Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels)

"Where you been, Bob?"

"Travelin'."

"I's heard you made a record."

"That's right."

"They pay somethin' big fo' that? Fancy suit. Fancy hat. Man oh man. You doin' jes fine fo' yoself, Bob. Jes fine."

"Yeah, jes fine."

Johnson pulled the fedora lower over his bad eye and glanced down at the whiskey-soaked two-by-fours. Man must've gone crazy bein' so nice. Or maybe he'd just forgot about him sneakin' out with his wife las' time. His gray eyes didn't show nothin' though, so Johnson turned and watched a young guitar player pickin' out an old Charley Patton song. The metal plank of the player's high, tinny notes made Johnson cringe. He'd been there. Son House used to laugh when he heard him play.

But Johnson learned.

The blues came from all he knew, all he was. He put that lonesome feeling in each note. The longing. The losses. He rubbed his calloused, black hands together and thought of the place in his heart where the blues dwelled. Every day he'd worked on the farm. Every time he was beaten by his stepfather because of his smart mouth.

And his wife, his dear, sweet wife--he could feel the edges of his heart open like a parched flower and tears well in his eyes. That was when the devil came into his life, and evil been followin' him around ever since. Sometimes when he was high, the world revolvin' all around him like the blades in a fan, he saw Satan. Watchin', followin', and waitin'. The devil wanted him. Johnson shook it off and walked outside.

It was coal-black in the woods where the juke joint stood. A Dietz lantern dimly flooded light a few feet from the beaten steps and into the tall grass waving in the summer wind. He took a deep breath. Inside, it'd been like bein' high up in a loft throwin' hay--heat thick as cigarette smoke hangin' all about his head.

Johnson found a tall bank of grass under a pine tree and unbuttoned his pants. He felt a cool breeze as the crickets and cicadas played a show around him. Lookin' for lovin'. He laughed at that, lettin' the last few hours of whiskey go away as he rocked on his heels.

A dry, dead branch snapped behind him.

He looked over his shoulder and buttoned back up. Nothin'. The crickets and cicadas had gone silent around the juke, only the pluckin' and wailin' of the man inside. He began to walk back. Maybe he'd play a little more for the folks. Give them a few songs he'd been workin' on as he made his way back from Texas. And if Honeyboy came later, they'd show them folks a thing or two.

He looked to the edge of the pine forest. Couldn't see nothin', only the deep blackness of the woods at night and the flickerin' tails of fireflies, two clicks of the yellow neon tails. Another branch broke and he heard the shufflin' of feet on dry pine needles.

Johnson could feel his heart pump and his arms quiver. He spun around in a circle lookin'. He never should've come back to Mississippi; should've just kept on movin'. Could've gone anywhere . . . Chicago, New York.

"
Psst
, R.L.? R.L.?"

Out of the woods walked a young boy. Small and stoop shouldered. Skin white. Features of a black man with pale, blue eyes.

"Got-damn! Whachu doin' boy?" Johnson asked.

"Sorry, R.L. Mista wanted me to be quiet. Tole me to wait till you left the juke."

"Don't you ever sneak up on a man doin' his business. I 'bout wet all over myself."

The boy's light eyes looked away from the woods and down the dirt highway. There was a full moon, and its light shone off a black Buick Roadmaster, a silver Indian pointed proud on the hood. Johnson turned and walked down the road. Get this shit over with. He'd been runnin' from this man since Austin. He was tired.

He could see the tiny red-yellow glow of a cigarette and a fat hulking shape in back of the car. Fat man couldn't drive. Shit, couldn't even fit behind the wheel. He had that boy do all his work.

Johnson tromped on the dirt highway toward the car. The crossroads were bare. The front of the Three Forks store was closed with a padlock on the sun-faded front door. A rusty

Coca-Cola sign creaked in the wind.

The car's window was rolled down, and smoke floated out like hot, gray mist on the north road's shoulder. Inside, a deep, white voice said, "Thought you'd left me behind, huh, Bob? Thought you could leave our deal? But you and me keep together."

Johnson was silent.

"When you sign a contract with me, I own your soul . . . I own your ass. Now listen here. Takin' off with those records wasn't too smart. It takes money to make those things. I could find any nigga' in Mississippi to make those poor old sounds."

"Those records are me."

"You're not listenin' to me, Bob. I captured that sound you made, and I own it." The fat man shifted his weight on the squeaking leather of the back seat. "Boy, get me and Mr. Johnson a drink."

Johnson could see the little albino boy trottin' down the dirt road like a dog. He heard the groan of windblown signs at the old grocery store and a rustle of cotton in the fields. Some bits of sandy dirt got in his eyes, and he turned away from the fat man.

"I got your records, Bob. Got 'em right here in my trunk. All nine of 'em. Hidin' them in that nasty old boarding shack in Greenwood wasn't too smart. Not too smart at all. But I don't hold a grudge, Bob. 'Cause startin' tonight, you gonna be bigger than all of 'em. Blind Lemon Jefferson, Charley Patton. All of 'em. Yessir, you gonna be a legend."

There a was a sharp click, an explosion, and a thud of dirt at his feet. Johnson stopped but did not turn around.
This man was crazy. Get away from him. He used you, but bigger things are comin' up.

The little albino was out of breath as he brought Johnson a shot glass of whiskey filled to the rim, with some spilling on the boy's shaky, white hands. His lower lip poked out and his eyes wide with fear.

"Finish the deal, Bob," the fat man said. "Finish the deal."

Johnson tossed back the whiskey and threw the glass far into weeds sprouting along the country highway. He turned and walked down the dusty, dirt road. Grit swirled all about his feet as he whistled a slow tune.

Randy was a jazz man himself. He'd studied jazz all his life, his passion. Now, as the head of the Jazz and Blues Archives at Tulane University, he was the curator of thousands of African-American recordings.

But blues was something he could never really understand. It was the poor cousin to jazz, though the unknowledgeable thought they were the same. Jazz was a fluted glass of champagne. Blues was a cold beer--working class music.

His friend and colleague Nick Travers knew blues. He could pick out the region like Henry Higgins could pick out an accent: Chicago, Austin, Memphis, or Mississippi.

Mississippi. The Delta.
He sipped some more hot, black coffee and watched the great Loretta Jackson doing her thing.

A big, beautiful woman who was a cross somewhere between Etta James and KoKo Taylor. Randy had seen the show countless times. He knew every rehearsed movement and all the big, black woman's jokes by heart. But he still loved seeing her work anyway; her strong voice could fill a Gothic cathedral.

Her husband, Joseph Jose Jackson, pulled a chair up to the table. A legend himself. There wasn't a blues musician alive who didn't know about JoJo, a highly polished, dignified black man in his sixties. Silver-white hair and moustache. Starched white dress shirt, tightly-creased black trousers, and shined wingtips.

"Doc-tor!" JoJo extended his rough hand.

"Mr. Jackson. Good to see you, my friend, and--" Randy nodded toward the stage-- "your wife, She still raises the hair on the back of my neck."

"She can kick a crowd in the nuts," JoJo said.

Loretta sweated and dotted her brow with a red lace handkerchief to some sexy lyrics and winked down at JoJo.

"
Rock me baby.

Rock me all night long.

Rock me baby.

Like my back ain't got no bone."

They sat silent through the song. JoJo swayed to the music and smiled a wide, happy grin. A proud man in love. The next song was a slow ballad, and Randy leaned forward on the wooden table, the smoke making his eyes water. JoJo cocked his ear toward him.

"I'm looking for Nick. Isn't he playing tonight?" Randy asked.

JoJo shook his head and frowned. "Nick? I don't know. He's been tryin' to get back in shape or some shit. Runnin' like a fool every mornin'. Acts like he's gonna go back and play for the Saints again. No sir, he ain't the same."

"He's not answering his phone or his door."

"When he don't want to be found," JoJo said, nodding his head for emphasis, "he ain't gonna be found."

"Could he be out of town? Maybe traveling with the band?"

"What?" JoJo asked, through the blare of the music.

"TRAVELING WITH THE BAND?" Randy shouted.