Justice for Sonny Boy

Available on Amazon at:   http://tinyurl.com/2s4ab6a2

Introduction

In the 1940s, Chicago was a city on edge. African American newcomers from the South, among them blues musicians, came seeking liberty, work, and housing. Black individuals were confined to a narrow area, merely seven blocks in breadth and thirty blocks in length, an area known as the Black Belt or Bronzeville.

Prologue

Sonny Boy Williamson’s impact on the blues harmonica cannot be overstated. Often hailed as the father of modern blues harp, he was not only widely heard but also deeply influential, shaping the sound of his generation and beyond. His songs, including the enduring “Good Morning, School Girl” and “Stop Breaking Down,” remain beloved classics that capture the essence of the blues. He was robbed and murdered on the streets of Chicago in 1948 at the age of 34. A tragic loss for the music world, but his legacy lives on through his timeless music.

Justice for Sonny Boy

The train ride is smooth rolling. Miles and miles of miles and miles. It feels good getting away from the intrigue surrounding the death of our former employer, Dutch Schultz. The Mafia isn’t interested in explanations. In Chicago, we aim to keep a low profile. There’s nobody here who can put a finger on us like there is in New York. In the Windy City, we aim to do some sniffing around for any Mafia scuttlebutt.

“Hey, Murphy, wake up! Do you hear that whistle blowing, we’re steaming into Chicago, the Heart of America.” I say as we rub the sleep from our eyes. We chowed down in the dining car an hour ago, but after riding the rails for twenty-three hours straight, we’re both feeling bushed.

“We can grab a cab to the Lexington Hotel and catch some Z’s. Molly had us set up at the Palmer House, but this one’s easier on the wallet.”

“Is that Lexington joint the big one over on South Michigan at East Cermak Road?” Murphy asks.

“Yeah, I reckon that’s the address they fed me. Why?” I reply.

“Eugene, you’re kidding me, right?”

“Why would I jest? I saw a picture of the place in the newspaper. Looks swell, and the desk jockey who took our reservation said it has ten floors, four hundred rooms, and it’s a stone’s throw from downtown. What’s wrong with that?”

“Did that desk jockey bother to mention that the Lexington is known as Capone’s Castle? He’s got fifty rooms rented on the fourth and fifth floors, surrounded by thirty Italian goons.

“When Capone holed up at the Hawthorne Hotel, they slapped bulletproof steel shutters on his windows. The man survived a ten-car drive-by shooting when his enemies peppered the place with over a thousand rounds from Thompson submachine guns. We might not be so lucky.”

“I guess trying to save a few bucks wasn’t the brightest idea. Now I get why the room rates were a steal.”

“Another thing, Eugene, we’ll be straddling the Black Belt, or Bronzeville as they call it here, where a quarter of a million folks migrated from down South to dodge beatings and lynchings.”

“You reckon that’s an issue?”

“We’re not black, and we’re not bronze, Eugene. If you hoped we’d blend in, that ship ain’t sailing. There were the race riots in ’19, Red Summer, they called it because of all the blood. White folks high-tailed it out of here. Happened fifteen years back but left its scars.”

“How did you learn all this?”

“I was born here.”

(Continued at: https://tinyurl.com/2afrp6wf