Read Online Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) by Ace Atkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ace Atkins
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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'?"
"To see Cracker," Brown said.
Both men laughed.
"Damn, Willie, you're the only one I know talk to that stinkin' monkey," James said. "He smell like shit."
The buddy mumbled, "He do smell like shit."
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.
"So who does Cracker say killed Robert Johnson?" Nick asked.
"I'll let you ask him. He's got a much longer explanation than I can give you."
"Is he crazy?"
"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
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'?"
"To see Cracker," Brown said.
Both men laughed.
"Damn, Willie, you're the only one I know talk to that stinkin' monkey," James said. "He smell like shit."
The buddy mumbled, "He do smell like shit."
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.
"So who does Cracker say killed Robert Johnson?" Nick asked.
"I'll let you ask him. He's got a much longer explanation than I can give you."
"Is he crazy?"
"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
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