Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels)

by Ace Atkins

  There was a small elevated stage loaded with the band's equipment, a couple of ratty chairs, and a duct-taped table topped with a small lamp. It looked like a display from a second-hand furniture shop. Painted on the cinder-block wall was a mural of a huge Highway 49 road sign and a boll of cotton.

  Nick filtered through the heated crowd and made his way to the bar for a beer, a quart Colt 45, ice cold from a slushy bin. He bullshitted with the bartender for a while, asking him about local acts that played in New Orleans at JoJo's. Just as he was about to start another quart, the jukebox stopped playing.

  He couldn't see the stage but could hear the pitch-perfect guitar sounds, licks as clear as metal cylinders popping in a spinning music box. People slowly shuffled around, and he finally saw her. Red hair cascaded into her face as she intently worked a slide along the frets. Her body was trim and athletic under a thin white T-shirt and faded jeans. As she lifted her head and tossed her sweaty hair back, Nick could see her face more clearly. High cheekbones, strong chin, and bright red lips.

  It was like one of those puzzles where you had to pick out the one thing that didn't belong. She sure as hell didn't belong here. This wasn't a place where a white person jammed, let alone a white woman. Yet here was this good-looking redhead doing her thing and being perfectly accepted by the crowd. Nothing short of amazing.

  As she bit down hard on a pouty lower lip, she ground her hips and changed into an ass-shakin' song. Her guitar wailing and crying and making every damned person in the juke move their body. When she opened her mouth, a throaty voice rattled the concrete floor.

  Nick took a big sip of the Colt 45 and smiled at her. She laughed and looked into the crowd before she changed into a slower song. After the turnaround, she shyly glanced down at Nick and smiled. She shook her head and put her eyes back down on her bright pink guitar, stamped with stickers like an old-time piece of luggage. One big black woman waddled the rhythm as her partner strutted to the bass.

  Nick walked back to the bar and sipped the second half of the Colt 45. His body felt a little numb, but good. This is what it is all about; sometimes in life, you have those times when you're completely content. Right here and right now is where you want to be, like a kid entering an arcade with all the promise and hope of a pocket full of quarters. This was the time. Man, that woman was good-looking. Nice, deep dimples when she smiled.

  After the last song, she pounced off the stage and headed toward the bar as people slapped her on the back. Her T-shirt was soaked with sweat. She nodded to the bartender, who handed her a beer and a shot of whiskey. She tossed her head back for the shot and chased it with the beer. As she took another sip, she reached into her jeans and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Nick made his way along the bar and found a place next to her. She cut her eyes over at him, lit her cigarette, and pursed her mouth. Freckles dusted around her cheeks.

  "Enjoyed the set," Nick said. "You work a mean slide."

  She continued smiling.

  "Who am I talking to?" she asked.

  "Who am I? Who are you? Does anyone truly know themselves? Hell, Miss Dare, these are all very complex philosophical questions."

  "Smart-ass."

  "Yes ma'am."

  Nick took a sip of his beer and spilled it on his shirt when the fat black woman bumped him with her huge backside. The wet stain spread like a bib.

  "Very smooth, Socrates," she said.

  "You are tough," Nick said, wiping his shirt.

  "Shit, I have to be." Her eyes squinted as she exhaled a smoky cloud. They fixed on his without blinking. "You smoke?"

  Nick followed her out a metal door that looked as if it had been pummeled with a ball-peen hammer and they found a stack of concrete blocks to sit on. There was a full moon, and the unplucked cotton fields bathed in a glow as clear as the streetlights in Uptown New Orleans.

  "You see the man in the moon?" she asked.

  "Yeah, looks like Jackie Gleason," Nick said, tossing a rock into a nearby field.

  "There are his eyes and mouth," she said. "They look like pools of water up there."

  "Yeah, I can see it," he said. Already Nick could imagine the placement of his right arm around her thin waist. Her back would be damp, and her mouth would taste like cigarettes. Instead, he gave her his best smile and took another drag.

  "Do you play?" she asked.

  "A little Mississippi saxophone."

  "You bring one?"

  "I'm always packin' heat," Nick said.

  She shook her head. "You are a pistol."

  "Please don't tease me. I'm very shy," Nick said, looking far into the field, rows of battered cars parked on its banks. The cotton made crisp, brittle sounds in the warm wind. "You know, Robert Johnson was killed not too far from here."

  "Why do you think I play Greenwood so much?" she said, leaning back and pushing her pelvis forward. She exhaled a trail of smoke. "I'm looking for the crossroads. I don't suppose you've found them?"

  "The crossroads are wherever you want them to be."

  She placed a lock of red hair behind her ear and one hand in her front jean pocket. "You like Johnson too?" she asked.

  Nick nodded.

  "You know, the first time I heard his music I had to turn off the tape. It was too powerful, like all the music I heard until then was watered down. I had to take in slow sips, like you do when you start drinking whiskey."

  "How much can you take now?" Nick asked.

  "The whole damned bottle," she said as she smirked and patted his knee. "So, are you gonna tell me your name or are we gonna fuck around all night long?"

  "Nick Travers. But we can still fuck around all night long, if you want."

  Chapter 12

  Dawn broke over Jesse Garon's head like a spilled blueberry milkshake, whipped cream and all. He yawned and started to practice tae kwon do in an open pasture where he'd slept the night before, ten miles outside Greenwood. The morning sky was hard in his eyes as two goats and a mule watched him. One of the goats even tried to ram him every time he gave a loud "ki-ya." Next time the stupid old goat came at him, he should kick the thing right in those swinging nuts.

  Inside block, upper block, step, kick, and punch. "Ki-ya!"

  The shaggy goat trotted over to Jesse again and butted him softly in the behind.

  "Now I tole you to quit. Stop it. I'm tryin' to do a form here."

  The damned old goat baaed at him and shit all over his bare foot. "Son of a bitch!" Jesse yelled, looking at the chunky brown mass. "Should kick you right in your ass."

  He gritted his teeth until he heard them squeak. But when he backed up to get a good start on the animal, he suddenly stopped and fell to his knees. The way that animal just turned to look at him, so helpless-like, it was like the animal was just plain scared of him. And that made Jesse sad; so sad that he grabbed the fetid-smelling goat and wrapped his arms around him. Poor old animal. Just sitting here chewin' his grass, doing his business and hell, just protecting his family. That was no different from what he would do. If someone was to come around his momma, he'd probably shit on their foot too.

  All over it.

  He let go of the goat's neck and wiped his eyes. He untied the black belt from around his yellowed do-bok, stripped naked, and carefully tucked the uniform back into his Captain America suitcase. He pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top. The black tank top made E's tattoo stand out real nice.

  The hard brown grass itched his legs as he tied his shoes staring out at the countryside. Sure was flat around here. Flat and quiet. Not a soul in the field. In the distance, he could see the green walls of the forest and a few little patches where trees hadn't been cleared. Across the highway, a section of irrigation equipment streched like a snake on its high wheels.

  This better be something to Keith, big man in New Orleans, always braggin' about the women he'd done and people he'd met. Just like when he was in the bodyguard school in L.A., talkin' shit 'bout movie stars. Said they're people just like you and
me. Momma had always told him actors were nothin' but trash.

  "See if he has the nerve," Jesse said out loud, kicking a hunk of soil skyward. Puka didn't believe he was as good as that damned muscle-bound son of his.

  Jesse knew better. E lived for fifteen years in a one-bedroom house with his momma and daddy, and look what happened to him. The German chick knew it. Didn't matter if Puka was just plain stupid. He'd show that fool. "Fuck him," Jesse said.

  "Sorry Elvis, Sometimes I know not what I'm sayin'." With two fingers, he crossed his heart and silently mouthed: "Takin' care of business. TCB."

  Chapter 13

  Nick woke up in a twisted pile of sheets underneath the motel-room sink. His faded blue jeans hung from a lamp. A Colt 45 bottle was tucked inside a rogue boot and a redheaded woman walked out of the bathroom brushing her teeth with his toothbrush. His head pounded, his teeth ached, and his loins felt as empty as the malt liquor bottle in his Tony Lamas. Nick opened one eye and said in a gruff voice, "Oh my God. There's a strange woman in my room."

  Virginia laughed and spit in the sink. She had on his Tulane football T-shirt and no underwear. Even in his sickness, she looked more beautiful than she had last night. He looked down at her calves as she raised on her toes to look in the mirror.

  "Do you work out?" Nick asked.

  "No, genetics. My mother was built well. You okay?"

  "Yeah, but I feel so used."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "I think I'm dying," he said.

  "You want to swim? There's a nice pool outside."

  "You crazy?"

  "C'mon, it'll be fun."

  "I don't swim . . . " Nick said, grabbing the edge of the sink and pulling himself to his feet. "On the first date."

  "All right," she said, reaching into the twisted nest Nick had left. She pulled out her bra before walking across the room to find her panties. She stripped off the gray T-shirt, strapped on her bra, and pulled her panties up over a thigh tattoo. It was of Earth, about the size of a small orange.

  "I'll be back," she said, opening the door and walking outside.

  The sunlight cut into Nick's eyes like a laser as he felt his way into the bathroom and onto the road to recovery. After showering, shaving, taking four aspirin, and draining a cold can of Coke from a vending machine, he felt a little better. Somewhat human. Still sorta animal.

  Virginia came back in and shook her damp red locks like a dog. "Now that's the best hangover remedy I can think of." Her face was a bit pale but burned with a ruddy glow. It was a natural look like you would expect from a beautiful Irish woman centuries ago.

  "I'm going into town," Nick said. "How 'bout breakfast?"

  "No thanks. I'd appreciate a ride back to the Purple Heart, though."

  "You live around here?"

  "Questions, questions," Virginia said. "Let's see how long you stay around before I answer any."

  Nick tossed her a towel, and she ran it over her tight body.

  "How 'bout you?" she asked. "You in the Delta looking for the blues?"

  Nick smiled and said, "Exactly."

  ?

  After he dropped Virginia off at the Purple Heart, Nick drove back to the same downtown Greenwood diner from the day before and ordered grits, toast, and black coffee. He'd grabbed a copy of Nine Stories from his Jeep glove box and read until his head hurt. He kept the book open with one hand and massaged his temples with the other. He put the book down, sipped on some black coffee, and looked out the window. In front of the closed storefronts, weeds sprouted around railroad tracks and weathered flatbed pickup trucks. The decay was symmetrical. Not depressing, more picturesque.

  He thought about Virginia Dare coming to look for those mythic crossroads. Not too unusual. People came from all over the world to get a little Johnson-inspired magic. You didn't have to be a blues historian to know the myth. Most teenagers could tell you Johnson sold his soul to the devil late one night at a Mississippi crossroads. He cut his fingernails to the quick, waited for Lucifer to come, and then traded guitars with him. That's how they say the man earned his skills.

  Nick knew it was a story Johnson cultivated, as one of the first music icons to know image was everything. Hell, it worked for the Rolling Stones. Other popular blues singers of the time almost reveled in their devil's-music status. In St. Louis, Peetie Wheatstraw, named for the evil character in black folklore, advertised himself as the devil's son-in-law.

  Johnson's second recording session was filled with hard, evil images that would've made Dante shutter. In "Hell Hound on My Trail," he sings of being constantly pursued by the devil. Nick could imagine a leafless tree shuddering in the wind as Johnson made his way through a field on a dead cold night:

  I got to keep movin',

  I've got to keep movin'

  blues falling down like hail,

  blues falling down like hail

  Some of the selling-his-soul-to-the-devil theory was bolstered by his mentor, Son House, who taught him some licks when they were living in Robinsonville after Johnson's wife died. Son said that when he first met Johnson, the young boy couldn't play a thing.

  There is a famous story that takes place at a juke when Johnson tries to play Son's guitar, and the guests complain about a god-awful racket. According to House, Johnson left Robinsonville and returned a short time later, a changed musician.

  Johnson walked up and asked Son and another bluesman if he could play, and their jaws dropped open at his prowess. House said he had been gone only six months, an impossible time to become great.

  Nick believed the real story was less mystical.

  In truth, Johnson had been gone for a couple of years. He went looking for his real father, a man he'd never known and maybe never found in Hazlehurst. While hanging out there and practicing guitar, he met Ike Zinneman. Zinneman was an Alabama bluesman who took over where Son House left off. He was Johnson's Yoda, a man who told his wife he gained his guitar skills by playing in graveyards at midnight. A very black, sleepy-eyed man who wore his fedora way back on his head.

  Johnson watched and learned from the older man, taking notes on what Zinneman taught him. He honed his skills deep in the woods, where no one would cringe when he hit a bad note. He and Zinneman worked the local jukes and fish fries until the music consumed him.

  It was like one of those karate movies where the student doesn't do anything but train with the master and commune with nature.

  The guitar became a tool to expel the culmination of experiences that weathered Johnson's soul. Being born a bastard son to a married woman, being berated by a step-father who thought he was lazy and no good, and perhaps, most of all, losing his child and his sixteen-year-old wife while she was in labor.

  Before he returned to Robinsonville, Johnson became known as just R.L.--a damned fine player. No wonder Son House was amazed. His former student was now a master.

  As Nick took the last bite of toast, the bell jingled above the door, and a large black man walked in wearing a tan sheriff's department uniform. He had a smooth, bullet-shaped head, chest like a steer, and biceps as large as Nick's thighs.

  He nodded to the cashier and came over to where Nick was sitting.

  "Deputy Willie Brown," the man said, extending his hand.

  Nick shook it.

  "Heard you talked to Darnell Rose," Brown said, and sat down. His massive arms crossed over his chest.

  "I did."

  "You want to tell me why you're harassing Greenwood residents?"

  Nick didn't consider giving someone a hundred bucks harassment.

  "You make it seem like I'm walking around downtown showing my privates to old ladies," Nick said.

  "I know you're looking for a man named Michael Baker. Sir, a report has been filed with us. We'll let you know if we find him."

  "Great."

  "When will you be leaving Greenwood?"

  "Not before I show my privates to a few old ladies. And I'd like to see the cotton history museum. Looks fascinating."
/>   "I know he told you about Cracker."

  Nick sipped his coffee and opened a packet of saltines. He put a little Tabasco on top, nice little pools of red on the salt. A good hangover cure.

  "Cracker's an old man who doesn't need some punk from New Orleans talking trash."

  Nick leaned forward and laughed.

  "You want me to get mad, maybe talk a little shit," Nick said. "Hey, maybe even take a swing at you. Yeah, right, so I can spend time in the pokey. You want to tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

  "You're interfering with an investigation."

  "You think he's dead?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Can I see the report?"

  "It's public record. Courthouse is open nine to five."

  "Thanks." Nick sipped his coffee and Brown was silent. "Are we going to continue these belittling idiotic psychological games you probably read from a paperback book? We banter back and forth whacking off our verbal manhood. Let's talk. Let me meet Cracker, and maybe it will help. If you were a smart cop, that's what you'd do."

  "What do you know about police work?"

  "I've got a good friend with the NOPD."

  "I know an astronaut but that doesn't mean I'm competent to do a fuckin' moonwalk."

  "Don't discount Michael Jackson."

  Brown stared at him. Nick looked down and noticed a purple-gemmed football championship ring on his thick finger.

  "When were you at LSU?" Nick asked.

  "What?"

  "When did you play?"

  "Back in the eighties. Why?"

  "I played at Tulane," Nick said, thinking it was worth a shot to soften this guy up. He'd pump up his ego until he blathered all about the glory days, eyes wide with slow-motion memories. "What position?"