Blues Highway Blues (A Crossroads Thriller Book 1)

by Eyre Price

  Daniel took the envelope and then reconsidered what he’d just said about not having anything. Without thinking about it further, he reached for the watch on his wrist. A Panerai. Limited edition. One of a hundred. He unfastened the clasp and slipped it into the old man’s hand. “Here, take this.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t take something like this.”

  Daniel looked at the timepiece, remembering the day Connie had given it to him. “One thing I’ve learned—”

  “What’s that?”

  “Life will shit on you for years at a time.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “So, when your luck changes, you don’t fight it.”

  “Don’t fight it?”

  Daniel pressed the watch into the man’s hand. “You just roll with it.”

  The man smiled. “Roll with it.”

  Daniel held up the envelope. “Thank you.”

  Lincoln held up the watch. “Thanks are mine.”

  “You got it?” Moog called from the car.

  Daniel showed him that he did.

  “Then come on. Let’s go!”

  “Now that’s worth some money,” Daniel advised Lincoln as he started toward the car. “You make sure you get a couple of dollars for that, don’t let them screw you too bad when you pawn it.” He started to climb into the backseat.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Lincoln assured him. “I know what it’s worth, mi key.”

  “What did you say?” Daniel asked as he spun back toward the sidewalk.

  Lincoln Mammett was gone.

  Daniel stared out into the darkness, taking special notice of each house they passed. None of them appeared to be more than a single point of light in the distance. And yet he knew there was a family inside each one. Mothers and fathers. Daughters and sons. Probably sleeping, he thought, comfortable and snug in their beds in their little houses at the edge of the highway. He envied them. All of them.

  “You’re sure about this?” Moog wanted to know.

  “Yes,” Daniel answered without taking his eyes from the parade of houses he was watching. “If you doubt me, just play it again.”

  Doubt wasn’t the right word, but Moog still wanted to be certain. “I’ve listened to that song two dozen times and I still don’t hear where you get Cleveland out of it.”

  He pushed play on the CD player that had been silent for twenty miles or more.

  The same counting of time as a drummer clicked his sticks. “One-two-one-two-three-four.”

  And then right on the beat there was an explosion of drums and bass and guitars that shook Rabidoso from his sound sleep.

  “What the—” He rubbed his eyes. “This shit again?”

  Moog just kept on driving. “Yes.”

  As Rabidoso snuggled himself back into the passenger seat, the music chugged on like the little engine that knew it could. And then the vocalist joined in.

  This life is rough, it’ll knock you down

  Mess you up, spin your head around

  But when times get tough, you’re pinned to the ground

  You just suck it up, it’s time to throw down

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you fear you can’t go on

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you think you lost the fight

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When they tell you that you’re wrong

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  Till you get it right

  “It’s the first pure rock-and-roll song I’ve heard in all of this,” Daniel explained. “All of the others have just been leading up to this. From the Delta to New Orleans and Memphis to Chicago and Detroit. They were blues. Rhythm and blues. Nashville was country. But they were all just the pieces that built the rock-and-roll machine.”

  “But Cleveland?”

  “Wasn’t always a punch line,” Daniel answered. “It was a city ahead of its time.”

  Now when the Moondog threw his Coronation Ball

  There were twenty thousand kids came to answer the call

  Blacks and whites together, for the love of it all

  Everybody singing, “Jim Crow tear down your wall”

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you fear you can’t go on

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you think you lost the fight

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When they tell you that you’re wrong

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  Till you get it right

  “The Moondog in the song was the nickname of a DJ named Alan Freed.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I guess he’s faded with time. But he’s the Father of Rock and Roll. In fact, he’s the first one who called it that. He was the first man in the country to play black music for a white audience, white music for a black audience. He just played music, you know? He was the first one to see through the ugliness. Completely color blind.” Daniel thought for a minute. “I can’t imagine what that must have taken back in the 1950s.”

  Moog just nodded from the front seat.

  “And he organized the Moondog Coronation Ball in 1952. It was the first rock concert ever. Ten years before the freedom marches or the March on Washington, he brought twenty thousand kids, black and white, to see a rock show with a completely integrated lineup. And it was held in—”

  Moog knew the answer to that one. “Cleveland.”

  “Cleveland.”

  Now rock and roll’s a river fed by many other streams

  There’s rhythm and there’s blues, of course, and stuff that’s in between

  There’s boogie-woogie, jazz, and sweet gospel soul

  That’s the special stuff that gives the rock its jelly roll

  There’s cowboy swing and other things like country jamboree

  Bluegrass, folk, all play their part in driving that Big Beat

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you fear you can’t go on

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you think you lost the fight

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When they tell you that you’re wrong

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  Till you get it right

  Now, Danny, you’ve had hard times, but you’re not alone

  And dying, it won’t get you where you need to be goin’

  Just think about all the things that you’ve been shown

  Yeah, you’re oh so, close now, you’re almost home

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you fear you can’t go on

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When you think you lost the fight

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  When they tell you that you’re wrong

  Rock. Rock. Rock.

  Till you get it right

  The song came to a cacophonous sustain and then ended with a flourish of guitars and drums that burst with one final cymbal crash.

  “All right then,” Moog finally agreed. “Let’s go to Cleveland.”

  Along the western shoreline of Lake Erie, a seven-story tower seems to rise up out of those questionable waters. In front of this building stands an enormous pyramid constructed of glass and steel. It’s a visually startling sight and one that can’t help but call to mind a similar structure that sits in front of the Louvre in Paris. And for good reason, as both edifices are the work of architect I.M. Pei.

  It is not a natural combination, the master of modern architecture, I.M. Pei, and the Rust Belt’s capital city, Cleveland. In fact, when Pei first agreed to take on the project on the banks of Lake Erie, there were many within the architectural community who were aghast that the grand master had agreed to lend his talents to a building honoring what they considered to be a culturally insignificant art form. That building was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

  As the three men sat in silence in their stolen car, Daniel stared out the window at the modern edifice wondering how Charlie Patton playing his five-string guitar for a young Son House on the porch of a company house at Docke
ry Plantation could have set off a spark so combustible that it could have led to something so spectacular. Pei designed a lot of buildings over the course of his career, but this was his only cathedral.

  What a long, strange trip, indeed.

  “What time they open?” Moog asked.

  “Ten.” It wasn’t the first time Daniel had answered that question.

  “What time is it now?”

  Instinctively, Daniel looked for his watch before realizing it wasn’t there anymore. A momentary pang of regret washed over him. He pointed instead to the digital clock on the dash right in front of the big man. “Nine fifty.”

  “You think it’s going to be in there?” It wasn’t the first time that question had been asked either.

  It was like being on vacation with an oversized child. “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.” Even as he said it, Daniel knew it wasn’t a confidence-inspiring answer. Still, it was the truth. “They’re always there. You know, something—”

  “Will turn up.” Moog had heard that before too. “Well, I hope something turns up to lead us to that money soon. Mr. P. ain’t gonna sit still for us taking some field trip.”

  And what could Daniel say? He knew his time was running out. A day was coming—maybe even this day—when Moog and Rabidoso’s own survival would necessitate ending the wild goose chase and returning him to Vegas, with or without the money.

  “We’re getting to the end of the trail.” Daniel wasn’t nearly as optimistic as he sounded, but he thought it might buy him some more time. “We have to be.”

  “What do you mean?” Moog wasn’t necessary interested, but there was a still a minute or two to kill before they could get inside.

  “It’s clear we’re tracing the evolution of rock and roll, right?”

  When he was a kid, Moog always hated those days when there was nothing better to do than go to school and the teachers would ask him questions they knew he didn’t know the answer to just to make him feel dumber than he already did. “OK?”

  “Well, we’ve come all the way from the Delta, where the blues began, to here, Cleveland, birthplace of rock and roll. It just doesn’t go all that much farther now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cleveland was the epicenter of an explosion that sent rock and roll splintering on a thousand different geographical directions—including other continents—where it developed completely different regional styles and sounds.” Daniel worried what would happen if the next clue sent them off in some unexpected direction, like England.

  “You know what I wanna know, Mr. Professor?” Rabidoso moved in his seat like a snake with the taste of prey in the air. He curled around the side of the passenger seat until he was looking straight at Daniel. “I been thinking and thinking on something I can’t figure out.”

  Daniel said nothing.

  “Back in Chicago. Why were all those police after you?” His eyes narrowed when he grinned.

  “What?”

  “Five-oh, esse. What they want with a straight shooter like you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rabidoso expressed his doubt—and the fact that he knew it was a lie—by broadening his reptilian grin. “Don’tchu?”

  The car was colder than the meat-packing plants down on West Sixty-Eighth Street, but Daniel was beginning to sweat. “You tell me. You were there waiting for me. You must know something I don’t.”

  “Oh, I know a lot you don’t.” The grin oozed into a sneer.

  “What the hell does that even mean?” Daniel bluffed, though he was terrified he knew exactly where his tiny tormentor was headed.

  “Ever since we plucked you outta the streets, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Daniel pretended he didn’t understand.

  “I figured even a piece of mierda like you would have to do something to get revenge on the man who—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Daniel lied just to keep him from going further.

  “Don’t you?”

  He needed Rabidoso to continue believing he’d killed Zack. “No.” The denial came out louder than he intended, and the extra volume didn’t make it any more convincing.

  “Really?”

  Daniel leaned back in his seat and looked out the window, pretending not to be interested in continuing the inquiry. What he really felt, however, was afraid.

  Ever since Moog and Rabidoso had recaptured him, Daniel had struggled with how he should react to the man who thought he’d killed his son. If he tried to feign a father’s natural desire for retribution and failed to be convincing, he might betray the lie. If he was too convincing, the situation might escalate to violence. A dead Rabidoso did nothing to help the situation. And a dead Daniel was even worse.

  The risk with doing nothing, however, was that Rabidoso would begin to suspect he’d made a mistake back in California, that he’d somehow claimed the wrong victim. And if that suspicion began to fester in his psychotic little brain, it might soon lead to the conclusion that Daniel’s only son was still out there. Alive. And available to be tortured to death all over again.

  “Let’s go.” Moog opened his door.

  Daniel climbed out, relieved to have escaped Rabidoso’s tightening coils.

  “We’re not done with this,” the little man called, then followed after them.

  Moog pulled up the collar on his suit coat. “For an antisocial psychotic, he is one chatty little motherfucker.”

  “Yeah.” Daniel was surprised by, but grateful for, the comment. He thought it might be the germ of a confidence that could be cultivated into something useful when the time came. “Yap, yap.”

  Behind them the click-clack of size 7 cowboy boots running across the slush-covered pavement to catch up with them echoed out across the lake.

  Daniel knew that any appearance in public was risky. A risk that was growing exponentially with every hit on Yahoo! or loop of headline news. Whatever the news services might have dug up, he hoped they weren’t using the ridiculous headshot he’d been cajoled into taking to promote Rock and Roll Relapse.

  Still, whatever picture they were using, it was a certainty that at least some of the rock-and-roll faithful filling the museum had seen it. Daniel kept his eyes down as he moved through the front doors, trying hard to be as inconspicuous as anyone can be when they’re accompanied by a giant and an evil elf.

  “Excuse me,” Daniel said without looking directly at the young woman behind the information kiosk.

  She didn’t look up at him either. “May I help you?” Her tone made clear she’d rather he just went away.

  “Could you tell me if anything was left for me here?”

  “Left for you?” She raised her head to catch a look at the crazy question-asker.

  “Maybe a package? An envelope?”

  “Who would’ve left you something here?” Every word dripped with contempt. “Elvis? Jimi Hendrix? Did Kurt Cobain leave something—”

  “Do you have a package for this asshole or not?” Rabidoso interrupted. The brutal fantasy he was having about her and a length of nylon rope burned bright in his eyes. “His name’s Erickson. Daniel Erickson.”

  She moved back in her seat and her right hand reached not so subtly for the alarm button beneath her desk.

  “It’s all right,” Moog assured her as he ushered the other two away from her desk and into the museum. “They didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.” The woman pulled back her hand.

  “What?” Rabidoso wanted to know. “I thought we came in here to get one of those CDs?”

  “Just keep walking.” Moog turned back and smiled at the still-rattled receptionist as he pushed his two companions into the crowd. “Now what?”

  Daniel had no idea. “I guess we just look around.”

  “Look around?” Rabidoso challenged. It didn’t seem like much of a plan. “There’s seven floors!”

  Looking up at the atrium rising high above him, Daniel
realized searching the entire collection would be impossible. He was just about to make that admission when the answer came to him. “Alan Freed.”

  “Who?”

  “Alan Freed,” Daniel repeated. “The DJ I told you about.”

  “Where do we find him?” Rabidoso asked, apparently eager to hurt someone before the morning was through.

  “He’s already dead,” Daniel said dryly as he looked around. “The song kept referring to Alan Freed. That’s gotta be the connection.” He wasn’t as sure as he sounded, but he knew if they left empty-handed the next stop would be Vegas.

  Together the three toured the Architects of Rock and Roll exhibit. They listened to excerpts from rock-and-roll shows Freed had produced. They looked at movie stills from Rock Around the Clock and Don’t Knock the Rock and flipped through an endless assortment of record albums Freed had produced or endorsed. They watched clips from his TV appearances and even toured a mock-up of his old radio studio. But nowhere was there any sign that something had been left behind for Daniel.

  All three had silently concluded that their treasure hunt was a wild goose chase when then they came upon what is unquestionably the oddest piece in the hall’s immense collection: Alan Freed. Right there, behind a Plexiglas window set into the wall, was a bronze urn that held the ashes of the Father of Rock and Roll.

  “Yeah,” Rabidoso quipped, “I don’t think the dead guy in the fancy bong has your little CD or whatever.”

  Daniel smiled. “Don’t be so sure about that.”

  “What do you mean?” Moog was interested, even if his partner wasn’t.

  “Look back there,” Daniel said, pointing out a thin strip of metal beneath the urn’s base. “Is that—”

  Moog nodded. “I think that’s a CD back there.”

  “Where is it?” Rabidoso asked, squirming like a kid trying to get a look at whatever everybody else was looking at. “I see it,” he announced with what seemed like genuine enthusiasm.

  And then, without another word, the little man gave the Plexiglass a swift shot from his elbow. The display case shattered on impact as alarm bells began to sound and emergency lights started flashing.