Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels)

by Ace Atkins

  "Can you show me some identification?"

  "You'll have to excuse my driver's license picture, damned guy took it as I blinked."

  "You're not with the police?"

  "I'm private."

  "I see." Cruz snapped his fingers and pointed to his office with the same hand. "Five minutes."

  Nick snapped back. "Got ya, buddy."

  Cruz was already seated at his desk, pictures of quasi-famous people lined the wall behind him, as if they would somehow support everything this clown said. Cruz kept on the sunglasses.

  "Keith Fields worked for you?"

  Cruz shrugged. "We have so many jobs here, Mr. . . . "

  "Travers."

  "Mr. Travers. I wish I could, but I just don't know every person here."

  "Who would?"

  "Why?"

  "I'd like to talk to them."

  Cruz took a swig of something in his coffee cup and turned his head toward a window. Outside it was dark, and tiny white Christmas lights flickered through an old alley. The crumpled building next door was vacant, and Nick could see rotted, empty rooms through the broken glass.

  "Mr. Travers, I know you. You're the resident blues historian at Tulane. Right?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, I understand. You think what I have here is sacrilege," Cruz said, and shook his head. "You're a blues purist who thinks a California record producer has no business making money off this region's music."

  "That's not why I'm here."

  "But you don't like it?"

  "I really couldn't care less."

  "I've lived a long time in Los Angeles, but I'm a Southerner, grew up in Memphis," Cruz continued. "The Blues Shack is a project that I've wanted to start for a long time. It scares me that if I don't do something to save this music, no one will."

  Nick lit another cigarette.

  "I'm sorry, but would you please not smoke?"

  Nick extinguished the end and slid it back in the pack.

  "Black kids in the South don't listen to blues anymore. They listen to L.A. rap or soul. You and me are the last dying breath." Cruz held up his hands. "I know you don't like the concept of all the Blues Shack T-shirts and bumper stickers the tourists have, but we have educational programs and soon charitable programs for broke blues artists. This isn't a bad thing."

  "Did you know Keith Fields?" Nick asked.

  Cruz picked up his phone. "Kimber, bring me an employee file on a Keith Fields and a bottle of Beam."

  "Are you a drinkin' man, Mr. Travers?"

  "I've been known to."

  "I think we got off on the wrong foot," he said, extending his hand. "Pascal Cruz."

  Nick took it. It was wet and didn't let go quickly. Nick didn't know why, but he felt an impulse to wipe his hand on his pant leg.

  "Didn't you know Keith Fields was shot in the head earlier this week? It happened at the murder scene of a Greenwood, Mississippi, deputy."

  "I had no idea," Cruz said. "I really don't know who he was."

  "I'd like to talk to anybody who knew Keith," Nick said.

  "Whatever you need."

  The door opened and the secretary brought in a file and a gallon jug of Jim Beam. Cruz handed Nick the file, got up, dropped two chunks of ice into a crystal glass, and poured a thick measure of whiskey.

  Two hours later, Nick left with a thick head and several useless interviews with employees who barely knew Fields. As he stepped back into the reality of the Quarter, Nick mused it was like the kid's life had been wiped away with a cloth.

  Chapter 32

  Jesse and Floyd burst into the old nigra's blues joint off Conti about five o'clock. In the French Quarter, a cold rain hit the hot streets, making steam come off the asphalt like dry ice. The water beaded on Floyd's greasy head and onto a red satin baseball jacket that read GOD FIRST.

  No one was inside the old bar except two gray-headed nigras. One carried an armload of colored bottles, and the other one leaned over a drink, a ratty houndstooth hat on his head. Jesse didn't like the way they didn't stare at him. He liked people to stare and take notice of his presence. People said when E walked into the room, it buzzed with electricity.

  "Which one of you ole fools is JoJo?" Floyd asked.

  "Depends on the fool who is addressin' me," the man with the bottles said as he sat them on the bar.

  "Don't get tough, old man," Jesse said, really looking to make his mark and not let Floyd dominate the show.

  "We're closed," the man called JoJo said, his brown eyes hard and flat. The back door was open, and Jesse could see a wide concrete loading dock. If Floyd took 'em out, that'd be the way to go.

  "Your do' is open and this man is drinkin'. He ain't a customer?" Floyd asked.

  "He's a friend."

  The old man in the patched corduroy jacket continued to stare at his drink. Must've been almost ninety, the way he just sat there like he was some kinda bug.

  "Hey, ole man," Floyd said, handing the seated man his cane. "Why don't you get yo' self outside for a swim. This ain't no show, and we is closed."

  "Henry, stay where you are," JoJo said.

  The old man remained under a faded black-and-white picture of a young black man pickin' a guitar. Floyd took off his jacket and walked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured a shot, drank it and licked the inside of the glass.

  "Ole man, yo' woman's pussy taste like that? Real fine like whiskey? Bet she's old and dry as cracked leather."

  "Listen, you greasy-haired nigger. You get your trashy ass out of my bar before I shoot you in the goddamned head."

  Floyd quickly reached behind his back and pulled out a Glock. He pressed it against JoJo's flat nose. JoJo didn't blink, though; he had balls like he wasn't scared of Floyd.

  "That wouldn't be too smart," Floyd said. "I guess yo' woman do have a pussy like cracked leather."

  "Nigger, you can't base your life on what you learn from your momma," JoJo said.

  Floyd cracked the butt of the gun against JoJo's nose. Blood spilled on the man's sweater, and he fell to a knee with both hands on his face.

  "You know a man name Cracker?" Jesse asked, once again feeling lost. He needed to do something so Floyd would tell Mr. Cruz about his skills.

  JoJo shook his head.

  "My friend ask a question," Floyd said. "You know a man name Cracker from way back in Clarksdale. I bet you do, and I bet you know about the ole man's record collection. Nice one. Bet you know where it at."

  JoJo stood. "We ain't got no crack. Now get out. We've got a lot of police that come in here about now. I know they'd love to take you for a ride. Some of 'em even call me Pops."

  "Well, Pops, I know 'bout you and them days with those King Biscuit folks," Floyd said. "Some of them knew Robert Johnson. And I know what you tole that black teacher from Tulane about all that shit. I just want those records. You see? That's it. All we need."

  "That's way before my time," JoJo said.

  The old man seated at the bar scooted back his barstool and whacked Floyd in his head with his cane.

  Floyd grabbed it away from him and tossed it behind the bar as this big, white dude passed by the window. He knocked on the glass of the door, covered in paper ads for shows. Shit, Jesse thought, it was that dude from the Delta, the one that chased his ass through the woods.

  Jesse nodded Floyd to the loading dock. Floyd winked back, like he respected Jesse thinking ahead.

  "JoJo, don't you say shit," Floyd said. "But I'll tell you what. You want to keep this property? Not have it bulldozed like a weak house of muthafuckin' cards? You better put yo' memory in overdrive. Think about the Delta and all them country folks. Or else I'll be back, with this property paid for, and turn it into a muthafuckin' parking lot."

  Chapter 33

  Virginia Dare tuned her guitar in a white bra and faded blue jeans. Her hair was still wet from a shower as she ran her fingers over her guitar's neck and turned its keys. The tiny hairs on her arms were golden and her s
tomach was as flat as a porcelain plate.

  She dropped her jaw and pursed her lips when Nick slid back the warehouse door. "Hey, I hope you don't mind. I took a shower and cleaned up the kitchen," she said. "Did you realize you had a jar of preserves that had turned to sugar?"

  "I didn't know I had a jar of preserves."

  Nick sat down next to her. She smelled wonderful. He wanted to take the guitar out of her lap, open the tops of the industrial windows, turn out the lights, and make love to her on the hardwood floor until his knees ached.

  "Where you been?"

  "Running some errands," Nick said. "Saw JoJo for awhile, but he was acting weird, so I left. Sometimes he's funny when he's getting ready to open. He said he bumped his nose fixing a pipe and wasn't in the mood to talk. Before that, I went down to the Blues Shack."

  "I would've thought you hated that place."

  "I met the owner, and I thought it would be in my best interests to keep in touch with him. I'm sure he knows a lot."

  She put her guitar down beside her and leaned her head back to rest in Nick's lap. He could feel her damp hair against his bare arm. He traced a finger over her right eyebrow and caressed her face with his hand. She had nice dimples, ridges like canyons.

  "I'm glad I didn't leave you in that jail cell," she said.

  "Although I was beginning to make friends and get some reading done."

  All of his harmonicas sat on the coffee table, two out of their cases. Nick carefully leaned forward, not to disturb her, and put the C back in the case.

  "I was just playing a little," she said. "You don't mind, do you? It helps me tune."

  "No. I guess I'm just not used to anyone being around."

  Virginia stretched and put both hands up through Nick's hair. "You sure got a lot of gray in there."

  "Someone once told me I was an old Holden Caulfield."

  "Who's that?"

  "The Catcher in the Rye."

  "No, who told you that?"

  "A mean woman who left me for an Uptown restaurant owner."

  "Is that why you're so quiet? Not telling me anything about you or asking any questions about me? We just make love and eat."

  Nick traced his fingers over a few little freckles on her tight stomach. When she breathed in deeply, her ribs showed under the bra. He leaned over to kiss her.

  "Sometimes talking spoils it. Besides, I know you. I know you're good. I can feel it."

  "Why'd she leave you?"

  "She kinda wanted me to get behind the mule. Wanted a little responsibility. A little commitment."

  "She wanted to get married."

  "Yeah."

  "That was it?"

  "That and when she decided to come back, she found another woman wearing her robe and drinking out of her coffee mug. She just stared at me for a moment and slid that door back. That was it."

  "I can promise you one thing, Travers. That's not what I'm looking for."

  She kissed him with an open mouth and tasted sweet, like watermelon candy. Nick put his hands under her loose-fitting bra. She moaned softly and kissed him harder. With one eye open, he looked down at his harmonicas littering the table; then he closed his eyes.

  She tasted too sweet.

  ?

  Nick ran the shower scalding hot and then cold as needles before he roughly toweled off and changed into a clean pair of jeans, a denim shirt, and buckskin boots. Virginia followed his shower and changed into a ribbed T-shirt, black leather pants, and black lizard boots with scuffed toes.

  She was excited about going into the Quarter. The last time she'd been was back when she was kid, so instead of a cab, he took her down Julia to St. Charles and caught a streetcar to Canal. They walked the rest of the way to the Blues Shack.

  The neon signs and gas lamps burned in the night sky as if they were a dull flame on a gas stove. A purple dome shone over their heads, and there was a strong smell of stale beer, cooked onions, and garbage.

  When they reached the bar, a line had formed all the way out the alley entrance and around a brick wall. Nick grabbed Virginia's hand, and they walked to the head of the line. A security guard Nick had met earlier nodded them in, and he felt like a cheesy Los Angeles player.

  "You really think it's good that we don't know a damned thing about each other?" Virginia asked in the Blues Hall of Fame Room. The video monitors flickered a Muddy Waters concert from the sixties. Waters jammed a little "Hoochie Coochie Man."

  "Yeah, I do. No jealousies. No pasts. Just feelings. We like each other and leave it that."

  "You're all right, Travers. I guess when you know everything there is to know about a person, that mystery and passion leaves your life."

  "I agree. So, are you a mystery woman?"

  "Maybe. What's in etouffee?"

  "Crawfish or shrimp, rice, onions, and peppers. Where were you born?"

  "Virginia."

  "Makes sense," Nick said. "Your parents alive?"

  "You couldn't handle it, could you? My stepfather is. He's a six-foot-five Cherokee Indian named Tom Eagle."

  "You keep in touch with him?"

  "I saw him a few years ago. He emcees Native American demonstrations for state fairs and things like that. Has a wide, pockmarked face that looks like a comical drawing of a moon."

  "Is he a good guy?"

  "All right. All right. This is how it is with me. I gave up that trailer on an Indian reservation a long time ago and have been busting my ass around the bar circuit for almost ten years. I've got thick calluses on my fingers and know how to kick a man right in the balls."

  "Have you been dating anybody?"

  She threw her head back and laughed.

  "I don't date."

  "What do you do?" Nick asked.

  "When I'm hungry, I eat. When I'm depressed, I drink. If I feel the need, I make love. When I met you at the Purple Heart, I had the need."

  "So I'm a need?"

  "Sort of."

  Nick looked back down at his menu. He felt his stomach tighten and his head pound. He should have stayed on the original path. He didn't like where this was headed.

  "I'm just strange, Nick. You're being too good to me. I'm not used to it. I usually like men who don't treat me well. If you don't love me and treat me like shit, usually I'll hound you. That's just my nature."

  "Hmm, who are you? Carmen?"

  "C'mon, let's forget this and enjoy tonight. I'm with you now, and that's all that matters. We'll eat fatty food, play the blues, get drunk, and go home and fuck madly. What could be better? Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

  "I guess you don't like greeting cards, long walks in the park, or puppet shows."

  Virginia leaned over, the candlelight shining in her sky-blue eyes, and squeezed his hand. "I like you, Nick. Let's just let that be enough."

  He liked her mouth, painted the color of Chianti, and the way she could twist her jaw slightly to the side. Maybe he'd let the rest slide. He drained half of his Dixie and lit a cigarette.

  The conversation swayed--after he ordered Tabasco chicken for him and crawfish etouffee for her--toward blues technique, the bastardization of Cajun culture versus Creole, and Steve McQueen movies. He pounded down four more Dixies, and she had a couple.

  "Does what happened in Greenwood not bother you? You just block it out of your mind like a dark nightmare?" Virginia asked.

  "Something like that," Nick said low, as Cruz walked into the room.

  His long hair was slicked back, and he smiled a toothy grin after seeing Nick. The two flanking bodyguards left and he sat down. He readjusted his black sunglasses, a snake-headed cane in his right hand. Nick wanted to ask him if was going to do a soft-shoe but thought that might piss him off.

  "I sure am glad you came," Cruz said. "See, it ain't so bad. I'll tell you what, boy, you sure have some great-lookin' company."

  "Mr. Cruz, this is Virginia Dare."

  Cruz smiled at her like a dog getting his hind leg scratched. The insides of his nostrils wer
e raw and a bit of ash was stuck in his beard. His breath smelled like an old ashtray--cancerous and dead.

  "I hope my waitress told you that whatever you want is on me."

  "That's not necessary," Nick said. "Your cook makes a mean peppered chicken."

  "Please, be my guest," he said, swiping the bill. "I'm just glad you came. It's good to have a purist's approval. Maybe we can sway some of your colleagues that way."

  "Yeah, my friend Michael Baker would probably love to meet you."

  Cruz turned his head from gazing at Virginia and nodded. "And I him. I did find out about that boy Keith Fields. Seems like we had a bad apple mixed in. We really should do criminal checks on everyone. Boy had committed some serious crimes. I guess I'm too trusting. "

  "Who's the band tonight?" Virginia asked, coming back into the conversation.

  "They have a hip-hop sound mixed with ska and Arabic music. Pretty progressive."

  Virginia coughed intentionally and cocked an eyebrow.

  "Sometimes you have to bring in what packs the house, so we can get the acts like you would want to see. Unfortunately, there aren't enough people like us. Blues people."

  "I thought this was the Blues Shack?" Virginia asked.

  Nick squeezed her hand.

  "Well, I hope you two enjoy the night," Cruz said. His face formed a smile like a waxen figure. "Come back any time."

  "Thanks," Nick said as Cruz left.

  "That's one slick son of a bitch."

  "Ya think?" he asked, as he scooted back his chair and laughed until his eyes watered.