by Ace Atkins
Chapter 34
The call came a few hours later.
"This Nick Travers?" asked a hoarse voice that sounded like it came from an old black man. He could hear chattering voices and music in the background, as if the phone was in a bar or restaurant.
"Yeah."
"Earl Snooks. Heard you was lookin' for me."
"I don't mean to be rude, but I thought you were dead."
"No one's let me know if I am."
Nick had forgotten about Snooks. Forgot he'd asked JoJo to put the word out on the bar circuit telegraph. He grabbed his watch off the floor and stared at the luminescent dial reading two A.M. Virginia slept naked next to him, and he could feel her warm chest rising and falling. Light traffic sounds floated through the warehouse windows on warm summer breezes.
"You want to meet?" the voice asked.
"When?"
"How about now?"
"It's two in the morning," Nick said.
"I'm gonna be in Detroit tomorrow. You the one lookin' for me. Want to know where I'm at?"
"Where are you?"
?
Algiers was not the finest place to be early in the A.M. The pictures of Bosnia Nick had seen while in jail showed more promise. He drove his Jeep over the rusting Erector set that was the Greater New Orleans Bridge as the lights of New Orleans faded into the blackness of a forgotten city.
Algiers was once a slave port and a refuge for pirates. Most of the old town burned before the turn of the century, its apparent age really a result of humidity and neglect. But it was still a world of smuggling and crime. A dark sister to a corrupt city.
Nick followed Patterson Road along the Mississippi. To his left sat boarded-up homes and businesses, their wood rotting and the windows broken. Derelicts roamed the streets like zombies as he turned on Verret down to Opelousas Avenue, passing shotgun cottages painted all the colors of a Life Savers candy roll.
A faded newspaper blew in front of his car on River Street and he swerved, thinking it was an animal. He squinted into the darkness, searching for the part of the levee the voice had told him about. Anyone could hop in, shoot him, and dump his body. A disposable world, he thought, driving slow.
There was some comfort underneath his seat, in the form of a loaded Browning 9mm. Nick hated guns, but as a tracker, it was a necessary precaution. Some might call it callous or even racist to have fear in poor neighborhoods. But hunger and meanness weren't a racial problem; they were damned economic. Besides, he doubted the call had really come from Snooks. Man was probably dead. But this was the first tangible lead he'd had since returning to Louisiana. He had to come.
River Street turned into Brooklyn. Over the river, the lights of New Orleans were a blurred glow. A few blocks away, he could hear the thumping music in a Jamaican nightclub, the drumming sound of cars over the bridge, and brown water churning around a tugboat. He stopped and looked for the house. Nick drove the strip twice before he realized the numbers jumped with only a vacant lot in the middle.
Someone was playing with him.
He looked back at the two shotgun homes on either side of the vacant lot and spit out the window. About thirty yards away lay the rusting gears that hauled people over the river during the World's Fair. Like most things in New Orleans, they were left to disintegrate.
Nick heard a car approach, and the square headlights of a van shone into his eyes. It was headed in the wrong direction, right for him. Idiot. Nick punched in the clutch and shifted into first. He wanted to get back to Virginia tucked warmly in his flannel sheets. The van kept coming.
He let out the clutch and tried to move out of the way, but the van must have been going about forty. He could see a heavy cage built on over the front grille as he took a hard swerve. The van rammed the passenger side of the hood. It was a teeth-rattling, bone-jarring hit that froze Nick's hands on the steering wheel. All he could do was hold on as his Jeep flipped on its side. He felt his shoulder and arm hit hard against rough loose asphalt. A hand and shoulder went numb, trapped between the door and the ground.
Blood boiled in his ears and a pain shot through his arm. He lay there for what seemed like minutes, unable to get up. His body wouldn't respond. His head pounded and took long swimming strokes. He wanted to close his eyes, but he knew they'd be coming for him. Like a snared animal, he used his uninjured hand to try to pull his arm free.
The van idled nearby, its heavy front grille unscathed. Its motor still chugged, and headlights burned into the back of his skull. Nick heard a door slam and the crunch of shoes on the gravel-filled road. Two pairs of shoes. French accents. Rough and guttural.
With a soft grunt, Nick pulled his arm free and reached under the seat for the Browning, which had slipped up under the brake. He grabbed it and sighed when he felt the cool trigger underneath his index finger. The men were Haitians. Their coal black Caribbean faces were expressionless as they approached Nick. Nick hung sideways, still trapped in his seat belt. He could hear the rolling thick tongues and smell the sharpness of their unwashed bodies.
One leaned down and twisted his head in observation. The other nodded and yelled across the street, "C'mon!" The men went silent, as the headlights continued to burn into his eyes. Soon Nick heard another pair of shoes on the gravel and could barely make out the shoes, old-time brogans.
Nick turned his head in pain again and looked up into the face of a gray-headed black man wearing overalls. Must've been in his eighties and wore a corduroy jacket lined with patches like scars. The man stared at him with hard gray eyes and poked at him with a cane.
A face so familiar. So distant. He waited to pull the gun and shoot the man. But Nick knew him from somewhere. He couldn't speak or think. What about Robert Johnson? What happened to him?
"Dat 'im?" one of the Haitians asked, his teeth the color of piss-stained wood. His breath was hard and alcoholic, filled with rum. The old man grunted and handed him a couple of bills. The Haitians were a couple of cheap hit men. Nick knew of rumors about ex-Tontons Macoutes in Algiers who would shoot their own mother for a quarter.
"Son, this is none of your affair," the old man whispered to Nick as the Haitians got into their van and spun out. "Leave this bidness alone and everythin' will be jes' fine. Remember, Earl Snooks is dead."
The old man straightened up and hobbled back across the street. He got into a 1950s pickup truck and drove away with a loose muffler puttering like a machine gun. Nick's arm tingled with numbness. He lay there for a moment just breathing, then unlatched himself from his seat belt and plopped onto the hard concrete. As he slowly got to his knees, Nick reached for the gun and slid it back into his coat.
His old Jeep lay on the side of the Algiers street like roadkill. He should have shot those bastards. One half of the Jeep's front end was smashed in like an accordion. Antifreeze leaked like blood onto the dirty road.
Early this mornin'
when you knocked upon my door.
And I said, "Hello, Satan,
I believe it's time to go.
Chapter 35
Jesse Garon waited by the curb of the bus station, drawing curvy little patterns with a stick into the gutter grit. It was barely light and he was as tired as a twenty-four-hour whore. But she said she would come. That little German piece from Memphis was staying in the Biloxi hotel where she said she'd be. She was the one he'd been thinking about, the special woman to be his Priscilla. He'd tried to get her out of his mind and onto his killin' career.
But she stuck there with those long legs that could hold him as tight as a boa constrictor. Maybe he could take some time out from work. He knew Mr. Cruz was pleased with his performance in the Delta. It was like the damned '68 Comeback Special, people all talkin' about his skills. Even Floyd knew he could kick some ass inside that stupid, greasy head of his.
Finally, she stepped off the bus and that buzzing in his pants started again. Half expected he could break wood with the son of a bitch. There was a good twelve-inch flash of muscular white t
high between her knee-high white go-go boots and a plaid miniskirt. Her blue velvet shirt was wide open at the collar, and he could see a white, lacy bra underneath.
I'm just a red-blooded boy and can't stop thinkin' about girls, girls, girls. Help me, E. Help me.
Her dark hair was combed straight back. She did a model turn with a little curtsy as she stepped off the Greyhound splattered with dead lovebugs.
"You miss me, no?"
"Hell, I miss you yes," Jesse said.
She jumped onto him and wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs behind his back. The tight leather of her boots squeaked as they rubbed together. He fingered the dimple in her chin and just looked at her. She crushed that fat lower lip and stared back.
The bus station was gray and empty, a big, cold cinder-block shed, except for two elderly black women sitting on their luggage. Jesse put his arm around the girl and led her into the men's bathroom. Millions of dust particles caught in a thick slab of sunlight cutting through high windows.
His breath came hard through his nose. The smell of the urinals and the sweet smell of her perfume mixed. His head felt hot and light as he ran his nose down through her chest, chewing at the front latch of her bra. She bit down on his ear now, playful and a little harder, and said things in German to him. They sounded nasty.
A toilet flushed in a stall down the row of dented doors with peeling paint.
He rushed her inside and slammed her back against the cold concrete-block wall. One hand moved around her waist while the other felt the etched wall's graffiti like a blind man.
Want to be my bitch?
She kicked the door closed behind them.
His eyes shut as he unlatched the front of her bra and put his mouth to her breasts. His hand slid down her flank and found a smooth bare leg and slowly moved upwards as she sighed. The lace of her panties felt like hospital gauze under his hands.
"Jesse, before you nail that young girl to the post, there's a little matter we need to discuss," said Puka, who had come to him like a disgruntled Vernon out of the mist.
?
"Sorry I'm late, had a little business to 'tend to," Jesse said as he dabbed a fork into the last mouthful of eggs Benedict at the Blues Shack Sunday gospel brunch. A choir on the stage below belted out hymns honoring Jesus. "That albino just wanted to sleep. Never had to beat him a bit. That lack of sleep really works, kept on mumblin' 'bout a man name Big Earl. Earl Snooks."
"Snooks? Never heard of him," Mr. Cruz said, his long, black hair and beard shone almost blue, like a raven. "He say this man knows about the real records?"
"He said Snooks told him to guard them forever. I think Snooks probably fooled that crazy ole man and took them himself."
"When was that?"
"I don't know, sometime in the olden days before E was around."
Cruz leaned over the upper railing and watched the show below. He lit a menthol cigarette. "Kid, I got about a half-dozen blues experts who helped me put this place together. Pay them out my ass. They'll find out about this Snooks guy."
"What do we do with the ole man?" Jesse asked, sopping up the rest of the yellow sauce with a roll.
"I don't give a shit. Looks like we're one notch up the fuckin' ladder," Cruz said, laughing smoke out his nose. "You know, I got a goddamned empire built here. My own record label, own restaurant. One of the biggest attractions in the French Quarter. All I learned how to do was market a natural commodity. Like corn and cotton. Same damned thing, all in the marketing. Make those yuppie tourists feel safe in a well-lighted area, get a cool logo, have a few bands playing. They go home thinking they had a real cool experience. Sure, they were down with the brothers. Why do you think that is, Jesse? Southern guilt? Wanting to be accepted?"
"Don't know," Jesse said.
Hell, he didn't even know what Cruz was talking about, and Jesse didn't care. He just kept thinking about the plan Puka had. Said he shouldn't be payin' no respect to the man who got Keith killed. Wanted to know all about them damned records. Jesse was so sick about people talkin' about that man Robert Johnson and not his own skills that he wanted to puke. But Puka got his attention when he said, "I got a plan that's gonna make us so rich that the streets of Las Vegas will open up to us covered in green shag carpet."
His own personal Graceland. The girl from Germany, his Priscilla. Hell, he could take his momma to Wal-Mart anytime he liked. Buy her a new dress, some of that perfume that Charlie's Angel sold.
"I appreciate y'all staying with that albino last night," Cruz said, knocking him out of the dream. "What time did he finally talk?"
"Around six. Floyd's at home sleeping it off. Said you'd want to know."
"Well, go home and get some sleep. We might start getting some heat from the cops about your buddy Keith. I wish you could have gotten him out of there, but I understand. Just stay real cool and keep this all to ourselves."
"Yesterday, when me and Floyd was messin' with that ole nigra, I seen the same man that chased me in the Delta. That big, scruffy white dude with black hair."
Cruz snorted out some more smoke. "His name is Travers." He leaned so close to Jesse that he could smell breath like a cigarette put out in a whiskey glass. "I want you to find his weak spot for me, son. I want you to search it out like flies on shit. See what that sarcastic mother-fucker dreams about. What he lives for. Because we might just want to take that shit away to give us some breathing room."
Chapter 36
Virginia lay on the couch watching cartoons when Nick came back from Charity with his left arm in a bright orange cast. She had on one of his Tulane Football sweatshirts with a tattered blue blanket wrapped around her. All comfortable and at peace with an empty cereal bowl near her as she giggled at Tom and Jerry. It was the one at a dude ranch when Tom tries to impress a cat in a dress and lipstick by playing his guitar. But really it's just a country-and western-record that Jerry makes skip and slow speeds.
"Hey," she said as she continued to watch television.
Nick massaged his fingers at the end of the cast and shook his head. So much for concern. He threw his useless keys onto the kitchen counter and grabbed a cold Dixie from the refrigerator.
"You don't have to explain to me where you've been. I know you're a man. Like to roam a little, like a dog," Virginia said, and looked up. "Jesus, what happened to your hand?"
He popped open the top and chased down a couple of painkillers. God, he felt like some kind of derelict. Booze, some pills. Party anyone?
"Got in a little accident. I think one of the killers from the Delta found me. Someone called early this morning and told me it was Earl Snooks."
"They beat you up?"
"They beat up my Jeep."
Nick took another sip of beer and sat down beside her. She hadn't moved, just lay like a kid, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa. The comfort kind of made him mad. She should be empathizing with him, moving around and fretting. Maybe make some chicken soup. She pulled the blanket open wide to offer him inside. He took another sip of beer, leaving it half-empty, and set it beside her cereal bowl.
"I'm going down to JoJo's," he said, walking to the door.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing."
Virgina jumped off the couch and bounded across the floor to Nick, hands on hips, jaw a little askew and staring. Her hair was pasted down flat on her head, and she wore no makeup; her eyelashes almost translucent.
"Nick."
"Virginia, please. Let's stay with our pact. Keep that mystery and all that crap," he said, and turned to leave. She grabbed his elbow and walked him in close, then raised up on her toes and kissed him on the neck.
?
Nick waited for JoJo and Loretta on the steps of their two-story Creole town house on Royal Street. He knew they were at church and would be back soon. There was never a Sunday that those two missed a service. In their world, it was completely unthinkable not to go, just a mandatory part of life.
He unwrapped a couple of
muffins he'd bought at the A & P down the street, along with a bottle of orange juice and a pack of Marlboros. The sun shone hard in his eyes as he chewed and watched the tourists meandering in and out of the antique shops.
He smoked a cigarette, put it out, then leaned back on the stairs and slept. The dreams came through his mind with force. Random, weird patterns. Black-and-white images of searching for Robert Johnson--his music grinding beneath a huge needle. Johnson gagging on his own blood as he vomited. Johnson smiling up at him and telling him, You're not welcome. It was the old image from that dime store photograph now given a face.
You're not a part of this, he said. You're not welcome.
"Nick, get yo' ass up, boy."
Johnson mouthed the words and then he felt a rough hand shake him awake.
"Lazy ole bum. Actin' like a wino," JoJo said.
Nick squinted up into the faces of JoJo and Loretta. JoJo in a pressed out-of-date blue pin-striped suit with dust-creased knees. Loretta in a long blue silk dress. Her wide, black Eskimo face drawn on with thick makeup.
"Guess I missed church," Nick said.
"Oh, my boy, what happened to your arm?" Loretta asked.
"I tried to wrestle a van."
"You all right, kid?" JoJo asked
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. You should see the van."
"Come on in, son. I'm 'bout to cook a little breakfast for this ole fart," Loretta said sweetly.
"Ole fart. Ole fart," JoJo mumbled as he ambled up the stairs, his polished black shoes reflecting into Nick's eyes.
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.
