by Ace Atkins
And then he hobbled out the door.
JoJo turned to Nick and said, "We just tryin' to protect him. Back in the Delta that man was like an uncle to us all. Used to take us around and introduce us to Sonny Boy and Little Walter. That's how I could get those heavyweights in when I started the bar."
"What'd he tell Baker?" Nick asked.
"Henry say Earl Snooks the one who killed Robert Johnson."
Chapter 41
Nick couldn't sleep that night. He was so close to finding another facet of Robert Johnson's life, a discovery that could make a career. It was selfish, he knew, to think in those terms, but it was true. To a blues historian, this was one of those gems only a few had ever found. This was something for Alan Lomax or Samuel Charters, not him.
Those pioneers of blues history were his heroes, etched into Nick's brain from constant readings of their works. They grabbed quotes from the source, not from another's interpretation. Now that most of the original bluesmen were gone, younger historians owed a great deal to those who collected stories at a time when talking to a black man could get your ass kicked.
He removed the coffee from the burner and poured a cup. The sun crept through the high industrial windows and across the wood floors. There was a rustle of sheets as Virginia stirred in bed.
"Are you okay?" she asked, pulling the red hair from her eyes.
"Can I trust you?"
"Well, yeah, of course," she said as she stretched and yawned. "What's wrong?"
"You're not going to turn on me, be someone else, and stab me in the back?"
"Why don't you come back to sleep, Nick?"
"'Cause I'm not so sure about this unknown relationship. Why'd you pick me out in that bar in Greenwood?"
She tucked a pillow under her head and said, "It was really complicated. Every man that I'd met in the Delta was a married farmer. You didn't look like you drove a John Deere."
"What do you know about Robert Johnson?"
She shook her head. "Really, Nick, come back to bed. I think that wreck scrambled your brain more than you thought."
"Do you know why those men were killed in Mississippi?"
"Something to do with that guy you were looking for?"
"No. Listen, I don't want any more secrets. I've had enough force-fed to me lately that I feel like I'm gonna throw up," Nick said, fiddling with the coffee mug. "There might be some unreleased Robert Johnson recordings. Apparently, the man I told you about, Michael Baker, knew about them. Last night, I tried to get his source to talk to me, and he shut me out. And I was just worried."
"Worried that I was after the records too?"
Nick looked down at the sun-painted floor and squinted. "Yeah."
"I love Robert Johnson," she said. "The way he could turn a verse into something so beautiful and tight was wonderful. I really appreciate the man for all that talk about the devil and knobs turning in the middle of the night. But if you did find missing records, you know it could be more of the same. He could've just redone his basics. You're the one who told me that he liked to play songs the same way over and over again, to get it right. I'm not trying to make you back down, 'cause I know you're the kind of man that's gonna do what he wants. But do you want to get killed for this?"
"Do you know anything about his last recording session in Dallas when he laid down "Hell Hound" and "Me and the Devil"?
"No," she said, putting her feet on the ground. Her Scooby-Doo T-shirt was wrinkled and one tube sock stretched almost off her foot.
"When he came back to record a second time, he played differently," Nick said. "It was more intense and eerie, almost like he knew he was going to die soon. There are stories they cut the records in the upstairs of a Buick showroom. The producer said it was so hot in Dallas that June they recorded shirtless and had fans blowing on cakes of ice."
Virginia came over and wrapped an arm around Nick's neck and kissed him on his neck. "What's your point?"
"It's eavesdropping. Pure and simple. A record is the only true connection to him. It's his sound trapped in time. And yeah, I guess I'll do what it takes to let it out. To hear some kind of background noise or, God willing, a new song that could tell us something about his mind-set and music before he died."
"Can I help?" she asked, tousling his black hair.
"Do you like to read?"
?
Randy stared at Virginia for a moment, his mouth wide open. Then he shook his head for his gawking and invited them into his office. For some reason, he wore a long African shirt and leather sandals. His curly hair and wide-eyed smile, combined with the clothes, reminded Nick of a child in a school play.
"Kunta Kinte, I presume?" Nick asked.
"Very funny. Actually it was a gift from a visiting professor during our African Roots series. You don't like it?"
"It's fine."
"I look silly, don't I? I just thought it looked comfortable, and it was hot today."
Sprinklers from the campus lawn tapped at the tall windows behind him.
"Randy, please," Nick said. "This is a friend of mine, Virginia Dare. She's one of the best slide-guitarists I've ever seen, and she's going to help us dig through the clips."
"Miss Dare, welcome to what some call the most boring job in world. But to a couple nerds like Nick and me . . .heaven."
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the archives. They started with thick phonebook-size biography books. There was a born date with a list of recordings but no death date. Snooks would be more than eighty years old.
From there, Randy pulled a very thin file on the man: traditional slide-guitarist born in the Delta, did some studio work in New Orleans, played with some big names, and then disappeared.
After a couple hours of referencing his name through a small blues library, they started sorting through sets of magazines and newspaper clippings, some as old as the mid-forties. Randy and Nick also both made phone calls to other universities.
The concrete floors and walls gave the old archives a pleasant coolness. Outside, the air felt like a bread oven. The disintegrating cardboard of the album covers and the antiseptic smell of the spotless floors soon mixed with a brewing pot of coffee.
Randy poured them all cups and then sat across from Nick at the double-sided teacher's desk. Virginia had spread a stack of clippings on the floor and made notations on a yellow legal pad.
Within two hours, Virginia yelled, "Got him!"
Nick had almost forgotten she was there. She plopped down an open magazine onto the desk with a photograph labeled EARL SNOOKS CIRCA 1947.
It was a black-and-white shot of a young Snooks with a guitar resting between his knees. The face had changed a lot in fifty years but still had the same eyes and amoeba-shaped scar the size of a finger tip.
Randy was quiet while Nick read the article twice. "This is from seventy-four; the article said the man hasn't been heard from since fifty-two."
"Let's look forward for a follow-up story or an obituary," Randy said.
"No. I got what I needed," Nick said, skimming the article and recognizing the author's name; a Southern historian he knew from several conferences and music festivals. He called Auburn University, where the man taught, and left a message with the department secretary.
A few hours later, as they were taking a break and eating fried shrimp po' boys from Uglesich's, he returned the call.
"Hey, Nick," the historian said. "It's amazing how things hit you all at once. You're the second guy that's asked me about Earl Snooks in twenty years. And the last guy called yesterday. That guy Cruz who owns that big blues chain."
Nick could feel his grip tighten on the desk's edge and his temples throb.
Chapter 42
Cruz's hangover made his body feel as sensitive as a strip of film exposed to the noon sun. The sweat rolled off his forehead and through his sunglasses as the air conditioner blasted through the restaurant. He shouldn't have gotten drunk last night. He'd been so careful about only adding a dash of bou
rbon to the water, just enough to add color.
But last night he thought, What the hell? He deserved a real generous drink. He poured one after another, the water getting darker and darker. He even had a half-assed idea to see if Floyd would grab some shit and come over and get stoned like the old days in L.A. Back then, he and Floyd would get some hungry wanna-be singer and get her pumped full of juice. They'd tell her what a big star she could be. He'd roll off names of people's he'd produced and say she had the same talent. Then he and Floyd would take turns on her, her starstruck eyes watching the ceiling. Didn't matter how old she was. Floyd always said the younger the better.
That wasn't the only scam. Cruz made his way in Los Angeles by pretending to be better than he was, bigger and more powerful. He could always convince some idiot to sell his home and pay for some studio time. Cruz would pay the musicians below scale and pocket most of the money. When the idiot wasn't picked up by a label, he'd shrug his shoulders and say, "We did our best; they're fools for not seeing your talent."
Cruz had to smile a little at his old craftiness as the cook brought a small plate of red beans and rice, two aspirin, and an ice water. Good man, he thought, adding a few tablespoons of Tabasco and mashing the beans and rice together. As he pressed the fork in the sticky pile, he saw Travers walk through the door. The guy made a grand entrance, swinging both heavy doors wide open like a cowboy in a saloon. Cruz had been expecting this.
"You want to tell me about Earl Snooks now?" Travers asked.
"Could you please watch your voice?"
Several people at nearby tables were staring--Monday's lunch crowd, overloaded with bags of souvenirs and cameras. A short man and his gangly wife leered at Travers like he was part of the show.
"You want to tell me why you lied?"
"I never lied," Cruz said in a muffled voice. "Please sit down."
"Why've you been checking into Earl Snooks's background?"
Cruz laughed and took a self-conscious bite. With food in his mouth he said, "That's why you're mad? 'Cause I called about Snooks?" He swallowed. "I called because I thought it would help you. I was trying to make amends for an employee being an embarrassment to the Blues Shack name. A favor. You're mad 'cause I was doing you a favor, son."
"Quit trying to jerk me off."
"Sit down and I'll talk," Cruz said.
Travers took a seat across from Cruz. He leaned in close and was chomping on gum in a rabid dog kind of way. Where the hell was Sweet Boy Floyd when you needed him? He'd ride it out.
"Listen, I know about the story JoJo's buddies concocted about the lost recordings of Robert Johnson," Travers said. "That's a big pile of shit. I can't believe you fell for it. And if you think Michael Baker, who I know sold you on this, is an expert on blues, you're only diddling yourself. That man didn't know Charley Patton from Charlie McCarthy. You got sold a bad deal, Cruz; and that's why you had him killed."
Cruz took a deep breath and pushed the pile of beans away. Heat flushed into his face, and he wiped his chin with a soiled napkin. He pulled on his pointed beard and took a swig of cold water. Where was Floyd? He tried to get Michelle's attention, but she was off flirting with a new bartender.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cruz said.
"I talked to them. I know you promised to spare JoJo's bar if he found the records. He told me a couple guys broke into his place and threatened him. One big black guy with gold teeth knocked him in the face, you asshole. Didn't you get what you wanted from Baker or Cracker?"
Travers pointed his finger in Cruz's face, yelling. "There are no lost records. Johnson recorded twice. That was it! Are you fucking insane listening to that shit?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Travers reached over and grabbed him by the lapels. Cruz did not move; he let the anger pass through him. Cruz imagined a limp rag doll. Travers had a damned crazy look in his eye, like he would tear his head off.
"I know you had those men killed, but it's over now. If anyone even comes close to JoJo's again, I'll kill 'em."
Cruz laughed.
"We're the same, you and me, Nick. Two white men trying to be a part of the blues. Do you think you're better than me? That you have more of a right to those records? It's the same thing. We both want them to make us famous. I doubt if Robert Johnson would've looked either one of us in the eye. So good luck. Now we'll just have to see who's faster."
Cruz felt much more bold when he saw Floyd walk into the restaurant with his hand inside his satin jacket. Floyd winked over Travers' shoulder before grabbing him by the arm and nudging a gun in his ribs.
"Good luck, Nick," Cruz said. "May the best pale impersonator win."
?
The grip on Nick's right bicep was so tight he could feel his hand go numb. He wanted to jam an elbow into the black man's paunchy stomach, but the gun was a big deterrent. Cruz had already had three men killed. Why would he stop with a fourth who had personally pissed him off?
The back alley of the Blues Shack was filled with heavy green Dumpsters, broken slats of wood, and cardboard packing crates. A brusque wind rushed through the alley with black fast-moving clouds above.
"Heard you went to see my friend JoJo yesterday," Nick said.
"Oh yeah, ole man 'bout pissed all over himself when I bitch-slapped him with my gun. Nothin' but a sorry-ass tramp."
"I've always heard men who love guns and use them for power trips have small dicks. Is that right? You got a Vienna sausage hangin'?"
"Why don't you ask that redhead bitch you been seein'? I bet she could suck it up like a vacuum cleaner."
They've been watching.
"Oh, yeah, that's right," Nick said. "I heard you had to take it on the road since your woman seems to keep a steady flow of backdoor men."
The man hit Nick hard in the stomach with the butt of his gun. Nick felt the air expel from his body like a smashed balloon. Through watered eyes, he could see the gun next to his cheek and the shimmering gold smile in the man's mouth.
"Let's see who's hard, man," Nick said as he gasped. "Let's see if you put down that gun, could you really kick my ass."
"Shiiiit," he said, clicking on the safety.
Nick swung his cast into the man's crotch, and the man fell like a chainsawed sequoia. He groped for Nick's face as he lost his balance, thick fingers plunging. Nick grabbed him by his shirt and slung him five yards. His fat body thudded into a Dumpster, and his eyes rolled into his head.
In his mind's eye, Nick could see the profile of Willie Brown and the shaky mannerisms of Cracker. He gritted his teeth and water filled his vision. He cocked back his right arm and pummeled the man's metal mouth. Then he popped him hard in the nose with the back of his cast.
Nick hit the son of a bitch until his breath came in choking gasps, blood covering his shirt, and the heavy man's eyes twitching.
Chapter 43
Streaks of lightning cracked in veined patterns in the black sky over Algiers. Nick drove JoJo's '63 Cadillac over the roaring metal of the Greater New Orleans Bridge as he looked at the crumpled map to Henry's house. With the radio clicked off and the windows down, Nick thought of the best ways to ask a stranger to tell the secrets of his life.
He took a left after crossing the brown river and followed a narrow road to Patterson Road, winding like a snake around the tip of Algiers Point--the opposite side of the river from the French Quarter. JoJo had marked an old Knights of Columbus building and former disco that was now a burned-out shell.
Henry lived in a colorless wooden cottage surrounded by high green shrubs and overgrown with elephant's ears the size of flags. Before Nick walked five paces away from JoJo's car, the screen door flew open and Henry marched out wielding a Winchester twelve-gauge shotgun.
"Afternoon, Mr. Snooks," Nick said.
Henry pumped the shotgun.
"Just want to talk."
Henry aimed the gun at Nick's chest.
"Maybe not."
"What
about?" Henry asked.
"Let me come inside."
Henry was silent, then dropped the shotgun and walked back into the house. The screen door banged after him. Nick followed and opened the door to see Henry sitting at his kitchen table sipping whiskey from a cracked fruit jar. A black woman in her fifties rubbed his shoulders and shook her head when she looked at Nick.
Henry turned his head up at her and said, "I'm awright. You go on."
"I'm stayin'," she said.
"I said go on."
She grabbed a purse slung over a kitchen chair and walked out.
"My daughter. She worries 'bout me all the time."
The white surrounding his gray eyes was red and the blackness of his skin looked unreal in the weak glow of a dusty swinging kitchen light. There was a dirty dish in the middle of the table and Nick could smell burnt beans on the stove. Two bottles of pills sat next to another plate, the caps screwed off.
To the right of the kitchen was a wood-paneled sitting room with a ragged green plaid sofa, a ripped canvas chair, and a silent flickering television set.
Henry took a sip of his whiskey.
"On August thirteenth, 1938, I was in Helena pickin' up some tractor parts with my brother-in-law. We stayed at a cousin of mine's house and left the next day. It was rainin' all the way back an' we had to stop in Clarksdale to wait it out. We didn't get home till midnight. My wife was there, but she dead now. I got names of folks who can--"
"I didn't ask you anything yet," Nick said.
"I thought you wanted to know where I was at when that Johnson man was killed?"
Nick shifted in his chair. Cool air rushed through the rusted screen door and made it bang against the jamb. Rain started to pat on the wooden porch, which looked like a row of rotten uneven teeth.