Blues Highway Blues (A Crossroads Thriller Book 1)

by Eyre Price

  “Explanation?” The old man took a sip from the coffee cup the jittery counterman had half-spilled in front of him. “Bah! Folks is only concerned with explanations for their questions so long as there’s no hellhound nippin’ at their heels. Once they hear that ol’ dark dog barking down their trail, all they want is answers. Not explanations. Answers. Answers to prayers.”

  Daniel took a sip from his coffee too. “Not me.”

  “That right?” The old man grinned like he knew better. “Ain’t got no prayers?”

  “I have prayers,” Daniel admitted. “They just don’t ever have answers.”

  “There’s all kinds of answers, son,” Mr. Atibon said, slurping at his coffee. “A man just can’t always see ’em. Don’t always come from where you expect. Sometimes it seems like nothing at all, other times it’s—”

  “Waffles,” the counterman said as he set two plates in front of them.

  Mr. Atibon set to buttering his waffles and then drenching them in syrup, adding salt and a blizzard of black pepper to his potatoes. Without lifting his attention from his preparations, he asked casually, “So if it weren’t a prayer sent you down to the crossroads, just what was it?” He took a large mouthful of breakfast. “The truth.”

  The insinuation that he’d been less than honest caught Daniel off guard. “I told you. I followed the clues in that song. I came down there for that CD I bought—”

  “And I give it to you for your cash money,” Mr. Atibon acknowledged. “But we both know it ain’t what you come there for.” Another mouthful, even bigger this time. “Not really.”

  There was a puzzling certainty in the old man’s words. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just what I say, son.” He said it plainly and washed it down with another swallow of hot, black coffee. “I always do.”

  Daniel didn’t like the old man’s words. “And so do I. I came to the crossroads for—” He faltered for a moment but didn’t know why. “I went there for the next clue in—” He thought for a moment. “This game. Or whatever it is.”

  The old man refused the words like Satchel Paige shaking off a pitch call from Josh Gibson. “You can lie to yourself, son. Most souls do. But you can’t lie to Mr. Atibon. No one can. Some try. But Mr. Atibon knows better. ’Cause I see the truth.”

  “I got what I came there for.” Daniel meant the words as he said them, but they sounded tinny and empty. Even to him.

  “Sooner or later everyone finds their way to the crossroads.” The old man slurped at his coffee. “It’s where you go from there that matters.” He popped the last bite of waffle into his mouth. “You got a long, hard road ahead of you and if you gonna walk it all the way to its end, you’re gonna need what you came down there for. What you really come there for.” He left the cryptic warning hang for a second. “And, son?”

  Daniel hadn’t touched his breakfast yet. “What?”

  “It’s gonna cost you.” Mr. Atibon pushed his empty plate across the counter and wiped the telltale traces of syrup from his grin. “Not no cash money. It’s gonna really cost you.”

  Without another word, the old man got to his feet. “Well, I do believe I’ll dust my broom. It’s time for me to be moving on.”

  “Yeah, all right.” Daniel wasn’t sure why he felt so disappointed. Or scared. “I need to get some sleep anyway,” he said, exaggerating his fatigue to ease the awkwardness of their parting.

  “Sleep?” Mr. Atibon shook his head reproachfully one last time. “I need somethin’, but it sure ain’t sleep.” He laughed contentedly, his belly full of pecan waffles, his pocket flush with cash, and his heart burning with prurient intent.

  “I keep wanting to thank you for something,” Daniel offered as he pushed his untouched plate away. “But I’ll be damned if I know what for.”

  “Oh, you’re damned all right.” Mr. Atibon laughed. “But you know just what for.” He took Daniel’s hand and shook it. “I’ll see you on down the road apiece. You keep goin’, I’m right behind you, mi key.”

  “Excuse me?” The phrase sent a jolt of electricity through Daniel. “Mi key?” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the odd phrase in the last few days. Its repetition had punctuated the most alarming events of his odd odyssey. “What does that mean?”

  The old man smiled and shook his head dismissively. “Just a little something they say where I come from.”

  “And just where is that?” Daniel couldn’t help wondering aloud.

  “Aww now,” Mr. Atibon dodged. “Ain’t about where a man from, it’s ’bout where he’s goin’.” He flashed a big grin and put his hand on top of Daniel’s. “And it looks like you’re on the road to healin’.”

  Daniel peeled down the bandages and looked down to what he thought would be a festering wound. It was now impossibly clear of infection. The remaining stub had completely scarred over as if he’d lost the digit two years ago, not two days. He stared in amazement, panicked and unnerved by what he knew was impossible. “How did you—” Shock slowed his words and before he could finish the question, the old man was gone. Just gone. A shiver ran down his spine.

  Daniel called over the counterman. “The man?” he asked, pointing at the empty stool Mr. Atibon had just occupied. “You know him?”

  “Don’t know nothin’, mon.” The kid cleared the plates like they were something he shouldn’t be touching.

  “Just one thing, then.” He raised a hand to stop the kid before he ran off. “He called me mi key. Do you know what that means?”

  “He call you that?”

  Daniel couldn’t tell from the kid’s reaction whether it was an honor or an indictment, but he nodded just the same.

  “It patois,” the kid replied, as if that should be answer enough.

  Daniel tilted his head like a dog that’s not sure whether its master has really thrown the tennis ball or just hidden it behind his back.

  “Island language, mon,” the kid continued when he realized he had to. “It means something like my old friend.” He shuffled the dirty dishes in his hands. “Dat old man been callin’ you dat?” He pointed with a nod at the now vacant stool.

  Daniel recalled the woman at the gas station in New Mexico. The cop in Clarksdale. “A couple people have called me that.”

  “No, no.” The young man shook his head. “It’s all him, mon.”

  “No,” Daniel tried to explain, “I mean a couple people said that to me.”

  “I’m tellin’ you.” The young man shook his head more vigorously. “It’s all him, mon.” He looked around the empty room like he was nervous someone unseen might be listening. “It’s all him. Every-ting. All him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Some t’ings got no explanation, mon.”

  “Like love and music?”

  The kid nodded. “And dat old mon.”

  Hotel rooms in New Orleans can be expensive and hard to come by any time of year. In the first weeks of February, they’re damn near impossible to find and cost more than a FEMA director’s per diem.

  Sixteen desk clerks had already laughed him out of their lobbies by the time Daniel Erickson finally found an available cancellation at the Hotel d’Lafayette later that morning. And when they advised him it was hotel policy to insist on securing a credit card imprint in order to rent a room, he was too tired to be concerned about anyone tracing the transaction.

  His iPhone woke him sometime later, ringing and vibrating on the nightstand beside the bed. He opened his eyes, disoriented to time and place, unsure whether he had just slept for twenty minutes or twelve hours. He was still as tired as when he’d first laid down, and with blackout blinds on the windows it was impossible to judge the time of day.

  He rubbed his eyes and the clock on the nightstand came into focus. 8:36. The realization he’d slept through the entire day wasn’t as disconcerting as the realization he’d slept through the entire day and was still exhausted.

  Still groggy, he peeked at the screen identifyin
g the caller. It wasn’t Rabidoso, but he wasn’t any more eager to answer the call. It was someone much worse. Against every impulse, he picked up the phone and touched Accept Call. “Connie?”

  “Daniel?”

  He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, silent and running a hand through his thinning hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. Words failed him, so he tried for something simple. The emotions he was wrestling choked him off before he could utter anything more than, “Hey.”

  “Are you there?” The question didn’t express concern as much as it demanded a response.

  “Yes. I’m here.” But he wished he wasn’t.

  Her voice was more agitated than he’d heard it in a long, long time. “I’ve been trying to call you since—”

  “I’ve been away from my phone.” It was the best explanation he had—and not exactly a lie.

  “What the hell is going on, Daniel?”

  “Nothing.” It was as big a lie as a soul could tell, except maybe, “Everything’s fine.” And then his heart sank. He was suddenly panicked his lie might not be as bad as whatever truth she’d called to share. “Have you heard from Zack?”

  “No.”

  Relief replaced panic, but they both stayed on.

  “I haven’t heard from Randy either,” she announced. It was a simple statement, but she phrased it like an accusation.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “You tell me.”

  Daniel was prepared to deny the charge vigorously. “A middle-aged woman goes away for a weekend and now she can’t get in touch with her twenty-something boy toy? The only mystery you’ve got there is how you think your sordid mess involves me.”

  She wasn’t deterred in the slightest. “Whatever’s happened, you brought this shit to our door.”

  And he was prepared to keep denying. “I didn’t bring anything to your door.”

  “Oh, come on, Daniel. You show up unannounced—and there’s a court order saying you can’t do that—you look like someone threw you down an elevator shaft, and you’re desperate to find Zack.” She took a breath, but he could tell she was just bracing herself before asking, “Just how bad is it?”

  “It’s nothing.” Another grievous lie.

  “I’m not playing games, Daniel.” She wanted that understood. “I’m serious. I’m not being a drama queen like you with your make-believe suicide attempt.”

  The snide comment cut as deeply as she’d intended. “I wasn’t playing,” he snapped before he could stop himself from taking her bait. A familiar anger began to rise within him and he felt his ears grow warm.

  “Is Randy in danger? You owe me that much.” She spoke with such conviction that no one would’ve doubted she truly believed what she was saying.

  But Daniel knew he wasn’t the only one telling lies now. “I don’t owe you anything anymore. You can ask the California Family Courts.”

  “I’m not talking about the goddamn money, Daniel.” Her words were sharp and edged with contempt. “That’s what you never got.”

  “Really?” He wasn’t the only one telling biiiiiig lies either. “Then why’d you take so much of mine?”

  She sighed. “Money was never my reason for doing anything.”

  “There were reasons for what you did?”

  “Yes, Daniel,” her voice was frosty with condescension. “Maybe not reasons that make sense in your narrow little world, but ones that work just fine in mine.” She paused, clearly debating which specific examples she was willing to share. “I just didn’t want to feel like that anymore.”

  “Feel like what?” he pressed.

  “Like my life was ending with Zack leaving for college. I didn’t want to be your well-tended little ghost, haunting my own house. I wanted to live. I wanted to do all the things people need to do for no other reason than they’re still living.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t think you could do that with me.”

  “Me too.” She was silent for a moment. “And now if you’ve taken all of that away from me somehow—”

  “Just because your boy toy takes off the minute you go to visit your sister, don’t think you’re going to put the noose around my neck. Not again.” His anger was like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while, but with whom he could take up like they’d never parted. “Maybe he’s sick of haunting your house. Maybe he just wants to feel alive again. Did you ever think maybe he’s just a twenty-three-year-old guy who wants a piece of ass that’s not twice his age?” Wait for it…“Oh, of course, you did.”

  If their conversation had been one of those martial arts video games Zack had played in his anger-filled adolescence, Daniel’s venomous comments would have been followed by a slow-motion image of Connie being lifted up off her feet and landing on the flat of her back while an announcer screamed, “KO!”

  Instead, there was just silence on the other end of the phone.

  There was no honor in what he’d done. Not even satisfaction in having wounded someone who’d casually and carelessly hurt him irreparably. If his words could have been addressed like a factual mistake printed in the New York Times, he happily would have made the Page Two retraction. But they both recognized the sad truth in what he’d said and nothing could take that away.

  It was a moment before she could reply, and even then, it was only a soft, “You’re right.”

  If he’d hurt her worse than he’d meant to, he still had no apologies to offer. All he could say was, “I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  And that was the exact moment she became absolutely certain everything was not fine. Something in the way he tried to reassure her only served to convince her that everything was all kinds of fucked up. She paused for a moment as the realization overtook her like an emotional tsunami: fifty feet high, five miles deep. There was no point in trying to survive it. Something had changed and it would never be all right. Not ever again. “Whatever’s happened to Randy…” Her voice was suddenly calm, zombified in her resignation.

  “I’m sure Randy’s fine.” He had no desire to extend her suffering, but couldn’t tell her anything that might draw the police and, in so doing, reveal his lie to Rabidoso.

  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She’d given up listening. “Whatever it is, I want you to know that I blame you. And I’ll never forgive you.” She took a hard breath. “But if any of this comes back at Zack, if he gets hurt in any way, I swear to God I will do what you didn’t have the guts to do yourself. Do you understand?”

  He did, but he didn’t care. If he failed his son, he’d beat her to it.

  He was done with her now. With a touch, the line went dead.

  In New Orleans it’s only reasonable to expect the impossible and improbable. And, sure enough—without even having to circle the block—Daniel found a parking spot right on Tchoupitoulas Street.

  It was a tight fit, even for a subcompact, but in only a halfdozen moves he’d squeezed the Kia between a black Mercedes with a Tulane School of Law license plate frame and an El Camino that had been painted like a runaway Mardi Gras float.

  The lyrics of “Just You Get Back On Up” on the second CD had led Daniel straight to the Crescent City. And they’d been equally clear in pointing him toward one of its greatest musical icons: Professor Longhair.

  The man who’d been born Henry Roeland Byrd did not invent the piano. Music historians might dispel the notion he was the originator of jazz or the blues, but no one can dispute that the man took the popular music of his times to heights no other pianist could reach. What he did on the keyboard created a unique sound that joined rhythm to blues, and it gave rock its roll. From Little Richard to Jerry Lee Lewis, from Fats Domino to Stevie Wonder, from Ian Stewart to Roy Bittan, it all started with the Professor.

  The man is long dead. But if one happens to be searching out the spirit of Professor Longhair—for musical inspiration or, perhaps, in an attempt to regain a stolen sum of cash—there would seem to be no better place to start looking than the
corner of Tchoupitoulas and Napoleon. That particular intersection is home to Tipitina’s, a decent restaurant, respectable bar, and world-renowned music venue. It is also a living shrine to the illustrious Professor.

  As he walked to the front door, Daniel heard a familiar voice call out behind him. “You think this it, mi key?”

  He turned and wasn’t at all surprised to see Mr. Atibon step out of the shadows cast by the ancient oak ripping up the sidewalk. Perhaps he should have been alarmed, but all he felt was grateful. “What are you doing here?”

  “You gots a singin’ treasure map,” snapped the old man, as if there was no need to ask that question. “Where the hell else would I be?”

  “I thought you were going—”

  “Done it, son,” Mr. Atibon announced proudly, flashing a bright smile. “But I’m an old man and it don’ take all day an’ all night no more.” He shook his head with more than a little regret. “Had me a second go at those waffles and then came over here where I knew your fool ass would show up sooner or later.”

  “Tipitina’s, right?” Daniel announced proudly, like he’d finally gotten one right.

  “I can read my damn letters,” Mr. Atibon growled defensively. “I ain’ ignant.”

  In their short time together, Daniel had gotten used to the old man’s gruffness, maybe even developing a fondness for it. He’d certainly learned to ignore it. “You know, like Professor Longhair’s trademark song.”

  “I know the damn song.” Mr. Atibon recoiled at the suggestion Daniel could explain something like that to him. “Who you think introduced Ol’ Fess to Tina in the first place?”

  “You knew Professor Longhair?” Daniel wasn’t surprised by anything anymore, but the question slipped out anyway.

  “You tellin’ me all ’bout the song like I ain’t never heard it a thousand goddamn times. What you think that song ’bout anyways?”

  “Tipitina” was the Professor’s signature number, but when faced with a question about what the often-garbled lyrics were actually about, Daniel had to shake his head and admit, “I have no idea.”