The solitude of the country was nice compared to the concrete forest where he lived in New Orleans. It wasn't just the green life, fresh air, and all that crap. It was also the complete absence of the tension he felt anytime he stepped outside in New Orleans. No cars, no machinery. Just man. Maybe he would reach complete consciousness today.
He could hear Cracker crawling under the old shack. Secret hiding place? No wonder it was easy for Baker to steal the records.
Nick watched two black birds land in a puddle of tan, muddy water and flutter around. They squawked and flew away when Cracker and Brown came around a kudzu-covered trail. Brown set a wooden packing crate on the front porch and stood back. Cracker pried the top open with a pocket knife. Rusty nails slipped out like thick quills from an animal's back.
"Yeah, I put this under the porch probably thirty years ago. I check on it s-sometimes to make sure it's still there." He pulled out a handful of mildewed yellow newspaper and a bundle wrapped in a black trash bag. "Yeah, I knew this keep it nice and dry. They
w-w
as flat too. Store 'em real tight. And it's cool under that porch."
He walked with the bundle into the house and set it on the floor. He slowly got on his knees and began to unwrap it like a precious Christmas present. Eyes intense. Hands precise.
Inside the layers of black plastic was a narrow wooden box. After he rubbed his dusty hands on his overalls, he opened the box like the top of a cigarette carton. Cracker pulled out a flat piece of cardboard covered in red satin and removed an aluminum disc covered in lacquer. The way it was marked with a black pen, it looked like a demo.
"This
j-j
ust one we recorded 'fore he died," Cracker said.
Chapter 19
Jesse Garon, Sweet Boy Floyd, and Keith Fields followed the marked police car with the cop , the old man, and the same dude who had chased Jesse through the woods. Dude was big. Taller than he was. Looked like a dock worker, wearin' all denim and boots. Short black hair and kinda scruffy.
Floyd's big truck kept a nice distance behind them. King Cab Ford with dual tires on the back axle, damned thing could've seated twenty. Inside, the Naugahyde shone smooth with an oily sheen of Armor All. It was real slick and all, especially with the nudie air freshener danglin' from the rearview mirror. The back mud flaps were custom too, with Calvin takin' a piss on one and Hobbes takin' a shit on the other.
"Y'all my boys. We gonna have a fine time killin' these dudes," Floyd said, suckin' on a pink bubble-gum cigar and pattin' Jesse's leg.
"Take your hands off me," Jesse said. "I don't know you, and you sure as shit don't know me."
"Easy there now, hoss," Floyd said. "We're all coworkers here. I'm just applyin' my trade."
Keith snorted and shook his head. "He's just funnin' you, Floyd. Don't worry 'bout it none."
"Just keep him away from me, and we'll be fine," Jesse said. He could see Floyd's black eyes watching him from his rearview mirror. The naked woman on the air freshener seemed to dance as wind blew through the truck.
"You ever been out of Mississippi, kid?" Floyd asked.
"Hell, I'm from Memphis."
"Then you should know when a man talks, you should keep yo' punk-ass mouth shut."
"Don't go sleepin' 'round me, Floyd," Jesse said.
"Would both of you quit it," Keith said. "We got some serious work to do."
Floyd flicked on the radio. Booming disco funk pounded the rear half of the cab.
"Feel like I'm in Africa," Jesse said. "All this damn shit. We're better than this, Keith."
"Hush up," Keith said. "And you listen to what Mr. Floyd says."
"Why we kidnappin' this man?" Jesse asked.
"Ain't none of your goddamn bidness," Floyd said.
Jesse shook his head. These guys thought they were pros, but they really didn't know shit. These two could never understand his talent for killin'. Not even his buddy Keith. Sure, he was all pumped up and tough, but he didn't have that feelin' for takin' someone's life. Keith wasn't even excited about a challenge like taking down a couple of men. E always liked a challenge.
?
Through the bright reflection of the car's window, Cracker looked like a corpse dressed in a black suit with his fingers tightly laced in his lap. Nick opened the car door for him, letting the old man open a black umbrella over his head before setting foot into the unmerciful sun.
Across the blue sky, long strips of clouds, as black as chimney smoke, began to roll in and threaten the light. Yet Nick could still feel the August heat through the soles of his boots. Brown walked ahead into the downtown Greenwood soul food restaurant. It stood on the bottom floor of a brick building adorned with a faded red-and-white Coca-Cola mural.
Nick led Cracker through the door and over a scuffed red floor as Christmas lights blinked above the bar. Brown had already ordered three sweet teas, all served in mismatched jelly jars. As he drank, the old man's lips moved over his gums in a nervous frenzy. He reminded Nick of a dog with peanut butter on his tongue.
"Cracker, we're gonna find you a nice place to stay until all this mess is settled. All right?" Brown said and then looked over at Nick. "Thought I'd put him up in that motel you're staying in till we find out who that man was from the other night."
"You mean Elvis?"
"Yeah, Elvis. An ex-New Orleans Saint got outrun by a dead man."
"Aha. You've been checking my background," Nick said, stretching his arm on a bench behind him.
"Been real slow downtown. It was that or clip my toenails."
"I'm flattered."
An old Johnnie Taylor song pumped from the speakers, and no one spoke until a little black woman clacked in wearing a soiled apron and asked what they wanted. Brown ordered a vegetable plate and Nick got the fried chicken. It took some prompting for Cracker to ask for two pecan pies and a Coke.
Except for them, the restaurant was empty. The front and back doors were open and a warm late-summer breeze washed over Nick's face. He could feel the sweat dry on his T-shirt. Late lazy Mississippi afternoon. A kind of comfortable silence passing over them. The greens weren't salty or soggy, and the cornbread was so thick that Nick drank three glasses of tea.
"
I-I
cain't go home?" Cracker asked.
"No, sir, but you gonna have it good," Brown said. "Nice motel room and some more good food like this."
Cracker looked over at Nick as he spooned the pecan pie into his mouth until the brown muck ran down his chin.
"That man Baker. The one that took your records?" Nick asked. "What'd he want to know?"
Brown eyed Nick as he took a sip of tea.
"He wanted to know all 'bout R.L.," Cracker said. "
W-W
hat the man like to eat,
w-w
ould he let people see his fingers when he recordin', did he eva play with a big fancy band."
The questions were good ones. Johnson was known to be really paranoid about someone ripping off his style. Some have said he would turn his back if another musician was watching his finger movements too closely. And some have hinted Johnson played with a complete band when he visited New York City.
Cracker frowned and his hands shook around the shiny metal fork.
"And you didn't like that, all those questions?" Nick asked, trying to make eye contact, to see how the man responded. Watch his breathing to see if he was lying. Nick believed people who held their breath had something to hide.
"People use that man up,' Cracker said, breathing real even. "
S-S
till usin' him."
"I don't understand," Nick said.
Cracker laughed and looked down at his empty plate. Through the crudely painted letters on the window, Nick stared at thick, coal-black clouds covering the sun.
"I need to borrow your records," Nick said. He smiled, trying to calm the old man, make him know everything was all right. He'd make him understand that he wasn't going to take off like Baker and swipe the last of his collection. "If Robert Johnson did make these before he died, how come the record man you worked for never sold them? Could have made a lot of money."
Cracker started rocking back and forth like a child and snorted his breath in and out of his nose. His lips worked over time around his gums. And when he put his hands to his face, the pie plate clattered to the floor, shattering into hard-edged chunks.
"Cool it, Travers," Brown said. "I'll see what I can do about the records."
"I need to hear what's on them. Could be songs no one knows about. Johnson never recorded in thirty-eight. His last session was fourteen months before he died."
"Like I said, I'll see what I can do. Just stay the night. Besides, it's gonna become a shitstorm out there in a few minutes."
The waitress walked out from the kitchen and saw the pie plate shattered on the floor. She looked at Cracker the way Nick had seen some people observe the baboons in the Audubon Zoo, and picked up the pieces.
"So Baker ripped off Cracker and took off for Montego Bay. That's your theory?" Nick asked.
"You got a better one?" Brown said.
"Good reason."
"Real valuable, huh?"
"More than you know," Nick said. "Unreleased Johnson tracks would be priceless. Really, something too good to be true. I mean, it'd be like finding out Mozart had a few more symphonies stashed away. But it's impossible another recording session wasn't discovered in sixty years. Someone would've known; a producer, another musician. There was one story a teacher of mine heard from a guy in Memphis years ago, about some Johnson demos destroyed in a pool room fight."
Brown looked at him from over the top of his tea glass.
"It's nothing," Nick said. "Crazy professor in Oxford. He told us the story to demonstrate the unreliability of some sources."
"What?"
"He said the man called them the 'lost nine.' Said Johnson went back to Texas before he died and laid down some more songs. It was bullshit. Something we would all like to believe. A Lost Ark for researchers."
Nick looked over at Cracker, who eyed him with a mean tenacity. His fierce eyes bore into Nick like he wanted to leap on him. Beat the crap out of a pushy white boy.
"You all messin' with some powerful shit. Things need not be talked about," Cracker said, rocking away. "Big Earl wouldn't want it. No, sir. Big Earl wouldn't have it."
"Who's he talkin' about?" Nick asked.
"Big Earl Snooks," Brown said. "Slide guitar player, doesn't live around here anymore. I'm sure he's dead. Used to be a friend of Cracker's."
"You guys want me to stay with you tonight?" Nick asked. "Help keep watch?"
"Naw, another deputy is gonna trade with me after midnight. Besides, I crap bigger than Elvis Presley."
Chapter 20
Five hours later, Sweet Boy Floyd parked his truck behind a burned-out gas station on Highway 82, just a ways down from the Dixie Motel. The three of them had spent the day feeding off beef jerky, Yoo-Hoos, and Moon Pies. A pile of Mountain Dew cans and coffee cups littered the truck's floor as rain splattered the cab like an impatient man's fingers. A few minutes before, they'd seen the white dude peel off in his Jeep and the glow of red taillights disappear down the highway. Jesse knew it was time, and he was ready for it, as Floyd handed out three pairs of surgical gloves.
"Awright, you two boys follow me, and when I say hit it, you hit that sweet spot like a black man and take no prisoners," Floyd said, with his eyes wide and his nostrils flared.
Sweet, maybe this nigra wasn't bad after all. He liked this dude's attitude. Take no prisoners, hit and run. TCB. Just like the life lessons E learned in the army. Shit, he could do this. This was what Jesse Garon was all about. A damned real professional hit. No more bullshit killings of thirteen-year-old crack dealers for twenty bucks in Memphis.
This was live and in concert. Damned '68 Comeback Special.
"I got two fresh Glocks here," Floyd said. "Party favors for each of you young mens. All you got to do is hit that shit when I open the door and we gonna be just fine."
As Floyd talked, his head bobbed and weaved like a spring-headed toy, kinda like it would pop off any minute.
"How you gonna get 'em to open up, Sweet Boy?" Keith asked. "Hell, they ain't gonna fall for no room-service or maid-knockin'-on-the-door stuff. The sheriff's department will be on our ass before we get out the door."
Floyd reached under his seat and pulled out a heavy, burnished crowbar. "I don't fuck with knockin'. I'll crack that bitch open in two seconds. And y'all best be ready."
?
Cracker had never seen television. Heard of it. Had even seen the muted light patterns it made as it shone in the trailer homes around his woods. Always thought you needed one of them big satellite dishes to bring pictures in. But there it was: voices, faces, beautiful women who wore next to nothing, flouncing around.
"What
k-
kind business is this?" Cracker asked. "It ain't right."
"You want me to change the station?" Brown asked.
"No. Dat's awright. Dey shore is pretty."
"Cracker, you ever have a woman?"
He smiled. Not many folks he would talk to, but Willie Brown was a good man. Willie was his friend. "There was a young girl I met when
w-
we was in Austin."
"How many years ago?"
"Nineteen hundred and thirty six. I do believe."
All the flashing colors were making Cracker a little sick. It was like his head was bein' crammed full of stuff he didn't need. He stood up and walked over to the bathroom, ran the water, and put one foot on the commode. He grabbed a hand towel to run under the cool water.