Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) (16 page)
Jay pushed open the door, and Nick walked ahead into the apartment. The place was neat: white leather couch, big-screen television, a mirrored coffee table with a stack of
Penthouse
magazines arranged in a fan. In a corner, toward two French doors, Fields had a cheap weight set with several pictures of bodybuilders stapled in a collage on the wall.
"I'll start with the bedroom," Nick said.
Nick pulled out each drawer from a chest and looked not only inside but behind. He went through the dead kid's clothes: T-shirts, red satin underwear, a few pairs of blue jeans, and several pairs of black pants.
There was a bedside table, but its drawer was empty. Nick looked under the bed and mattresses and found a few more
Penthouse
magazines, a pack of condoms, and a Polaroid picture of a girl covered in Mardi Gras beads, flashing her breasts. A golden cross hung on the wall and a Bible rested on the bedside table.
In the closet, clothes hung neatly on hangers, and more black pants and several empty slots. On a shelf above the hanging clothes were two rolled posters of Budweiser girls, a movie poster for a gangster film, a Smith & Wesson still in the carton, and an empty shoebox.
Nick reached down and slipped his hand into the assorted acrid-smelling shoes and found nothing. He reached into coat and pants pockets. Nothing.
"How you doing?" he called to Jay.
"Kid liked beer. Couldn't have been too bad. Seemed to like to bet on sports, not much else. Kept some pot in here. Usual shit. How 'bout you?"
"Either this kid throws away anything personal or we got beat," Nick said.
"Have you found a checkbook or canceled pay stubs? Maybe he had another job."
"I don't think this guy clocked in and out. Can we get a photo of him?"
"He was arrested in Mississippi a few years ago. I could have his mug shot sent here."
"That'd be great. Maybe you could call the landlord too."
"Maybe you could kiss my ass," Jay said. "This isn't my biggest priority, ya know? Right now, I'm assigned to the rape and murder of an Uptown socialite. Your old friend Kate Archer has been busting the department's ass every day for the last week."
"Please."
"You still hate hearing her name, don't you?"
"Doesn't bother me a bit. I've found someone new," Nick said as he reached deep into a pants pocket and found a plastic card with a driver's-license-size picture. It was a security ID badge for a local club.
Chapter 31
Since it opened in New Orleans two years ago, Nick had done his best to stay away from the Blues Shack. He had no hatred for it, nor did he make any kind of high-seated assumption that it bastardized the pureness of blues. He knew the place was all about money. All the public relations bullshit couldn't fix that. The Blues Shack was nothing more than a watered-down version of the real thing for tourists--the Putt-Putt golf of the blues world, complete with fake weathered clapboards and strategically placed rusted road signs on the wall.
As Nick walked through the purposefully crude drawings and tin-shingled doors, listening to the tinkling keys of Professor Longhair, he knew he was in Disneyland. Safe, kind, and packaged for mass consumption.
A perky blonde with a bobbed haircut and large breasts smiled at Nick as he walked through the door. An African-style dress hung off her curved frame. She asked if he wanted to sit in the Blues Hall of Fame Room or at the bar.
Nick said neither. He wanted to talk to the owner.
She laughed.
"Are you trying to get a bartending job?"
"Far as you know."
"'Scuse me?"
"I'm an old friend of his," Nick said. "We shared the same prison shower. He handed me the soap."
Her mouth turned crooked as she cradled a phone between her ear and shoulder. "Is Mr. Cruz in?"
Nick blew his breath out his cheeks and waited. He looked up at the high video monitors playing several historic blues performances. Below, a teenage, T-shirt-wearing tourist nodded and laughed at the music being played over him. He had on a pair of sunglasses and mimicked being blind.
It was like watching someone taking a dump in church.
Nick shook his head before the hostess pointed him to a tall, winding wooden staircase to the second floor. The rail was carved to look like a snake, and the scales felt smooth underneath his hand.
"Mr. Cruz's executive assistant will wait for you upstairs," she said.
At the landing stood a beefy white guy with a buzz-cut head and thick biceps who wore a radio on his hip.
Executive assistant?
The guy had his hands tucked underneath his armpits and blew a pink bubble out of his mouth. He steered Nick to the twin padded doors, spoke into his lapel, and left.
The doors parted as if in a corny biblical epic.
?
"You're a friend of Mr. Cruz's?" a beautiful Asian woman asked Nick. She wore a light, flowered sundress and no bra. Must be casual day.
A fattened Buddha statue sat in the hall behind the woman. The rest of the furnishings were a mixture of Scandinavian and Oriental: big black leather couches, chrome racks, curvy floor lamps with tasseled rugs, long, rounded pillows, and ceramic elephants.
"Actually, no. I wanted to ask him a few questions about an employee, Keith Fields."
"So who are you?"
"That is a very spiritual question I'm constantly asked. Perhaps that's a question for Buddha."
She frowned and stared at the white pages of a leather day planner sitting on top of a glass desk. On her right forearm were four small bruises like an inked hand print.
"Is Mr. Cruz in?"
"He's in a meeting right now," she said.
Nick sank into the black leather couch and lit a cigarette.
"Sir, we don't allow smoking here."
"I'm sorry," Nick said, blowing out a stream of smoke. It was obnoxious, rude, and intentional.
"Sir, I'm going to have to call security."
"Tell him it'll take five minutes."
From a door down the hall Nick heard a door rattle, and bourbony laughter rushed out the open door. A short, dumpy man with dyed black hair was followed out by a taller man in an all black suit and sunglasses. The taller man was skeletal, with a gaunt face and thin, bony fingers. A black pointed beard jutted from his chin. He looked over at Nick and then put a hand on the dumpy man's shoulder. Nick recognized the shorter guy as a city councilman.
The tall man walked the councilman out with his hand his shoulder the whole way. It looked as if he were actually massaging the guy's neck.
Whatever it takes.
Nick stood up, his cigarette dangling loosely in his mouth as if he were Mississippi Fred McDowell.
The man turned and stared at Nick. "You know, if you did that in L.A. they'd put you under the jail."
"I'll have to make a note to myself never to go to L.A.," Nick said.
"Mr. Cruz, do you want me to call security?" the secretary asked.
Cruz shook off the question and said, "What can I help you with, sir?"
"I need five minutes to talk to you about an employee of yours who was killed in Mississippi."
"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.