Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) (19 page)

The last time the Jacksons had redecorated their Creole town house must've been in the late sixties. They had lots of velvety furniture with the curves of an Apollo rocket. Black-and-white photos of performances at the Dew Drop Inn and Loretta's album covers hung on the walls. Outside, a wrought-iron balcony was loaded down with philodendrons and ferns with brown tips.

Loretta went into the kitchen and started banging around. After a few minutes, Nick heard the sound of coffee perking and bacon popping. JoJo leaned into a green Lay-Z-Boy, his lower legs propped up on the extension. He pulled a church bulletin from his inside jacket pocket and squinted at the words.

"Band las' night wasn't worth a shit," JoJo said. "Some dumb son of a bitch tryin' to play some old Stax R&B, only he couldn't sing a lick. Tourists couldn't tell, but all the regulars walked out. Man, it was embarrassing."

"Went to Algiers early this morning to meet him and someone tried to kill me. Well, I don't think they wanted to kill me, just mess me up a little. They rammed into my Jeep, totaled it, and put this silly orange thing on my arm. I feel like a tangerine."

JoJo looked outside at the plants, over at Nick, then back outside.

"I need to know who you called about Earl Snooks," Nick said.

"I wrote down everyone I called at the bar. I'll call 'em back if you think it will help."

"I dunno. You and Randy are the only ones who knew about Snooks. Besides Cracker."

JoJo chewed on a nail as Loretta called from the kitchen. "Y'all get the table outside ready. I'll be done in a second."

JoJo propped open the tall French doors and leaned four ice-cream-parlor chairs forward to drain off the dirty rainwater. Nick took a napkin and wiped off the seats before Loretta came out and set down a hot loaf of French bread in a basket and jam. Nick went back with her and helped bring out three plates of omelets and thick slabs of country bacon. He clubbed a jar of strawberry preserves in with his cast.

As the food was passed around, Nick watched a van of retarded tourists unload. They were adults with the wonder of children who stared around the brick buildings so old they were turning to sediment, thick layers of compressed brick mashing hard with the street. For a moment, all the pressure that squeezed out of his mind seemed petty. As unimportant as the thin layer of dust on JoJo's knees.

"You ain't hungry?" JoJo asked, with a mouth full of omelet.

"A lot's been on my mind. Starting to have weird dreams about dead blues singers calling me up on the telephone."

Loretta put a hand on Nick's arm. "Oh, son, you need to slow down some. You keep the weight of the world on those broad shoulders of yours. How's that Virginia treatin' you? Heard she's got the prettiest eyes you ever seen, JoJo. Blue as that neon sign we got out front."

JoJo's face was blank. His food untouched. He looked like he was going to throw up but instead folded his arms across his chest. "I want you to stop lookin' for those records," he said. "It's my business. I'll take care of it."

"JoJo, what the hell is going on?" Nick asked.

JoJo just sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm real sorry, Nick."

"I don't believe this. Jesus Christ. I don't believe this. Who was that last night? You know him, don't you? That son of a bitch could have killed me. Did you know about Baker, too? Let me tell you, Baker wouldn't have sat down in your bar without wanting something. I've known you . . ." Nick stopped. "It doesn't matter."

"I can't tell you," JoJo said. "I can't tell you nothin' about--"

Nick pushed his plate away and walked inside, grabbing his jean jacket from the old sofa. He bounded down the steps, feeling his teeth grinding against each other and a muscle constricting tightly in his throat. One of his battered boots slid off the second-to-last stair and he had to grab the railing tightly to keep his balance.

My enemies have betrayed me,

have overtaken poor Bob at last

And there's one thing certain,

they have stones all in my path

"Looks like a crushed aluminum can."
How'd Cruz know what he drove?

"You need a loaner?"

"No. No. I'm fine. Let me ask you something. You've been around. Been in Memphis and all that, you told me. Ever hear of a bluesman named Earl Snooks?"

"Have to say I have. Delta slide, popular in the late forties before disappearing. Yeah, I've heard of him."

Cruz turned his head absolutely and completely in Nick's direction. Even though he wore the sunglasses, Nick knew he was listening. The way his neck set, the flared, reddened nostrils. It was like a dog salivating over meat. Pavlovian.

The girl set down another round of beers at the table and smiled a coy grin at Cruz before leaving. A not-so-subtle secret between the two of them.

"I've been reading some of your work," Cruz said. "Read an essay you wrote on the migration of the blues to Chicago. We could use a resident historian at the Blues Shack. Benefits, salary. Everything you need. You could play harp for the house band."

"Thanks, but I'm okay where I'm at now."

"Where's that?"

"JoJo's, just down the street."

"Oh yeah. JoJo's. Yeah. Never been there. Heard about that guy. Real showman, JoJo. Talks a good game for the tourists about the old days."

Jesse was told to take the old man past the levee on Lake Pontchartrain, shoot him in the back of the head, tie a concrete block to his leg, and kick him in the water. As Jesse was drivin' down the highway and lookin' at him in the rearview mirror, the more Jesse thought he was losing his edge. Ole pasty was just starin' at him, lookin' right through him.

Made him feel real creepy, like the guy could read his mind or somethin'. He shrugged his shoulders, took one hand off the rusted station wagon's steering wheel, and rolled up the sleeves of his mechanic's shirt. It was striped cloth, real pressed and neat with Crown Electric patched on the breast pocket. Jesse had his hair slicked back today with a little Vitalis, a nice pompadour fixed on top of his head.

"You just tell us where them Johnson records are at and we'll be done with all this shit," Jesse said.

Ole man just kept starin' at the rearview mirror, his lower lip poked out and quivering.

"You are a goddamned baby, you ole fuck," Jesse said. "Now you hush on up and we'll be fine."

The levee was a long, green hump, like the spine of a grassy dragon with no end. As he drove, the large houses he passed became smaller. High-life condominiums became crappy apartments until there was nothing but a few broken-down crab shacks and all-night bars. Jesse took a turn on a dirt road Cruz had told him about.

"I did
k-k
now him," the old man said.

"Yore man Presley wasn't
s-s
hit compared to him," the ole man said. He was crying now, water running down his white cheeks.

Jesse stopped the car and rolled down the window. He spit outside, looked into the rearview mirror, and smiled.
I'm gonna enjoy this one.

A dry August wind ruffled grass as green as the fake kind Jesse had seen on a Putt-Putt course in Panama City, Florida. He parked the car and came around the side for Cracker, the old man's hands were tied in front with a thin plastic binder.

"C'mon, let's get this over with. I let you escape me once. It ain't gonna happen again."

The old man tried to squirm out of the car, but, with his hands tied, he just flopped around. Then he tried again to scoot outside with his butt. Jesse grabbed the plastic band tightly and twisted him outside. The old man fell out to his knees and his face slammed flush to the dirt road. A rusted, torn beer can ripped open his cheek.

Jesse yanked him up again and nudged him forward with the Glock. Jesse smacked on gum as he pushed him forward. He could see where the road opened up toward Lake Pontchartrain. Not a damned thing around but some mosquitoes that started slurping out the blood on the man's face. The old man just squinted into the bright sunset ahead of him, too much to take without any shade.

Didn't matter now.

The clearing's grass was high and brown, and tiny waves rippled toward the shore, all the pebbles worn smooth from thousands of years of constant friction.

Ole man looked dead anyway, lying there with a look in his eyes like a deer thrown by a semi. There was drool runnin' down his chin, and he was coughin' from the loose brown dirt sucked into his lungs.

Jesse turned and trotted back to the station wagon. Knew he had to have another magazine in the glove compartment, where he'd stuffed that Cajun beef jerky and a pack of condoms--
extra ribbed for her pleasure
.

Must've used up all the bullets when he was shootin' at the passin' driftwood in the Mississippi. He slid into the car and opened the compartment. Yep, two fresh loads. He wondered if he could make it back in time to take Inga and Puka for some dinner. He had enough money to take them somewhere real nice. Like one of them real fancy restaurants in the Quarter where they clean the table before you sit down.

The weeds were to his waist like a field of green wheat, and there were a few sailboats far out in the water. Too far to see what he was about to do. As he walked back down the path, three seagulls scattered and squawked away back over the lake.
Shit.

He picked up the pace, ran to the clearing near the lake, and turned all around in a scouting circle. Goddamn it. Goddamn it.
Ole man was gone.

Jesse started kicking all through the high grass that spread out for yards all around the lake, shrouding the ground. He started with a large circle and narrowed it with each pass.
Shit.
He widened the circle and followed it again.

"Ole man, you better get your ass out here, or I'm gonna start firin' this gun into them weeds. Don't be no fool now. You're dead anyways. You can't make it nowhere. Let me put you out like an ole dog. I won't leave you for long. One shot and them lights'll go out."

Jesse shot three times in sections of the weeded field, the smell of cordite mixed with the deep grass and sour smell of the water. He walked the grass dozens of times, ran through the nearby woods, and drove back and forth all along the highway.

Hell with it, the ole man had to be dead. In his mind, Jesse could see him clutchin' his heart and fallin' out there somewhere. Man was as good as a dog dropped off outside town. That pasty blue-eyed fool was nothin' but roadkill.