Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) (20 page)

It pissed Nick off that JoJo just shut his mouth and went silent. Didn't he understand how damned important this was? This wasn't about some man cheating with the preacher's wife or who's been sneaking out drinking. Someone tried to kill him last night, smacked into his Jeep like he was nothing. That same person probably shot Willie Brown in the head and dumped Cracker in the river.
JoJo and Robert Johnson.
Earl Snooks was that bridge.

Why would someone kill for asking about Snooks? Nick tried to focus on the face from last night, but it was a blur except for the shoes and the gray eyes. The man was so damned familar, like a photograph not yet developed.

Nick had no destination. No stop. He traveled way past Julia Street, just cat-napped in the seat as the streetcar pitched forward and slowed. Stop and move. Stop and move. Wheels screeched below on the worn rails. His eyes were closed tight when the car stopped longer than normal. A woman's voice yelled back to him.

"Got to get out so they can reverse the seats. Sir, they gotta reverse. You don't want to ride backward, do ya?"

Reverse.

"Yeah, yeah."

Nick got out and stretched his legs and watched the old wooden seats getting turned back around. He kicked a rock off the street, then lit another cigarette. A black kid, who looked about fourteen, asked him for a smoke. He gave him a couple but decided not to wait. He needed to walk, so he followed the streetcar tracks for about a mile, chain-smoking and thinking. The white paper burned to nubs at the filter tip.

When he reached Tulane, his face and the front of his shirt were damp with sweat, his jean jacket tucked under his arm. He crossed St. Charles over into the university and walked into the Jazz and Blues Archives building. No one was in. Randy's office door was locked. He considered calling him at home but decided against it.

Nick had been up too long and his brain felt too thick to recount the last few hours. He decided to go into the office, the one he once shared with Baker, and look around. But it wasn't like the movies where a file was marked SECRET RECORDS or JOJO. The only files he found contained expenses or sheet music. But he went through them all anyway. Nothing.

He also cross-referenced through the
Blues Who's Who
and
Big Book of Blues
and a few other biography sources and still couldn't find anything on Earl Snooks. It was Sunday and any calls to other universities would be futile.

Maybe he'd come back tomorrow, call Ole Miss, and start with all of his back issues of
Living Blues
. Or call Jim O'Neal in Clarksdale.

He walked back outside and crossed the street to Audubon Park, following the root-buckled path past the lagoon and under branches. At the zoo, he turned back around and walked past a gazebo where a bunch of hippies were banging voodoo rhythms on their drums. Back on St. Charles, he kept to the sidewalks shaded by the leafy canopy above. Absently, he would look high above and see shiny Mardi Gras beads stuck in the trees.

Near the Columns Hotel, he stopped cold at the DeSoto Apartments building. His boots had traveled back to Kate's place in a serious subconscious move. He just stood there dumb and looked three floors up to her screened balcony. All the plants and black wrought-iron furniture were still there. She hadn't left. It was Sunday, so she was probably on cop duty for the paper. No lights were on in the windows, and he couldn't see far into the balcony.

He imagined her up there with those eyes the color of sunlight hitting morning coffee. He started to whistle for her dog Bud, but didn't. Too much pride. Maybe he'd get a beer at the Columns and see if Cletus was working. See if he knew anything about Baker.

He turned and left.

Loretta was waiting for Nick at the warehouse. She sat across from Virginia, exchanging pleasantries. Dull patterns of conversation echoed through the open space about weather, music, and pretty red hair. Anything but JoJo screwing him over. Virginia listened as she still lay on the couch with a blanket tucked tightly around her. Loretta looked stiff in her Sunday dress with a black leather pocket book in her lap. She smiled weakly when Nick walked in and stood up.

She stretched, yawned, and dropped her feet to the floor. All she had on was a sweatshirt and panties. It was sort of embarrassing. She hadn't changed or offered Loretta anything.

"Not much," Nick said. "For some reason, JoJo won't tell me who's trying to take me out. It's a small thing, I know, but to me it's important," Nick said, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, that was rude. Loretta, let's go upstairs."

Loretta passed him, and he patted her warm back. She led the way to the roof with her heels clanking on the stairs like the dull pound of a hammer.

On the roof, the sun was going down, weak and losing its power, almost white over the Mississippi. The wind blew her stiff black hair as she leaned over the edge and looked at the view.

"Sometimes I think we should move out of the Quarter, try to get out once in a while. Find some kind of balance from all that craziness. JoJo's been living there ever since he left Mississippi. He was just a shy country boy when we met."

"I know this isn't you. What's JoJo doing?"

She took a handkerchief from her purse and dotted her chest. "He's been under some pressure and didn't want to bother you. You know he--we both think of you like a son. I guess us without children and you without parents just fit. But you're always getting yourself in trouble for other people."

"What kind of pressure?"

"I think he best tell you."

"Loretta, he might not want to involve me, but he should've told me something before I almost got killed the other night or had my ass shot off in Mississippi."

"He didn't know. He really didn't. None of 'em did."

"Loretta?"

"He's gonna lose the bar, Nick."

Jesse was better than this. He'd moved up. He and Inga had gone to the Riverwalk earlier to spend some money after he'd left the albino to die. They'd bought some frilly women things, and he got a real cool black leather jacket, a new pair of black jeans, a bottle of Vitalis, and a box of pralines. Jesse didn't even think about the old man, knew he had dropped dead somewhere out in the weeds.

"You're just pissed at him 'bout Keith," Jesse said.

"Goddamned right I am! That son of a bitch got my son killed."

Puka leaned forward, his breath all ragged and tired, with a face the color of an old beet. Maybe he shouldn't push it; man might have a heart attack.

Jesse toed his shoes over at Inga and smiled. "How 'bout you, baby? What are you thinkin' 'bout this? Wanna take the money and head on down the road?"

"This place scares me. All these dark corners and mean people. I don't want to stay here. I want to see Los Angeles. That place where stars put their hands. Then we go to Las Vegas."

E did have his Hollywood years. If Cruz ever found out that he didn't take care of the old man like he said, he best be movin' down the road anyway. He'd send Sweet Boy right down on him, real quick-like.

"There you go, son," Puka said. "She's done spoke for you."

A couple guys near the fountain kept staring over at their table and laughing. At first, he thought it was Puka's overalls, callin' them country hicks and all that mess. He'd heard that his whole life. Reminded him of the time some boys from Ole Miss threw a beer can at his head when he was walking on the highway. Called him junior trailer trash.

They giggled again.

Then one got up for a beer and stopped cold in front of him. "You know, little E, that Elvis was just a no-talent hillbilly? That's why he died bloated and fat on the toilet."

The rest of the boys laughed so hard that one almost fell in the fountain.

Jesse felt for his knife inside the leather jacket.

"Naw-aw, Jesse," Puka said. "We need you to be cool until we leave here. Think of how you could help your momma with that money. She's always wanted a satellite dish and maybe some money, so she didn't have to work in that Zippy Mart no more."

Jesse pulled his hand back out of his jacket. The boys kept on looking over at Inga. And damn if she hadn't sat up straight and started staring at them. The drunk guy who'd spoke ill of E made a motion for her to show her tits. She looked over at him, lickin' her lips, and cupped a small breast.

"What the hell you doin'?" Jesse asked. "You done gone crazy messin' around in front of me?"

She patted Jesse's leg, got up, and whispered in his ear. "Would you really hurt him for me?"

Inga moved on down the steps and into the night of Bourbon Street. The boy in a sweater with his hair all styled followed. He gave a few high fives to his friends as he left.

"I'll be back, Puka," Jesse said.

"You two kids are sick people. That's the difference between you and my son. You like to hurt, and Keith just did his job."

Jesse followed the boy and Inga down St. Peter until they turned at a gas lamp and into an alley without lights. She had her arms around him and looked at Jesse over his back, then moved a hand down and start fiddlin' with his pants.

Jesse thought the veins in his head were gonna bust watchin' that mess.

Like a damned bear cat, he walked over to the drunk boy, flicked out his knife, and pressed it tight to the boy's pecker. He held it there like he was about to whittle a piece of cheese and laughed.

"Why'd you call E a no-talent hillbilly? You boys think that's funny? Makin' fun of Him like that? I think He needs a sacrifice. Some type of offering. And seein' as how you're real proud of your pecker, here you go."

"Please. Please."

"Don't say it to me. Say it to Him."

"Him who?" the boy asked, as he shook in Jesse's grasp. His pecker had shrunk like a dead worm.

"E. Tell E how sorry you are."

The boy bubbled out some nervous laugher. "My buddies paid you to do this. Like you can rent Marilyn Monroe hookers. Right?"

Jesse cut into the skin, just a bit.

"JESUS."

"No, I said to E. Sorry, remember?"

"E. I'm sorry."

"Holy E."

"Holy E. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry for calling you a name."

"And what?" Jesse asked.

"I won't do it again."

Jesse tripped the boy into the hard flagstone, leaving him groveling and inspecting his pecker. Jesse grabbed the girl's hand, and they skipped down St. Peter to grab Puka and get back to the hotel. He needed to be fresh. Tomorrow was when Mr. Cruz wanted the next deed to be done.
Viva Las Vegas.