countries, many of them places in Asia that she remembered hearing her stepfather talk about. But there were American ones too. Finally, she found a folder with strange documents in a foreign language. The paper looked dark, very thin, almost fragile, with barely discernible tiny white print that might be German. She riffled through them in a few seconds and was going to throw them away, but they didn’t take much room so she tossed them into her suitcase with everything else.

11:45 p.m., Detroit

Jimmy Hayes liked to live on the dangerous edge of blaring feedback and electronic distortion. By overdriving the amp, he’d produced an edgy, distorted tone with a hollow, wet sound that oozed into the big room without overwhelming the rest of the band. Give some credit to Roscoe because he’d made Hayes crank the volume down. Well, it was Roscoe’s blues band. Hayes loved to experiment with his Stratocaster and different amps to find new noises. Loud ones.

It’s supposed to be an electric guitar for God’s sake! Playing the right chords and notes is just the beginning.

So he’d spent a lot of time fiddling with the equipment to get something unique. Then halfway through their blues set, purely by accident, he’d found that if he crouched a few feet in front of the amp and its speaker, he could generate a delicious distorted drone of fuzzy feedback that skittered into sharp, high harmonics and extended the notes when he moved his guitar into positions that exposed the strings to the sound blasting out of the speaker. He could control it, but just barely. And at the end of Hayes’ solo there was a burst of applause and whistles.

Hayes could play the hell out of the blues and that solo had won over the audience. Unlike the college scene, this audience did not despise the military, so when Roscoe introduced him as Jimmy Purple Hayes, and said Jimmy’s on leave and shipping out to Vietnam in two weeks, the rattle of applause had surprised him. Playing blues was not a lot different from the psychedelic rock he played with his own band, Universal Joint. Universal Joint was louder and his band mates weren’t as good as Roscoe’s. He hadn’t played music with a band for months, and this felt like one of the best nights of his life. After an hour and a half of blues, they took a break.

About the only other white person in the room was a girl sitting across the table from where Hayes guzzled a bottle of Stroh’s beer. She had him under her spell. Has to be a hooker, thought Hayes. Unaccompanied and too beautiful to be anything else. The place was crawling with hookers. There were women present who weren’t, but they were mostly older, there to dance, listen to the music and keep a close watch on husbands and boyfriends.

Why else would a young unattached white girl be here?

She was wearing a bright, sleeveless dress that was green, pink and yellow. The neckline was high and the skirt was short, but it all clung tightly to every curve. She really had the curves too, along with wavy, golden hair that swirled with hints of other lighter colors whenever she moved. Her dusky, tan skin looked like she must lie in the sun all day. Green eyes sparkled under a hint of pink eye shadow and matched the green in her dress. Her green shoes matched too. And the lipstick on those full lips matched the pink in her dress and her eye shadow. Her earrings had all of those colors, and of course, the colors matched. She was so beautiful, so sexy looking, so matched up. And at the same time, she looked so young and innocent. In fact, she didn’t look any older than him.

Maybe younger. Then again, how old do you have to be, to be hooker?

She smiled just a little but didn’t say anything. He figured she might be a deeply tanned Scandinavian. Hayes thought he was mostly Finnish. There were a lot of Finns living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where he’d grown up. This girl wasn’t big, but her legs were long and her waist narrow, making the curve of her hips all the more dramatic.

She kept looking at him too, with a questioning expression on her face and those sexy lips. He wanted to feel them against his lips. Hayes smiled and she upped the wattage of her smile a little. He wanted to introduce himself and let her know that she was wasting her time with him. He was a nineteen-year-old private first class in the U.S. Army making less than eighty dollars a month, drinking beer in an illegal after-hours joint and sitting across from a really pretty and probably very expensive hooker. If only his Army buddies could see him now. He had been paid before going on leave. Could he possibly afford her? He had never been to a hooker. He should at least offer to buy her a drink, but she was already drinking a Pepsi. Instead he just sat there, paralyzed and unable to think of a way to break the ice.

It was almost midnight and still warm. Hayes’ purple T-shirt stuck to his body and his jeans itched. Too loose... must have lost weight in basic training. He was exactly six feet tall, slender, perfectly proportioned, graceful and broadcasting his emotions with every movement. The soft features of his face drew people in. His blond hair, barely an inch long, branded him military as much as a full-dress uniform. Though his vision was perfect, he wore rimless, pale, purple-tinted glasses. He reveled in his old PF Flyer tennis shoes after months of wearing Army combat boots. Felt like he could jump up and turn back flips. In fact he had done some jumping and spinning as he’d bathed the room in the scream from his Fender Stratocaster.

Before World War II the place had been a neighborhood market. This night, the windows were tightly shut and no air moved inside. His ears were ringing from ninety minutes in front of the amps, so the buzz of conversation and clink of glasses seemed a little otherworldly. He smelled sweaty bodies, spilled beer, cigarette smoke and some marijuana. He was a little high. He, Roscoe, the drummer and the bass player had shared a joint before their blues set. Universal Joint was stoned more often than not when they played, so he was used to it.

Roscoe Lincoln was a stocky, slightly overweight Negro not yet thirty who was a studio musician and had taken Hayes to some recording sessions at Motown. He had introduced him to music producers and had gotten him hired for a three-week tour playing guitar in a band where Roscoe played sax. Hayes had played and been paid for it. Then as soon as he’d completed the tour, his own band caught a break. After more than a year of scraping by playing frat parties and dormitory mixers around Michigan State University, Universal Joint landed a regular gig at one of the busiest campus bars. Universal Joint was good, but Hayes sensed they were not good enough to go much further. His band mates were more interested in drugs and girls than music. Hayes didn’t like looking for substitute bass players or drummers all the time because someone in the band was shacked up or too wasted to play. It had gotten hard to get his band to rehearse and work out new songs. He made enough money to get himself a room instead of living in his car or in the university’s underground steam tunnels or crashing with acquaintances. Except he kept spending all his money on more music equipment. He’d become the hottest local guitar player, and Universal Joint was packing the bar every night they played and getting hired for other gigs. He did all of the singing and wrote songs, though he didn’t think he was much of a songwriter or singer. Mostly, the band played amped-up, spacey, psychedelic covers of other people’s songs. Hayes didn’t have the courage to play more than a handful of his own songs on any given night.

It all ended when he got drafted.

Ever fussy about his collection of musical gear, Roscoe kept fiddling with a guitar, a microphone and one of the amplifiers at the back of the stage while Hayes drank the Stroh’s. The room, a blind pig, catered mostly to Negro high rollers in search of music, liquor, drugs and women. If it had a name, Hayes didn’t know it. The room sold a lot of liquor, though it had no license to do so, and you could get weed if you wanted it and probably harder stuff too. But the real business was the women. It was essentially a brothel, a place where you met women whom you paid for sex. There were no rooms on the premises, but there were several nearby motels.

Hayes found being a guitar player in an almost-whorehouse a lot more exciting than playing the college scene, though he mused that some of the college girls reminded him of the whores in the blind pig. Now that he was in the Army, he heard a lot about whores. There was no doubt that playing in a rock and roll band attracted the girls, but most of the time Hayes had no place to take them. If anything happened, it only happened once. He’d never had a girlfriend, never gone on a real date and had no close friends except for Roscoe. Even his band mates—who all had girlfriends, except for the drummer who was married—kept their distance. They were intimidated by his musical prowess. He had several good fake IDs to show he was 22 years old. He told people he’d graduated from high school and attended college, neither of which was true, though he wished it were.

Roscoe finished with the equipment and came to the table carrying a beautiful acoustic Epiphone guitar to which he had carefully taped an electronic pick-up on the inside with packaging tape. It was a gorgeous instrument, noted Hayes, who appreciated fine guitars. It was one of the best acoustics he’d seen. He ran his fingers over the colorful fret board, trying to feel the action of the strings, as the girl reached for the guitar. Her fingers touched Hayes’ fingers and lingered. Their eyes met again.

You ready? Roscoe asked the girl.

She nodded.

Surprised, Hayes released the guitar.

Careful, Roscoe said to her. It’s gonna be louder than you’re used to, but you gotta play it just as strong. Don’t back off ‘cause you think it’s too loud or it’ll throw off your playing. You’ve got a great rhythmic style. Be better with this pickup. You won’t have to keep it in front of the mike. You can move. Where’d you say you got those songs?

The girl didn’t say anything at first. Finally she mumbled, Old blues songs... been listening to Tom Rush. Hayes could barely hear her. Just old blues songs. I can play lots of songs.... She looked at Hayes. I liked your playing. How do you.... She spoke softly and couldn’t seem to complete a sentence. Then more loudly, and a little weird, like a bird singing, she said, I thought that noise was a mistake, but you made it beautiful.

Thanks, he said and nodded, smiling encouragement. She looked scared and it drew Hayes more to her.

Holy shit! She’s here to play.

He felt like a fool. He had been so hung up on thinking she was a hooker that he hadn’t noticed her nervousness.

A girl guitar player. Where did Roscoe find her?

You’re gonna like this, Hayes, Roscoe said. I ran into her on Belle Isle today. Man, wait’ll you hear her sing. She’s as good as anyone I’ve ever heard. And this girl plays a guitar like she’s ringing a bell.

You mean like Chuck Berry? Hayes said, making Roscoe glower. Roscoe had backed up Chuck Berry on a two-week tour and didn’t like him. Hayes loved Chuck Berry’s music and they argued about it all the time. The girl strapped the guitar around her neck and stepped up to the stage, which was just a riser a foot above the floor level. Roscoe had set up a barstool in front of a microphone. She sat on it, looking uncomfortable.

Help the lady with the mike, Roscoe said. I’m going back to the amp to control the volume. I swear it’s gonna sound better with that pickup than if we tried to put a mike in front of it.

Hayes adjusted the mike so it was a few inches from her mouth. He stepped back and then got down off the stage riser, catching her attention again, and suddenly looking right into her eyes. His heart jumped and his face flushed. He was suddenly as nervous as she was.

God, those green eyes.

And her dress hiked up past mid-thigh when she sat on the stool. She smiled shyly and then looked around the room. It was noisy, with people talking, laughing, drinking and smoking. Only a few looked at the stage. He thought that Roscoe should have introduced her, but Hayes couldn’t do it because he didn’t know her name.

Just start playing, Hayes finally said. He was flustered, barely able to think straight. It’ll quiet down and they’ll listen. You’re so pretty they’ll like you even if you can’t play.

Hayes instantly regretted the words, but from the very first moment, as she took a deep breath and prepared to play, she took him prisoner. With a flourish, she launched into a catchy progression of chords on her guitar. That was part of what captured Hayes. He expected girls with guitars to play soft folk music, but she was an aggressive player. She underwent a rapid transformation from quiet and nervous to powerful, confident, fully engaged. Roscoe had been right. She had a strong sense of rhythm that seemed to pulsate from her core. Her guitar came on very loud, but Roscoe cut back the volume just as she began singing about a fat man.

She sang about his great big leg and he got a whoppin’ thigh and get your fat leg off’a me to the delight of the crowd.

She was working her guitar so hard that Hayes thought she could break something. She put her whole body into every chord, strumming hard, picking out little runs with her fingers. She got up off the chair and leaned into the mike, except now it was too low for her. Hayes quickly climbed up and adjusted it. Her music captured everyone in the room, but none more than Hayes. An electric flush swept over him. He knew his life had changed.

Her voice sounded deeper than he expected, and just as Roscoe said, she was a glorious singer. The purity of Joan Baez, the power of Gracie Slick and a tinge of bluesy, whisky-soaked Janis Joplin had her putting a song across the way Roscoe had tried to teach Hayes. He couldn’t believe she did it so naturally. She had the rich, resonant, polished control of a professional, a lot of vulnerable young-girl heart and more emotion than anyone he’d heard. She made it seem like a fat man danced in front of her. And not long after she started singing, a fat woman and an even fatter man had begun dancing, much to the delight of the audience. Hayes looked around the room. Everyone watched her, swaying to the rhythm of her guitar. Instant love.

She played half a dozen songs. Hayes recognized Drop Down Mama and Stagger Lee. She did a couple of Beatles songs: I’ve Just Seen a Face and In My Life. She dazzled everyone with a two-handed sizzling guitar version of the keyboard solo from In My Life. Hayes had tried to do a good solo for that song on guitar, but had never come up with anything that worked. Then she stopped for a minute to tune her guitar. It hadn’t sounded out of tune so he was puzzled at first, but he soon figured it out. She was changing the tuning, and then she started playing strange, eerie chords interspersed with some slide guitar flourishes she did with a finger bar. It was a slow, hypnotic and melancholy number with a gentle, rolling rhythm like a boat rocking on long ocean swells. And it was complicated, endlessly changing chords and going in unexpected directions. She didn’t sing, but she started humming into the mike. It was a beautiful, haunting melody, but one he’d never heard before. Had she forgotten the words?

However, it didn’t fit the rollicking ambience of the blind pig. Although everyone still watched her, a restlessness crept in. She sensed it, ended the song, quickly re-tuned her guitar and started in on a slow, bluesy version of Baby Please Don’t Go.

Hayes and Roscoe looked at each other. This was a song they’d played together, though in a different key and faster. Hayes grabbed his Stratocaster and plugged into his amplifier. Roscoe got his saxophone and was motioning to the bass player and drummer. Before she was done with the song, they were a band. The five of them played together for another hour. It didn’t matter what they played, the girl not only picked it up but put her own rhythmic stamp on it.

They finally took a break with Hayes drinking another Stroh’s and trying to talk to the girl, who had another Pepsi. He managed to find out her name—Gloria—though she said she was calling herself Sunshine. She didn’t say much, just nodded and smiled. She kept looking around wide-eyed at everything. She pulled her chair closer and leaned against him. He liked that, a lot. Roscoe and the rest of the band all crowded at the same table. An additional two rounds of drinks had already been delivered from people in the audience. They were all discussing what to do next.

Roscoe looked at the girl. We been playing here most nights, ten until maybe four in the morning. Can you make it tomorrow?

She nodded.

How ‘bout you, Hayes? How long you in town?

You were correct... two weeks, Hayes said. I have to report to Fort Dix New Jersey on August 6th. I was gonna go home, but my Uncle Sepp is out working on the boats so there’s nobody up there. I tried to get my band together by phone, but I think my band might be over. All I got is my guitar, my amp and my car.

Need a place to stay? Roscoe asked. You can sleep in the spare bedroom if you want.

Just then a large and very dark Negro with a big Afro and a menacing glare came over to their table. He was the main bouncer, and he’d given Hayes a hard time when he’d arrived. But he was in full friendly mode now, touching Hayes on the shoulder and nodding. You play pretty damn good blues for a white boy, he said, then looked at Gloria. And you even better. Better lookin’ too. He turned to Roscoe. We closin’ down. The pigs busted a joint over on 12th Street. They arrestin’ ever’body and it’s startin’ to get nasty outside. I don’t know if they comin’ here next or not, but we all ought’a get outta here while we can.

Shit, Roscoe said. Okay, but we gonna get paid?

The big bouncer shrugged. You speak to the man about that, but he ain’t got time to deal with it tonight. Why don’t you come by tomorrow mornin’? Then he turned to Gloria, studying her for a few seconds as if he wasn’t sure about something. He made up his mind. Gentleman standing over there wants to offer you two hundred dollars to go home with him. He gestured toward a light-skinned Negro richly dressed in a bright blue pinstripe suit with a purple tie and a white Stetson hat adorned with a plume of multi-colored feathers. He had a shiny black walking stick in one hand. The man was short and rotund, but he looked light on his feet. His eyes twinkled; he smiled and tipped his hat as they all looked.

Jesus, that’s Clyde Bonaventure, murmured Roscoe. He runs the black rackets in Detroit and he owns this place.

Gloria blushed and looked down at the table, then shook her head. No.

Bonaventure, still looking at them, caught her headshake, smiled, tipped his hat again, turned and left.

She slid even closer to Hayes, took his hand and whispered in his ear, Can we leave?

July 23, 2:25 a.m.

Opening the back of his 1959 Rambler station wagon, Hayes shoved his duffel bag to one side to make room for the cases containing his Stratocaster and Gloria’s Epiphone. Then he shoved in his amplifier Well, it isn’t exactly cool, but it runs good. He opened the passenger-side door for her.

Thank you, she said.

Hayes punched up WKNR on the radio as he started the car. Some Kind of Wonderful by the Soul Brothers Six was playing, a song that he had heard for the first time while driving into town, and he turned it up. She slid over close to him and rested her head on his shoulder. There were cars in front and back. Everyone was leaving. In the half-minute that it took them to get to the street, which was Clairmount, three police cars and an ambulance screamed past. When he got to the street he turned and headed in the other direction. He asked her where she lived, but she didn’t answer. Well, do you want to get some coffee? he asked, and she nodded. He headed north and west until he found a restaurant called Biff’s open on Grand River Avenue. They ordered breakfast.

Sitting across from him in the booth, pushing her scrambled eggs around with her fork, she looked directly at him and took a deep breath just like she had before she sang about the fat man. I don’t have a home, she said in that birdlike voice. She looked nervous again. Can I stay with you? I’ll pay you back when I make some money. I hope I can make some money playing guitar.

What do you mean you don’t have a home? Everybody has a home. Even I have a home, though I haven’t been there recently. You must have come from some place. The girl was just too beautiful to be willing to go home with him, even if he’d had someplace to go besides Roscoe’s. And he couldn’t bring her to Roscoe’s because Roscoe lived with his mother, a straight-laced, church-going woman who was suspicious of white people in general and who seem to dislike Hayes in particular. He wondered why Roscoe had invited him to stay in the spare room.

Gloria was looking down at her food. She sniffed and blew her nose in a napkin.

He reached over and put his hand on hers. It’s okay. We’ll find someplace.

They stared at each other for a long moment and Hayes held her hand with both of his. The fear seemed to melt away and she relaxed again. He said, You know, I lived on campus at Michigan State for a couple of years without ever having my own place. He was just trying to make conversation and it wasn’t easy. He finally looked away from her and carefully said, Let’s find a cheap motel and we can figure out what to do next.

Okay, she said right away. Now she wasn’t looking at him either, but when Hayes squeezed her hand, she squeezed back.

It was Sunday morning, about 4:30, when they pulled into a motel called the Cresthaven. Before he went to the office, Hayes studied Gloria. She had darker blond hair than him, but it wasn’t that much different. They were both young and slender.

Okay, Gloria, let’s have you be my little sister. We can say that I’ve got orders for Vietnam, which is true, and you’re here to see me off. Home is Sault Ste. Marie in the Upper Peninsula. I think we can sell that easier than saying you’re my wife. You’re too young to drive, so that way it makes sense that you don’t have any ID if they ask.

"Well, I don’t have any ID. I don’t even have a driver’s license but I can drive. I can even drive a stick."

Good for you. And you play some pretty mean guitar. And oh, call me Jimmy. And pick on me like you would a brother.

I don’t have brothers or sisters.

Neither do I, but we’re gonna have to fake it.

It worked. The room cost $9.50, which was a little more than he’d expected, but the room was also nice. It had a telephone with free local calls, a 21-inch color TV, a radio, one double bed, and one small desk with a chair, a tiny open closet and a clean bathroom with a shower over a bathtub. When Hayes explained he had orders for Vietnam, even offering up a copy of them, and said that he and his sister, who was his only family, had been driving all night from the Upper Peninsula, the motherly Negro woman running the desk told them she would enter the check-in time as past noon. That way, their $9.50 got them the room until checkout time the following day. And she as good as said she could stretch that checkout time by a few hours unless there was a sudden and unexpected flood of guests. He wasn’t sure the lady was buying their story, but she didn’t seem to care. By the time they hauled the duffel and her suitcase up to the room, the sun was coming up.

I’m beat, but I want to take a shower, Hayes said. What he really wanted to do was kiss her. He wanted to lie down on the bed next to her, put his arms around her and kiss those intriguing lips. But he was afraid to make a move and they were both looking everywhere except at each other.

You first, she finally said.

He didn’t argue. He took a quick, militarily efficient shower, and came out a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist.

She looked at him, studying his body and blushed. So did he. When Gloria went to take a shower, he dropped the towel and rooted around in his duffel until he found clean boxer shorts. He put them on and saw that despite his fatigue he was very excited. So he got into the bed to cover his obvious desire. Not surprising, he thought. It had been almost five months since he’d even thought about the opposite sex. He had gone through basic training and then directly to a 15-week school to learn how to fix airplane propellers and helicopter rotor blades. There had been a few weekend passes, but Hayes hadn’t tried to chase girls. He’d spent any spare time the Army gave him playing his old beat-up Silvertone. Now he was lying in bed with a raging hard-on, his mind filled with visions of a naked Gloria just the other side of a thin wall as the thrum of the shower filled his ears. He began thinking about his time at Michigan State playing music gigs, constantly putting bands together and watching them fall apart, catching lectures on everything from electrical engineering to Chinese history, and sneaking into the dormitory cafeterias to eat. And in less than a minute, he fell asleep.

Just as quickly, he woke up with a naked body sliding against his.

Sorry... you’re kind of in the middle, she said.

There was a naked breast on his chest, naked legs against his own naked legs and one of her hips pressed against his thigh. He tried to shift away and when he did his excited cock escaped the weak confines of the boxers and sprang against her soft skin.

She looked at him. Oh my.

Oh God, he said. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.

She lightly gripped him, moving her hand up and down the shaft. As he tried to take her hand away, she pulled down the light coverlet with her other hand. Oh, she said, staring at it, a smile on her face.

Hayes was staring at her breasts, ripe with dark brownish-red nipples. There were light tan lines from a two-piece bathing suit, but it still looked like she might have also been sunbathing in the nude. He was quickly overwhelmed by desire.

He reached up with both hands and caressed her breasts, making the nipples harden and pop up with his thumbs. He kissed each breast in turn and then buried his face in her soft belly. He licked her belly button and she gasped. Then he rose up on one elbow and kissed her lips, slowly moving his hand on a long, slow, exploratory expedition from her breasts to her hips, to her belly and ending in the tangle of soft, moist curls between her legs. Her legs parted and he felt her excited wetness.

She moaned and broke the kiss. Do something quick! And hurry! Oh please hurry! she groaned. She still gripped him.

He rolled on top of her and tried to comply but her hand was in the way. Hayes reached down and took her hand away. Let me, he said, and with his own hand he slowly started pushing inside her. He detected some tearing just as she squealed.

Is she a virgin?

He tried to keep from thrusting, but hot-blooded desire had seized control and he pushed all the way in. She squealed again, louder, then groaned and gasped, and then Hayes exploded inside her, issuing his own loud grunts and groans. He lay on top of her, supporting himself on his elbows, still deep inside her. I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?

No, it was like getting a needle at the doctor’s but... but is that all?

Hayes couldn’t think of anything to say, so he kissed her instead. It was a long kiss and as she wrapped both her arms and legs around him, he rolled them over on their sides, still kissing her.

Can we do it again? she asked when he finally broke the kiss.

Oh yes... and it’ll be better next time.

And it was better.

They made love repeatedly during the day, which was a long blur of half-sleep and sex. Much to his amazement, he discovered that she had absolutely no inhibitions