by Ace Atkins
A man would've had to have medical problems not to feel something at that moment. When Bob stopped and the jukebox started back up, Nick followed her outside to Conti Street, where she dried her sweat in the cool spring wind. Her freckled chest was soaked and her hair damp.
She didn't even hesitate when Nick offered her a smoke. She grabbed the back of his head and gave him a long, sloppy kiss. She moved his hands down to her ass and stuck her tongue in his ear. They didn't even make it back to his car before she was rubbing on him.
What Nick didn't know was she'd left her husband, a gaunt, bearded businessman in his fifties, inside the bar. The man had been watching them. For some reason, he let them continue the grubbing until he met them in back with two of his underlings, guys apparently hungry to impress the boss.
All night they'd probably drooled watching his young wife get off on the dance floor of the juke. They both grabbed Nick as he was kissing the woman against his Jeep, and one held him while the other pummeled his stomach.
Nick fell to his knees and tackled one guy, punching him in the mouth, and then kicked the other guy in the stomach. The guy grabbed Nick's foot and tried to pull him close, but only got a punch in the ear for it. Nick was about to walk away when the husband tucked a gun in Nick's ribs and said, "Junior, I think you need to stand still and just take what's comin' to you."
The woman didn't wail or say to let him go. She actually grinned at Nick as she reached into her husband's pockets, grabbed the keys to his BMW, and walked back around to Conti Street.
"The men I let her fuck, let me watch," he said.
"Can't get it up, huh?" Nick said.
About that time, two police officers wandered out back with JoJo pointing to them. Nick didn't know JoJo too well and was expecting him to get all their asses put in the tank. The husband tucked the gun inside his coat, and his two young friends stood behind him as he told a story that amounted to Nick trying to feel up his wife without her permission. Of course, the two young executives agreed.
However, JoJo did not.
It could have turned out a variety of ways, most of them ending with Nick getting kicked off the football team and losing his scholarship. Any Tulane athlete's arrest would've made the Metro section the next day.
But JoJo wouldn't let the cops take Nick. They argued for over a half hour in the crushed-shell lot. JoJo told what he saw, explaining that he was a property owner and wanted these men out of there, never to return. Basically, he vouched for Nick's character, because most of what JoJo told them, he couldn't have actually seen.
As Nick walked back into the bar that night, he asked JoJo why he did it.
JoJo responded simply, "I know what you're about, just watchin' you. When I was your age, I was so horny I would've screwed a snake. How 'bout a beer?"
There was a rustling on the other end of the line and a grumpy JoJo answered. Nick imagined him sitting on a barstool and cradling that ancient black phone to his ear, Loretta rattling some pots somewhere in the back.
"Can't make it tonight," Nick said.
"Who's this? The hooker I lined up?" JoJo asked.
"You lookin' for a male hooker?"
"Shiit."
"JoJo, call Smoky for me and have him fill in."
"Why don't you?"
"I'm still in Greenwood."
"Sittin' by the pool, pickin' your ass?" JoJo asked.
"Looking for some deranged lunatic that likes to hurt old men. Say, maybe I'll send him over to see you."
"Yeah. He'll get a can of whoop-ass from this old man."
"Will you call him?"
"Guess so. Hey, hey . . . hold on. Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"You found out what happened to Baker?"
"Yeah, I think Elvis killed him."
"Shiiit. All right, don't tell me nothin'."
"I'm getting tired. Wish I was home, and the whole mess was cleared up," Nick said.
"Son, remember the truth," JoJo said. "You can shit in one hand and wish with the other."
"See which one gets full faster," Nick finished.
"You're learnin'."
"All right JoJo, I'll call before I get ready to leave."
Nick replaced the phone, reached on the floor for the remote, and turned off the television. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Imagine nothing. Hear nothing. See nothing. Take everything away, all the bullshit that overloads the brain and keeps it from really seeing. The trick was not to think or pound over details. That's when the mind would come back with the answer. He relaxed.
Someone pounded on the door, ending his moment of Zen. He got up and opened the door to see Willie Brown. The sunlight cut hard into Nick's eyes and he squinted at the deputy's face. Brown motioned inside.
"Yeah?"
"Can I come in?"
"Oh, sure. Sorry, I was just trying for complete consciousness."
"I won't ask."
Brown sat down on a mustard-colored vinyl chair and looked around the motel room. His eyes were puffy around the lids, and his shoulders lacked posture. He breathed out through his nose and stared blankly at a cheap painting of three seagulls on a white beach.
"That bird in the middle looks like it's taking a dump," Brown said. "Hey, man, you ever wish you were still playing football at Tulane or coaching or something?"
"I miss playing and my friends, that's about it."
"It just was so uncomplicated, you know? You knew when you practiced, when you ate, when there were meetings. Your life was just so organized."
"That's the part I hated."
Brown laughed.
Nick was beginning to like the guy, his hard-ass shell melting. He'd definitely grown a little more relaxed and trusting.
"Why was Baker down here?" Brown asked.
"Field research."
"Do you know that?"
"I've talked to everyone I can think of. I'm pretty sure."
"I think his agenda changed."
A scrawny white woman smoking a cigarette rolled a maid's cart by and jiggled the room lock. Nick could hear her smacking bubble gum. The smoke must enhance the flavor.
"I'm naked with a small animal," Nick said. "Please come back when I'm finished."
She continued to roll.
"Man, you got a sick sense of humor."
Nick looked back at Brown. "So what was Baker's agenda?"
"I don't know. Cracker--shit, maybe he's crazy. He said that when Baker came to see him, he showed Baker these old records he'd kept forever. Had them in this nasty, old leather trunk. Anyway, Baker got real serious when he showed them to him."
"And?"
"Couple days later, Cracker said the records were gone."
Chapter 18
Nick and Willie Brown drove south again to Quito. Cracker was back in his clapboard shack in the woods. He had a cracked rib and a stitched eyelid, nothing too serious. The old man even had a pot of coffee going in a blue-speckled pot when they arrived.
It reminded Nick of his pot back home.
Cracker poured them both coffee in a couple of chipped china cups. The cracked wooden floor was unpainted but clean. Everything had been arranged: plastic graveyard flowers in rusting coffee cans, fruit jars, old license plates, washboards, worn-out stuffed animals, and wallpaper made of newspaper.
Cracker acted like any other lonely man glad to have company, his hands shaking around his own cup. His eyes were the same bright blue as the mugs.
"Cracker, tell Dr. Travers here about when that professor came to see you and what he took."
Cracker nodded, slurped the coffee, winced slightly, and put the mug on the pine floor. "He took my records. I h-had 'em a long time. They was my records. I was tole to keep 'em."
"What records?" Nick asked.
Cracker looked at Willie Brown, and Brown nodded back. "Cracker, he's okay. I promise."
"Them records are real old. Almost as old as me. Man a-asked if he could borrow them awhile. Said he wanted to make sure t
hey still played. I know they still play and I wouldn't let 'im. I-I's kept them in a trunk all bundled up in a red satin kimono I borrow from this woman in town after R.L. died."
"R.L.?"
"Robert Johnson, he was my friend."
"How'd you know Robert Johnson?" Nick asked, not believing him.
Cracker began to rub his pale, chaffed hands together and rock. "I u-use to live in Austin and work for a r-r-record man. R.L. use to be only man who come talk to me while he was singin'. Everyone else afraid to get what I got."
"Was his name Law? Don Law?"
"No."
"Did you know him?"
"No."
"So how'd you move to Greenwood?"
"I was here when R.L. died. Willie, you know that. No one believe me. But I stayed with him all night as the poison taken to him."
Cracker's voice got shaky. "R.L. was on his knees spittin' up blood, just waitin' for the devil to take him. He never cried, though. He just said it was time."
"Who killed him?" Nick asked.
"I cain't say, mista. I know. I just cain't say."
"Were you friends with the owner of the juke?" Nick asked.
"W-wwasn't him."
"It was his wife, then."
"I cain't say. I cain't say."
"You say you worked for a record man. He recorded Johnson?" Nick asked.
Cracker nodded.
"When was that?"
"Few months before R.L. died."
Nick knew Cracker was full of shit. Johnson hadn't recorded for over a year before he died. The old man was delusional or had a fogged memory. Don Law was the producer of both Johnson sessions.
"What'd he look like--R.L.? Nick asked. "He was a big man, right?"
"No-no suh," Cracker said. "He was real small. B-but he had big ole hands, long fingers."
For a crazy old man, Cracker had studied.
"They were just old blues records, right?" Brown interrupted, giving Nick a sharp glare.
"Yeah. I had R.L. and Charley Patton. Kokomo Arnold."
"Last year an original of "Love in Vain" sold for ten thousand dollars at an auction," Nick said.
"There you go, Travers. Sounds like Baker stole some old records and then skipped out," Brown said. "That white boy we ran off probably was coming back for something Baker left. Maybe they worked together. Baker might be in Jamaica right now drinking something with an umbrella in it. Thanks, Cracker. I brought you some food. If you run out again, leave a rag on that stick by the highway, as usual."
"Thank ya', sir," Cracker said.
"Hey, man, wait, I need a few minutes," Nick said. "What did his eyes look like?"
"What you mean? His eye? Oh, oh, yeah. He sensitive 'bout that. Ain't n-nice askin'."
"Why?" Nick asked.
"He always try to keep his hat coverin' that bad eye."
Nick's face tightened in an uncontrollable grin. He stifled the smile and could feel his fist open and close with nervous energy. Brown stood up, walked to the door, and threw the last few sips of coffee out onto the forest floor.
"I'm real sorry, Cracker," Brown said. "A man doesn't have a soul that would rip you off."
It was hot outside, but beneath all the pine trees, Cracker's house felt cool and breezy. Needles occasionally fell through the open windows.
"Make me glad I didn't show him the rest," Cracker said.
Nick and Brown looked at each other. Nick's fingers stopped moving.
"Yeah. I still got the rest hidden, where ain't nobody gonna f-find 'em."
"Would you show me?" Brown asked.
"Just you." Cracker looked over at Nick.
Brown left him and followed Cracker into the woods and around the back of the house. The shuffle of their feet was soon replaced with cicadas, birds, creaking pine trees, and scurrying squirrels. Nick poured the remainder of the coffee from the pot into his china mug and went out to sit on the stoop. For a hermit, Cracker sure made good coffee. Of course, he probably had more practice living in the woods with nothing.
Maybe he could get Cracker on tape and get him to talk about that last year of Johnson's life--1938. Memories fade and run together; maybe he would recall just a small nugget. He needed more time with Cracker. Maybe he could jump-start his memory. See if it contained any truth.
The solitude of the country was nice compared to the concrete forest where he lived in New Orleans. It wasn't just the green life, fresh air, and all that crap. It was also the complete absence of the tension he felt anytime he stepped outside in New Orleans. No cars, no machinery. Just man. Maybe he would reach complete consciousness today.
He could hear Cracker crawling under the old shack. Secret hiding place? No wonder it was easy for Baker to steal the records.
Nick watched two black birds land in a puddle of tan, muddy water and flutter around. They squawked and flew away when Cracker and Brown came around a kudzu-covered trail. Brown set a wooden packing crate on the front porch and stood back. Cracker pried the top open with a pocket knife. Rusty nails slipped out like thick quills from an animal's back.
"Yeah, I put this under the porch probably thirty years ago. I check on it s-sometimes to make sure it's still there." He pulled out a handful of mildewed yellow newspaper and a bundle wrapped in a black trash bag. "Yeah, I knew this keep it nice and dry. They w-was flat too. Store 'em real tight. And it's cool under that porch."
He walked with the bundle into the house and set it on the floor. He slowly got on his knees and began to unwrap it like a precious Christmas present. Eyes intense. Hands precise.
Inside the layers of black plastic was a narrow wooden box. After he rubbed his dusty hands on his overalls, he opened the box like the top of a cigarette carton. Cracker pulled out a flat piece of cardboard covered in red satin and removed an aluminum disc covered in lacquer. The way it was marked with a black pen, it looked like a demo.
"This j-just one we recorded 'fore he died," Cracker said.
Chapter 19
Jesse Garon, Sweet Boy Floyd, and Keith Fields followed the marked police car with the cop , the old man, and the same dude who had chased Jesse through the woods. Dude was big. Taller than he was. Looked like a dock worker, wearin' all denim and boots. Short black hair and kinda scruffy.
Floyd's big truck kept a nice distance behind them. King Cab Ford with dual tires on the back axle, damned thing could've seated twenty. Inside, the Naugahyde shone smooth with an oily sheen of Armor All. It was real slick and all, especially with the nudie air freshener danglin' from the rearview mirror. The back mud flaps were custom too, with Calvin takin' a piss on one and Hobbes takin' a shit on the other.
"Y'all my boys. We gonna have a fine time killin' these dudes," Floyd said, suckin' on a pink bubble-gum cigar and pattin' Jesse's leg.
"Take your hands off me," Jesse said. "I don't know you, and you sure as shit don't know me."
"Easy there now, hoss," Floyd said. "We're all coworkers here. I'm just applyin' my trade."
Keith snorted and shook his head. "He's just funnin' you, Floyd. Don't worry 'bout it none."
"Just keep him away from me, and we'll be fine," Jesse said. He could see Floyd's black eyes watching him from his rearview mirror. The naked woman on the air freshener seemed to dance as wind blew through the truck.
"You ever been out of Mississippi, kid?" Floyd asked.
"Hell, I'm from Memphis."
"Then you should know when a man talks, you should keep yo' punk-ass mouth shut."
"Don't go sleepin' 'round me, Floyd," Jesse said.
"Would both of you quit it," Keith said. "We got some serious work to do."
Floyd flicked on the radio. Booming disco funk pounded the rear half of the cab.
"Feel like I'm in Africa," Jesse said. "All this damn shit. We're better than this, Keith."
"Hush up," Keith said. "And you listen to what Mr. Floyd says."
"Why we kidnappin' this man?" Jesse asked.
"Ain't none of your goddamn bidness," F
loyd said.
Jesse shook his head. These guys thought they were pros, but they really didn't know shit. These two could never understand his talent for killin'. Not even his buddy Keith. Sure, he was all pumped up and tough, but he didn't have that feelin' for takin' someone's life. Keith wasn't even excited about a challenge like taking down a couple of men. E always liked a challenge.
?
Through the bright reflection of the car's window, Cracker looked like a corpse dressed in a black suit with his fingers tightly laced in his lap. Nick opened the car door for him, letting the old man open a black umbrella over his head before setting foot into the unmerciful sun.
Across the blue sky, long strips of clouds, as black as chimney smoke, began to roll in and threaten the light. Yet Nick could still feel the August heat through the soles of his boots. Brown walked ahead into the downtown Greenwood soul food restaurant. It stood on the bottom floor of a brick building adorned with a faded red-and-white Coca-Cola mural.
Nick led Cracker through the door and over a scuffed red floor as Christmas lights blinked above the bar. Brown had already ordered three sweet teas, all served in mismatched jelly jars. As he drank, the old man's lips moved over his gums in a nervous frenzy. He reminded Nick of a dog with peanut butter on his tongue.
"Cracker, we're gonna find you a nice place to stay until all this mess is settled. All right?" Brown said and then looked over at Nick. "Thought I'd put him up in that motel you're staying in till we find out who that man was from the other night."