Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels)

by Ace Atkins

  "Offensive tackle."

  "Maybe we butted heads before."

  "Wouldn't that be ironic? I'll trust you once," Brown said.

  Nick shrugged.

  "Can I trust you?" Brown asked.

  "Hell, if you knew where to find me, that means you already ran my plates and did a criminal-records search. You know about me."

  Brown smiled.

  "So tell me about Cracker," Nick said.

  "I saw Cracker when he was making the rounds, digging through trash around the highway. Told me the man talked to him and left."

  "Did you ask why?"

  "I know why."

  Nick looked at him.

  "Old Cracker thinks he knows who killed Robert Johnson. You know who Robert Johnson was?"

  Chapter 14

  Jesse Garon didn't realize how far back in the woods the old man lived. Last time, spying on the sharp-dressed black dude trackin' through the woods like he was Daniel Boone, Jesse hadn't thought about all the shit in between. The damned kudzu, spindly pine trees, and vines. He wished he'd killed them both when he had the chance--would've been a hell of a lot easier.

  He'd followed the smart-ass nigra as he carried a box of records back to the motel. Keith had told him the man would be waiting to make an exchange for some cash. "Take the dude and the records to Puka's," he said, so Jesse put a knife into the nigra's ribs and kept it there all the way back to the junkyard. Long drive, with the man calling him a "little-dick racist."

  Shit, Puka had all the fun killing the guy.

  Tonight, all the crickets, cicadas, wild animals and shit were wakin' up. It was like some kinda fucked-up safari movie. Like Paradise, Hawaiian Style, when E and that good-looking woman were marooned on that island. They acted like they were just roasting marshmallows, singin' and shit. Bet your ass, off camera, they were fuckin' on that island.

  Sure as shit, E could get the pussy.

  He shook his head for thinking that. That was terrible. "Sorry, E," he whispered so low all he heard was the sound of moving lips.

  It was just him and the weird-lookin' nigra man. He'd get in and get out. Take care of business. No guns. He could do this himself--just beat him until he had a heart attack from fright or take 'im with a blade. The old man was weak with the leprosy or whatever God's curse he had.

  From where he squatted and waited, Jesse could smell the ole man cooking in the early dusk. Smelled real wild, like a squirrel or somethin'. He must've scraped the animal off the highway with a shovel, then roasted its smelly, rotten flesh. Maybe he had a sack where he kept all the dead animals he found on the highway. Sure as shit didn't hunt, as slow as he moved.

  But the last thing he wanted was for the old man to get nervous and start shooting at shadows. If he knew someone was out there, the guy could hole up forever. Then everyone would be pissed at him: Keith, Puka, and his momma. Embarrassed 'cause he couldn't kill one old nigra man. This ole nigra probably had an advantage on him. He could sense shit by livin' in the woods so long. Could hear an animal if it licked itself.

  This time he'd be careful, he thought, slowly taking his clothes off and tucking them under a flat rock. He put the switchblade in his mouth and bit down on the handle. He'd be an animal like the old man: no shoes, no clothes, no nothin'.

  Above him, the moon was as round and perfect as the Sun God emblem on E's jumpsuit. He could feel its glowing energy giving him power. The moon had always done that for him--given him that power. If E was the sun, then Jesse was the moon. When it had all its force behind it, so did Jesse. Tonight, killin' was easy. In and out. TCB.

  Chapter 15

  Nick and Willie Brown traveled south along State Road 7 to a hamlet called Quito, about ten miles from Greenwood. Outside the arced whiteness of the headlights, there was nothing. A place where people once lived, all the sharecroppers and landowners gone now. Just a few lights in rusted trailers. Hard-core farmers. Men who had worked the rich Delta loam for generations

  "Did he owe the university some money?" Brown asked.

  "Nope. Just stopped checking in," Nick said, chewing a wad of bubble gum and watching the weeds roll by in blackness.

  "Why'd they send you?"

  "Because I blend in so well."

  "Yeah, like the cream filling in an Oreo."

  Brown slowed and pulled into a circular, rocky lot. He stopped the car in front of a long shack with crumbling, fake-brick siding and plastic sheets for windows. The tin roof had rust splotches like blood smears and a narrow smokestack like a crudely made periscope. Two black men sat on the stairs sipping quart bottles of Budweiser.

  Nick considered sitting down with them and bullshitting a little. Sometimes that was the best way to get stories. Bring some beer and let the words flow. Walk out of your car with a notepad and you can hear the locks clicking.

  "You wouldn't know it, but this old place is a historic site," Brown said. "James's house here is the old Three Forks store. Used to be down the road a ways. But it was moved. This is where people say Robert Johnson died. Hey, James."

  "Robert Johnson ain't at home," James said. His smallish face was as drawn as a hound dog's. "Don't bring no mo' damned tourists 'round here. This is my house."

  James's buddy laughed, beer foam running down his chin, "Willie, tell him the part how he was howlin' like a dog when Satan took him."

  "No. I think this man is too sharp for that," Brown said. "Why don't you tell us, Travers, how Johnson died. You're the blues man."

  "I know this might not be the house where he was killed. Three Forks could've been anyplace. His old traveling partner Honeyboy pointed out a completely different spot where he died. Same as the Zion Church, where they say he's buried. There were over a dozen Zion churches in Greenwood in the thirties."

  "Shut his ass up, Willie," James said. "Just made me fifty bucks yesterday from some Japanese. They thought I was Robert Johnson's son."

  "You can't even play with yourself, let alone a guitar," Brown said.

  "Now, hold on," James said, tossing Nick a bottle. "Listen, what happened to the son of a bitch? I live in this goddamned ghost house, and I want to know."

  The bottle was lukewarm, and the label felt soft in the palm of his hand. Nick looked over at Brown and smiled. He ambled up on the porch, where the plastic sheeting was popping in the wind, and sat down on the brittle wood.

  There was a feeling about the place, some kind of bad mojo. Maybe it was the August heat or just the possibility he was actually at the place where Johnson died. He wanted to go in and trace the layout, see how the place looked all those years ago. Listen to how the wood sounded under his feet, wood that may have soaked up Johnson's music.

  "That's just it," Nick said. "No one knows for sure. Some say he was stabbed. But most believe it was poison from a jealous husband. Police back then weren't too interested in a dead black man."

  "No shit," James' s buddy said. "Still ain't."

  "The story fits." Nick looked across the highway at the inky pattern of the cotton. "Johnson was a real ramblin' man. He loved women."

  "Everyone loves women, lessen you're a queen," James said.

  "Not like old Robert," Nick said. "A friend of his said he used women the way some do hotel rooms. He had them in every town."

  "Fine lookin'?" James asked.

  "No. Actually, butt ugly. Worse off they were, the more attention Johnson would show 'em. I'm sure he had his share of some fine ones, but Johnson liked comfort. He liked women to take care of him, cook for him, mend his clothes, and shit like that. And ugly ones were a little bit more willing."

  "Sound like a smart man," Brown said.

  "Keep goin'," the buddy said. "Our TV broke."

  "When he recorded in San Antonio, the police picked him up for vagrancy," Nick said. "And he--

  "Ain't that just like the po-lice," James said, giggling at Brown.

  "Yeah, they picked him up, and his producer had to bail him out," Nick said. "Johnson called him a few hours later fro
m his boardinghouse. He told the producer he was lonesome."

  "Lonesome?" James asked.

  "Yeah, Johnson said there was a woman there, and she wanted fifty cents and he lacked a nickel."

  That sent all the men into a frenzy of laughter, including Brown, who broke into a smile. Nick stood up, glad to pass on a small tale they'd surely repeat on other nights. James leaned back until he was flat on his back and staring at his porch's broken roof. "Where y'all goin'?"

  "To see Cracker," Brown said.

  Both men laughed.

  "Damn, Willie, you're the only one I know talk to that stinkin' monkey," James said. "He smell like shit."

  The buddy mumbled, "He do smell like shit."

  Brown walked ahead, away from the men, and Nick got up and followed. They passed over a creek and through a junkyard of old tractors. As they entered the woods, Brown turned on a flashlight which shone on a well-worn path leading into a smiling mouth with green teeth.

  ?

  Blood. A gash on the old man's head really let it all out. Must've been that iron stove, Jesse thought. Hell, he hadn't even heard him come in. Just sat there in this ratty ole green chair eatin' beans out of a can. Turned to stare at Jesse only when he broke through the door. Up at his face, then down at his nakedness.

  Hell, he'd forgotten about being naked.

  Jesse let out an honest-to-God war cry. A sort of Indian thing. Didn't know what caused it--must've been the moon. Sure as shit put fear in that ole man's pale blue eyes though. He was in the middle of putting them beans down when Jesse grabbed the back of his old neck and rammed him into that black stove, a little fat one sitting in the middle of that shitty old shack.

  Jesse laughed when the guy fell, then watched as the guy tried to get to his feet, only to fall back down. He walked over to him, threw down his knife, and kicked him square in the gut. Son of a bitch ole man vomitin' all over himself. Shit. That's gross. So Jesse kicked him again, kicked him for bein' so damned nasty.

  Nasty old man. Kick. Nasty man cursed by God. Kick. Sure as shit he'd kill this guy and make everyone proud of him. Momma and Puka. He thought about their faces as he kicked again.

  "You kill the nigra?" she would ask.

  "Yes, momma."

  Then it would be worth it all. Worth the work. Worth the effort. He'd always remembered what momma told him when he finally stopped tryin' to play the guitar. When he found out there wasn't no music in him-- that he couldn't be like E.

  She looked at him, huggin' him as the tears streamed down his face, and rubbed his back. "That's all right, Jesse. Maybe you have another talent, just as good as Elvis. Just remember, you can be the Elvis of anything you want."

  And he had found it. He was the Elvis of killin'. Takin' Care of Business. He grabbed the ole man off the floor and punched him in the throat.

  ?

  The trail leading to Cracker's house was smooth as power underfoot, with dense, high grass and weeds bordered with low-hanging vines and long, thin spiderwebs. A small rabbit froze for a moment in Brown's flashlight beam, then darted away from the trail.

  "So who does Cracker say killed Robert Johnson?" Nick asked.

  "I'll let you ask him. He's got a much longer explanation than I can give you."

  "Is he crazy?"

  "Depends what you think crazy is. I mean, do you call talking to the dead and swatting at imaginary flies crazy?" Brown asked, raising his eyebrows.

  "Yeah."

  "Well, I guess Cracker is crazy then. Just wanted to let you know that before you think he's going to tell us anything about Baker."

  "How far back does he live?" Nick asked.

  "'Bout a mile."

  Rain began to drop from a few fat clouds that moved in the sky like Mardi Gras floats. Soon it came in hard, full sheets down through the pine needles. The moon still shone as the clouds passed and made the water look like silver ice on the branches, rain as warm as bath water.

  "A mile, huh?" Nick said, thinking that Randy was going to owe him a big fat check when he got back to New Orleans. Dinner at Antoine's, drinks all over the Quarter. As curious as he was about the old man, this was fucking ridiculous. Too much of an effort for babbling.

  "Hell, we're almost there," Brown said, knocking the branches away.

  Then came the sound, through the imposed static of rain falling among the trees. That unmistakable sound that made Brown turn a walk into a full sprint. A human cry of pain.

  ?

  "Ain't you gonna cry or somethin', ole man? I'm gettin' tired of watchin' you breathe," Jesse said, kicking him in the ribs again. He could hear the pasty man's breathing gettin' real raspy. Like he might quit at any moment.

  Jesse pushed the cascade of black hair out of his eyes, thinking about the punk E played in King Creole. He thought about all that anger and energy E must have felt when that ole woman told him he couldn't graduate 'cause he took a swing at a guy and brought that whore to school. Must've made him real pissed off. He thought about the ole nigra tellin' him the same thing--that he had to repeat high school.

  "Ain't gonna do it, boss. No way, Daddy-O!"

  Before he wrapped his hands around the man's wrinkled neck, he felt a hot, sharp pain shoot through his calf. He fell to his knees, hands clutching his lower leg. A fork stuck in his flesh.

  The old man stood over him, lower lip trembling, and holding a can of beans in his hand. He threw it and hit Jesse right in the forehead. As the old man tried to get away, he fell onto the floor clutching his chest and howling like a hurt animal.

  Got 'im, Jesse thought. Ole son of a bitch is finally havin' a heart attack.

  He could hear his own breathing and rain splattering on the tin roof above like a million tiny drums. Through the haze of pain, Jesse almost felt comfortable in the old cabin, woodsmoke floating in the air. But that was just his mind playin' with him. Lulling him to lie down, lick his wounds, and fall asleep.

  It was time to move. Performance or not, he needed to kill the ole bastard now. Sure, it'd been a game before of doin' somethin' different, kickin' him in the ass until he fell over, but he kept hangin' on. Maybe he was havin' a heart attack, but Jesse didn't want to wait around and see what was gonna happen.

  Shit, it was time to move. His hand, covered in blood, grabbed hold of the fork and yanked it out of his leg. He threw it down and reached for the switchblade he'd brought. Nice and sharp from all the days honin' it at that crummy motel. Could probably cut a hair in two like in them funny cartoons.

  He popped the release just as the front door flew open. At first he thought it was just the storm. Then he saw a big nigra man comin' into the shack with a flashlight. The nigra seemed more into goin' to the ole man. His eyes didn't even pass Jesse's way.

  The shack's back door was a few feet from where Jesse crouched behind a ragged chair. The big nigra would see him soon enough, so in two shakes of a lamb's tail, he turned the knob and ran through the door. He hopped off the back stoop filled with trash and hightailed it back into the green, wet safety of the woods. Two shots rang out behind him.

  ?

  Nick heard the shots and saw the flash from the back of the shack. He ran to the house and knelt down when he reached the front porch. He tilted his head up and saw an old man on the floor, his skin a ghostly white in the glow of a lantern.

  "Around the side," Brown said, yelling. "On the other side."

  Who or what was on the other side, Nick didn't know. A killer? A bear? Little green men? Nick pulled the Tom Mix knife from his boot and flicked it open. He'd fillet whatever it was with a collectible.

  "You see him?" Brown yelled.

  "Nope," Nick shouted over the rain.

  Then he heard feet rustling through the undergrowth and saw a flash of skin. Nick followed. The man was fast, leaping over small trees and piles of rotting leaves and plants. He zigzagged through a trail impossible to follow without the occasional light from the full moon. Nick tried to keep an even pace, not getting too close, running wh
en he ran, stopping when he stopped. The rain slowed to a patter, masking the sounds.

  The fat clouds rolled away and the full silver light of the moon poured into the woods. The sky was the color of navy flannel.

  Couldn't be far from the highway. Not far at all. Even through the zigzags and cuts, the man stayed in the same direction. Maybe he had a car waiting for him on the road's shoulder. He crept forward and could see the man catching his breath and looking around.

  The rain stopped. A quiet patter fell from the leaves. A car rumbled by and a slash of headlights cut through the woods. Nick was close enough to get a look at the guy. He must be going crazy. It wasn't that the guy was nude that shocked him. It was the postage-stamp image of a young Elvis Presley. Pre-army. "Heartbreak Hotel" days.

  The light was gone.

  Another car passed down the highway. Must be only yards from the road. Nick needed to make his move now. He broke into a full sprint so he could tackle the guy, just like a darting running back, and drag his ass back to Brown's car. No more games.

  Nick moved a few feet and the moldy leaves beneath him fell into a small crevice. The creek bed from earlier, he thought, as he climbed out of its muddy walls. Dirt painfully filled under his fingernails. He found a root and grabbed tightly as his feet slipped beneath him. Finally he found a foothold and pulled himself out of the gully. Nick scanned the woods and looked through a clearing to the highway.

  Elvis had left the building.