Read Online Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) by Ace Atkins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ace Atkins
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gum and watching the weeds roll by in blackness.
"Why'd they send you?"
"Because I blend in so well."
"Yeah, like the cream filling in an Oreo."
Brown slowed and pulled into a circular, rocky lot. He stopped the car in front of a long shack with crumbling, fake-brick siding and plastic sheets for windows. The tin roof had rust splotches like blood smears and a narrow smokestack like a crudely made periscope. Two black men sat on the stairs sipping quart bottles of Budweiser.
Nick considered sitting down with them and bullshitting a little. Sometimes that was the best way to get stories. Bring some beer and let the words flow. Walk out of your car with a notepad and you can hear the locks clicking.
"You wouldn't know it, but this old place is a historic site," Brown said. "James's house here is the old Three Forks store. Used to be down the road a ways. But it was moved. This is where people say Robert Johnson died. Hey, James."
"Robert Johnson ain't at home," James said. His smallish face was as drawn as a hound dog's. "Don't bring no mo' damned tourists 'round here. This is my house."
James's buddy laughed, beer foam running down his chin, "Willie, tell him the part how he was howlin' like a dog when Satan took him."
"No. I think this man is too sharp for that," Brown said. "Why don't you tell us, Travers, how Johnson died. You're the blues man."
"I know this might not be the house where he was killed. Three Forks could've been anyplace. His old traveling partner Honeyboy pointed out a completely different spot where he died. Same as the Zion Church, where they say he's buried. There were over a dozen Zion churches in Greenwood in the thirties."
"Shut his ass up, Willie," James said. "Just made me fifty bucks yesterday from some Japanese. They thought I was Robert Johnson's son."
"You can't even play with yourself, let alone a guitar," Brown said.
"Now, hold on," James said, tossing Nick a bottle. "Listen, what happened to the son of a bitch? I live in this goddamned ghost house, and I want to know."
The bottle was lukewarm, and the label felt soft in the palm of his hand. Nick looked over at Brown and smiled. He ambled up on the porch, where the plastic sheeting was popping in the wind, and sat down on the brittle wood.
There was a feeling about the place, some kind of bad mojo. Maybe it was the August heat or just the possibility he was actually at the place where Johnson died. He wanted to go in and trace the layout, see how the place looked all those years ago. Listen to how the wood sounded under his feet, wood that may have soaked up Johnson's music.
"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."
"Everyone loves women, lessen you're a queen," James said.
"Not like old Robert," Nick said. "A friend of his said he used women the way some do hotel rooms. He had them in every town."
"Fine lookin'?" James asked.
"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."
"Sound like a smart man," Brown said.
"Keep goin'," the buddy said. "Our TV broke."
"When he recorded in San Antonio, the police picked him up for vagrancy," Nick said. "And he--
"Ain't that just like the po-lice," James said, giggling at Brown.
"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
"Why'd they send you?"
"Because I blend in so well."
"Yeah, like the cream filling in an Oreo."
Brown slowed and pulled into a circular, rocky lot. He stopped the car in front of a long shack with crumbling, fake-brick siding and plastic sheets for windows. The tin roof had rust splotches like blood smears and a narrow smokestack like a crudely made periscope. Two black men sat on the stairs sipping quart bottles of Budweiser.
Nick considered sitting down with them and bullshitting a little. Sometimes that was the best way to get stories. Bring some beer and let the words flow. Walk out of your car with a notepad and you can hear the locks clicking.
"You wouldn't know it, but this old place is a historic site," Brown said. "James's house here is the old Three Forks store. Used to be down the road a ways. But it was moved. This is where people say Robert Johnson died. Hey, James."
"Robert Johnson ain't at home," James said. His smallish face was as drawn as a hound dog's. "Don't bring no mo' damned tourists 'round here. This is my house."
James's buddy laughed, beer foam running down his chin, "Willie, tell him the part how he was howlin' like a dog when Satan took him."
"No. I think this man is too sharp for that," Brown said. "Why don't you tell us, Travers, how Johnson died. You're the blues man."
"I know this might not be the house where he was killed. Three Forks could've been anyplace. His old traveling partner Honeyboy pointed out a completely different spot where he died. Same as the Zion Church, where they say he's buried. There were over a dozen Zion churches in Greenwood in the thirties."
"Shut his ass up, Willie," James said. "Just made me fifty bucks yesterday from some Japanese. They thought I was Robert Johnson's son."
"You can't even play with yourself, let alone a guitar," Brown said.
"Now, hold on," James said, tossing Nick a bottle. "Listen, what happened to the son of a bitch? I live in this goddamned ghost house, and I want to know."
The bottle was lukewarm, and the label felt soft in the palm of his hand. Nick looked over at Brown and smiled. He ambled up on the porch, where the plastic sheeting was popping in the wind, and sat down on the brittle wood.
There was a feeling about the place, some kind of bad mojo. Maybe it was the August heat or just the possibility he was actually at the place where Johnson died. He wanted to go in and trace the layout, see how the place looked all those years ago. Listen to how the wood sounded under his feet, wood that may have soaked up Johnson's music.
"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."
"Everyone loves women, lessen you're a queen," James said.
"Not like old Robert," Nick said. "A friend of his said he used women the way some do hotel rooms. He had them in every town."
"Fine lookin'?" James asked.
"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."
"Sound like a smart man," Brown said.
"Keep goin'," the buddy said. "Our TV broke."
"When he recorded in San Antonio, the police picked him up for vagrancy," Nick said. "And he--
"Ain't that just like the po-lice," James said, giggling at Brown.
"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
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