Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) (8 page)

"That's just it," Nick said. "No one knows for sure. Some say he was stabbed. But most believe it was poison from a jealous husband. Police back then weren't too interested in a dead black man."

"No shit," James' s buddy said. "Still ain't."

"The story fits." Nick looked across the highway at the inky pattern of the cotton. "Johnson was a real ramblin' man. He loved women."

"No. Actually, butt ugly. Worse off they were, the more attention Johnson would show 'em. I'm sure he had his share of some fine ones, but Johnson liked comfort. He liked women to take care of him, cook for him, mend his clothes, and shit like that. And ugly ones were a little bit more willing."

"Yeah, they picked him up, and his producer had to bail him out," Nick said. "Johnson called him a few hours later from his boardinghouse. He told the producer he was lonesome."

"Lonesome?" James asked.

"Yeah, Johnson said there was a woman there, and she wanted fifty cents and he lacked a nickel."

That sent all the men into a frenzy of laughter, including Brown, who broke into a smile. Nick stood up, glad to pass on a small tale they'd surely repeat on other nights. James leaned back until he was flat on his back and staring at his porch's broken roof. "Where y'all goin'?"

Brown walked ahead, away from the men, and Nick got up and followed. They passed over a creek and through a junkyard of old tractors. As they entered the woods, Brown turned on a flashlight which shone on a well-worn path leading into a smiling mouth with green teeth.

Blood. A gash on the old man's head really let it all out. Must've been that iron stove, Jesse thought. Hell, he hadn't even heard him come in. Just sat there in this ratty ole green chair eatin' beans out of a can. Turned to stare at Jesse only when he broke through the door. Up at his face, then down at his nakedness.

Hell, he'd forgotten about being naked.

Jesse let out an honest-to-God war cry. A sort of Indian thing. Didn't know what caused it--must've been the moon. Sure as shit put fear in that ole man's pale blue eyes though. He was in the middle of putting them beans down when Jesse grabbed the back of his old neck and rammed him into that black stove, a little fat one sitting in the middle of that shitty old shack.

Jesse laughed when the guy fell, then watched as the guy tried to get to his feet, only to fall back down. He walked over to him, threw down his knife, and kicked him square in the gut. Son of a bitch ole man vomitin' all over himself. Shit. That's gross. So Jesse kicked him again, kicked him for bein' so damned nasty.

Nasty old man. Kick. Nasty man cursed by God. Kick. Sure as shit he'd kill this guy and make everyone proud of him. Momma and Puka. He thought about their faces as he kicked again.

"You kill the nigra?" she would ask.

"Yes, momma."

Then it would be worth it all. Worth the work. Worth the effort. He'd always remembered what momma told him when he finally stopped tryin' to play the guitar. When he found out there wasn't no music in him-- that he couldn't be like E.

She looked at him, huggin' him as the tears streamed down his face, and rubbed his back. "That's all right, Jesse. Maybe you have another talent, just as good as Elvis. Just remember, you can be the Elvis of anything you want."

And he had found it. He was the Elvis of killin'. Takin' Care of Business. He grabbed the ole man off the floor and punched him in the throat.

The trail leading to Cracker's house was smooth as power underfoot, with dense, high grass and weeds bordered with low-hanging vines and long, thin spiderwebs. A small rabbit froze for a moment in Brown's flashlight beam, then darted away from the trail.

"Depends what you think crazy is. I mean, do you call talking to the dead and swatting at imaginary flies crazy?" Brown asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah."

"Well, I guess Cracker is crazy then. Just wanted to let you know that before you think he's going to tell us anything about Baker."

"How far back does he live?" Nick asked.

"'Bout a mile."

Rain began to drop from a few fat clouds that moved in the sky like Mardi Gras floats. Soon it came in hard, full sheets down through the pine needles. The moon still shone as the clouds passed and made the water look like silver ice on the branches, rain as warm as bath water.

"A mile, huh?" Nick said, thinking that Randy was going to owe him a big fat check when he got back to New Orleans. Dinner at Antoine's, drinks all over the Quarter. As curious as he was about the old man, this was fucking ridiculous. Too much of an effort for babbling.

"Hell, we're almost there," Brown said, knocking the branches away.

Then came the sound, through the imposed static of rain falling among the trees. That unmistakable sound that made Brown turn a walk into a full sprint. A human cry of pain.

"Ain't you gonna cry or somethin', ole man? I'm gettin' tired of watchin' you breathe," Jesse said, kicking him in the ribs again. He could hear the pasty man's breathing gettin' real raspy. Like he might quit at any moment.

Jesse pushed the cascade of black hair out of his eyes, thinking about the punk E played in
King Creole
. He thought about all that anger and energy E must have felt when that ole woman told him he couldn't graduate 'cause he took a swing at a guy and brought that whore to school. Must've made him real pissed off. He thought about the ole nigra tellin' him the same thing--that he had to repeat high school.

"Ain't gonna do it, boss. No way, Daddy-O!"

Before he wrapped his hands around the man's wrinkled neck, he felt a hot, sharp pain shoot through his calf. He fell to his knees, hands clutching his lower leg. A fork stuck in his flesh.

The old man stood over him, lower lip trembling, and holding a can of beans in his hand. He threw it and hit Jesse right in the forehead. As the old man tried to get away, he fell onto the floor clutching his chest and howling like a hurt animal.

Got 'im, Jesse thought. Ole son of a bitch is finally havin' a heart attack.

He could hear his own breathing and rain splattering on the tin roof above like a million tiny drums. Through the haze of pain, Jesse almost felt comfortable in the old cabin, woodsmoke floating in the air. But that was just his mind playin' with him. Lulling him to lie down, lick his wounds, and fall asleep.

It was time to move. Performance or not, he needed to kill the ole bastard now. Sure, it'd been a game before of doin' somethin' different, kickin' him in the ass until he fell over, but he kept hangin' on. Maybe he was havin' a heart attack, but Jesse didn't want to wait around and see what was gonna happen.

Shit, it was time to move. His hand, covered in blood, grabbed hold of the fork and yanked it out of his leg. He threw it down and reached for the switchblade he'd brought. Nice and sharp from all the days honin' it at that crummy motel. Could probably cut a hair in two like in them funny cartoons.

He popped the release just as the front door flew open. At first he thought it was just the storm. Then he saw a big nigra man comin' into the shack with a flashlight. The nigra seemed more into goin' to the ole man. His eyes didn't even pass Jesse's way.

The shack's back door was a few feet from where Jesse crouched behind a ragged chair. The big nigra would see him soon enough, so in two shakes of a lamb's tail, he turned the knob and ran through the door. He hopped off the back stoop filled with trash and hightailed it back into the green, wet safety of the woods. Two shots rang out behind him.

Nick heard the shots and saw the flash from the back of the shack. He ran to the house and knelt down when he reached the front porch. He tilted his head up and saw an old man on the floor, his skin a ghostly white in the glow of a lantern.

"Around the side," Brown said, yelling. "On the other side."

Who or what was on the other side, Nick didn't know.
A killer? A bear? Little green men?
Nick pulled the Tom Mix knife from his boot and flicked it open. He'd fillet whatever it was with a collectible.

"You see him?" Brown yelled.

"Nope," Nick shouted over the rain.

Then he heard feet rustling through the undergrowth and saw a flash of skin. Nick followed. The man was fast, leaping over small trees and piles of rotting leaves and plants. He zigzagged through a trail impossible to follow without the occasional light from the full moon. Nick tried to keep an even pace, not getting too close, running when he ran, stopping when he stopped. The rain slowed to a patter, masking the sounds.

The fat clouds rolled away and the full silver light of the moon poured into the woods. The sky was the color of navy flannel.

Couldn't be far from the highway. Not far at all. Even through the zigzags and cuts, the man stayed in the same direction. Maybe he had a car waiting for him on the road's shoulder. He crept forward and could see the man catching his breath and looking around.

The rain stopped. A quiet patter fell from the leaves. A car rumbled by and a slash of headlights cut through the woods. Nick was close enough to get a look at the guy.
He must be going crazy.
It wasn't that the guy was nude that shocked him. It was the postage-stamp image of a young Elvis Presley. Pre-army. "Heartbreak Hotel" days.

The light was gone.

Another car passed down the highway. Must be only yards from the road. Nick needed to make his move now. He broke into a full sprint so he could tackle the guy, just like a darting running back, and drag his ass back to Brown's car. No more games.

Nick moved a few feet and the moldy leaves beneath him fell into a small crevice. The creek bed from earlier, he thought, as he climbed out of its muddy walls. Dirt painfully filled under his fingernails. He found a root and grabbed tightly as his feet slipped beneath him. Finally he found a foothold and pulled himself out of the gully. Nick scanned the woods and looked through a clearing to the highway.

Elvis had left the building.

"Jesse, just tell me where you're at."

"A gas station somewhere 'round Quito."

"Awright. Did anyone see you?"

"I don't think so," Jesse said. "I was invisible, man."

"I was handlin' it, Keith, and this big nigra just bust through the door as I was about to kill the ole man."

"Shit, Jesse. You weren't supposed to kill him! Goddamn, are you crazy?"

"Puka said you wanted the nigra taken out."

"Then shut your damned hole and listen." Keith heaved off the couch and closed his balcony doors looking over Royal Street. A carriage horse clopped down the road and he could see a woman squatting in the shadows taking a piss. "I'm comin' up there. You find a place, and you stay put. I'll be up by mornin' and take care of this myself."

"Keith, the nigr--the man just bust through the door."

"I know, Jesse. I know."

This hit was not just for some no-name client; this was a full-time deal. Good pay and good contacts. His boss had it. Had juice like the Mob guys used to have. Like the old criminals in New Orleans, only with a modern approach. Modern methods. Keith had heard bits and pieces, how he used to be some kind of big record producer in Los Angeles at one time. A little weird and freaky with the all-black clothes and stuff. But hey, that's L.A. Everybody's weird out there. Any man who trusted him enough to make him head of security couldn't be all bad.

"Naw. I got this one, Keith," Jesse said. He could hear his friend's breath go ragged through the connection. "Just give me a few days. Need some money, though."

"Awright. Till Saturday. But if you ain't snag him by then, you can forget about comin' to work with me. How you want this money sent? Western Union?"

"Clickety-clack."