We ain’t played ’em, like I said. Not much call for this kinda music with the colored station broadcasting so close nearby. But Early drops ’em off anyway, just in case.”
“Early say anything about where he was gonna go next?”
“No, but I imagine he’d be delivering something to Carver’s outfit.”
“That the station you mentioned, KQUI?”
“Yep.”
“You wouldn’t have their address, would you?”
“Sure.” He scribbled it down on a piece of paper. “Real easy to find. Just take Highway 151 all the way out till you pass the county line, then right on 165. 165’ll bring you back into this county, but you’ll drive maybe fifty miles down it, and it’ll stop being paved about thirty miles in. You just keep going, and after a while you’ll see their tower, little thing, smaller than ours, but you’ll also see one of them new fire lanes with the big electrical transformers that the WPA put across the county back in ’43. One of the last projects in the state.”
Ingram nodded and thanked the man. “Oh, one more question, if I could. You ever hear that pirated station? You know, the one that switches frequencies?”
White laughed again, stomach jiggling. “The Phantom Station all the field hands whisper about? No, I haven’t heard it. Doubt I ever will, cause it’s just a story, nothing more.”
“You ever hear of a man they call Ramblin’ John Hastur?”
“No. Should I have?”
Ingram stopped for lunch at the local diner before driving on to find KQUI. He surprised himself with his own hunger, wolfing down his food with a speed he hadn’t had since basic training. He lingered at the counter, afterward, smoking and drinking coffee, listening to the sounds of the folk in the diner going over their daily routines, traveling down well-worn paths of conversation. He sighed, left a tip, and went back to the coupe.
Highway 151 out of England rode rough, potholed and uneven. The whir of insects grew louder, the fields giving way before trees, cypress and birch, thick and dark in the shallows of the Arkansas River. Ingram followed this road for a while, until it turned back on itself and ran parallel to the river once more. Asphalt turned to gravel, and soon Ingram saw a building through the trees and, beyond the building, a large electrical transmission tower rising above the tree line.
Ingram parked the coupe next to the other car in the lot, a older model Ford, dusted the brim of his hat, and walked into the small, shabby building with a galvanized tin roof. At the door, a small plaque read, “KQUI Arkansas’ Only Negro Owned and Operated Radio Station.”
Inside, the front room of the KQUI was dark, lit only by a small bulb hanging from a wire.
Ingram called, “Hello?”
Nothing.
The other radio stations he’d been to played their broadcasts in the lobby, in the waiting rooms. But not here. Ingram looked around. The front room held a desk with a big black telephone, a fabric couch threadbare at the edges, a coffee table with old newspapers and a couple of war-time posters on the wall. A door in the back led to what Ingram assumed was the recording and broadcasting booth.
Ingram rifled the desk, finding an invoice book, a telephone log, a pad of paper, and bottles of ink. Underneath the ink blotter was a piece of paper. Carefully, he pulled it out. Mimeographed on card stock and heavily folded, it held a faint, sweet odor. Blue ink. It read:
Ingram slid the paper into his pocket and went to the inner door. He listened for a moment, and then threw it open.
Clutter filled the low-slung room, lit by a bulb hanging from a wire. In a corner, on dark stained walls, hung two framed documents—one a radio operator’s license, the other a FCC Broadcasters license. A rough-hewn worktable stood under the light, stacked with boxes and milk crates full of records. The table itself held a turntable and microphone. A morass of wires snaked across the floor and into a wall by the back
“Early say anything about where he was gonna go next?”
“No, but I imagine he’d be delivering something to Carver’s outfit.”
“That the station you mentioned, KQUI?”
“Yep.”
“You wouldn’t have their address, would you?”
“Sure.” He scribbled it down on a piece of paper. “Real easy to find. Just take Highway 151 all the way out till you pass the county line, then right on 165. 165’ll bring you back into this county, but you’ll drive maybe fifty miles down it, and it’ll stop being paved about thirty miles in. You just keep going, and after a while you’ll see their tower, little thing, smaller than ours, but you’ll also see one of them new fire lanes with the big electrical transformers that the WPA put across the county back in ’43. One of the last projects in the state.”
Ingram nodded and thanked the man. “Oh, one more question, if I could. You ever hear that pirated station? You know, the one that switches frequencies?”
White laughed again, stomach jiggling. “The Phantom Station all the field hands whisper about? No, I haven’t heard it. Doubt I ever will, cause it’s just a story, nothing more.”
“You ever hear of a man they call Ramblin’ John Hastur?”
“No. Should I have?”
Ingram stopped for lunch at the local diner before driving on to find KQUI. He surprised himself with his own hunger, wolfing down his food with a speed he hadn’t had since basic training. He lingered at the counter, afterward, smoking and drinking coffee, listening to the sounds of the folk in the diner going over their daily routines, traveling down well-worn paths of conversation. He sighed, left a tip, and went back to the coupe.
Highway 151 out of England rode rough, potholed and uneven. The whir of insects grew louder, the fields giving way before trees, cypress and birch, thick and dark in the shallows of the Arkansas River. Ingram followed this road for a while, until it turned back on itself and ran parallel to the river once more. Asphalt turned to gravel, and soon Ingram saw a building through the trees and, beyond the building, a large electrical transmission tower rising above the tree line.
Ingram parked the coupe next to the other car in the lot, a older model Ford, dusted the brim of his hat, and walked into the small, shabby building with a galvanized tin roof. At the door, a small plaque read, “KQUI Arkansas’ Only Negro Owned and Operated Radio Station.”
Inside, the front room of the KQUI was dark, lit only by a small bulb hanging from a wire.
Ingram called, “Hello?”
Nothing.
The other radio stations he’d been to played their broadcasts in the lobby, in the waiting rooms. But not here. Ingram looked around. The front room held a desk with a big black telephone, a fabric couch threadbare at the edges, a coffee table with old newspapers and a couple of war-time posters on the wall. A door in the back led to what Ingram assumed was the recording and broadcasting booth.
Ingram rifled the desk, finding an invoice book, a telephone log, a pad of paper, and bottles of ink. Underneath the ink blotter was a piece of paper. Carefully, he pulled it out. Mimeographed on card stock and heavily folded, it held a faint, sweet odor. Blue ink. It read:
Ingram slid the paper into his pocket and went to the inner door. He listened for a moment, and then threw it open.
Clutter filled the low-slung room, lit by a bulb hanging from a wire. In a corner, on dark stained walls, hung two framed documents—one a radio operator’s license, the other a FCC Broadcasters license. A rough-hewn worktable stood under the light, stacked with boxes and milk crates full of records. The table itself held a turntable and microphone. A morass of wires snaked across the floor and into a wall by the back
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