Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) Read Online Free

that "ole devil time."
    Many nights, Nick had waited outside a clapboard shack somewhere in Mississippi or a snow-covered home in Chicago, only to be ignored, insulted, or threatened.
    "So, what's up?" Nick asked Randy, as he leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. "You want to show me those dirty shadow puppets again?"
    "Michael's missing."
    "Haven't talked to the guy since June. Course, I never talked to him much then anyway."
    Michael Baker, a tenured professor in music history, was a real jackass. Nick couldn't stand listening to his pompous lectures or erroneous facts based on his political ideology. Guys like Baker took the stick and muddied the waters of a diminishing river of information.
    "He was in the Mississippi Delta looking for some blues performers from the thirties and stopped checking in with his wife."
    "Blues? He doesn't know shit about blues."
    "I know. I think he was freelancing for somebody. Anyway, he seemed excited. Talked all about how great it was taking pictures of these abandoned clapboard jukes in the woods."
    Nick laughed. "That's bullshit. He'd be afraid his Gucci loafers would get a speck of cowshit on them."
    "Last time we talked, he was in Greenwood. He wanted me to look up a few things and I haven't heard from him in over a month."
    "Did you call the police in Mississippi?"
    "Yeah," Randy said, leaning back in his chair and tossing a pencil into the corkboard above. It didn't stick. "Nick, how many times have you been to the Delta?"
    "Oh no."
    "Please. Just drive to Greenwood, talk to some people. Have dinner at that restaurant you like . . . Lucky's."
    "Lusco's."
    "Whatever. You know how Michael is, sometimes condescending and rude."
    "If he's condescending in the Delta, they'll string him up by those pleated slacks and make him into a life-size pinata."
    "That's what I'm afraid of. Please?"
    "Will you recommend me for a two-year grant on that Babe Stovall project?"
    "Uh, no. Remember, I don't like Michael that much either. He came with the department job. I'm sorry, that's terrible. His wife is really upset."
    "I guess I can take off Friday from JoJo's. But I've got to be back in two weeks for a gig at Tipitina's. We've planned it for a while."
    Randy smiled. "Thanks, man."
    "What'd he want you to look up, his ass?"
    "Impossible. Too tight. He had me fax him a list of living performers from the thirties and forties who lived around Greenwood."
    "You mean all I have to go on is an outdated contact list, half of which I wrote?"
    "Yeah."
    "I guess it's time to get back on it then," Nick said, squashing the cigarette in a plastic ashtray.
    "What?"
    "Words to live by, my friend," Nick said. "Why didn't you tell me he was snooping around? That's all I need is him pissing off my contacts."
    "Academic cooperation? You scratch my back . . . "
    "Shiiit."
    "He was excited when we talked," Randy said as he fished around his rat's nest of a desk. "Here it is."
    "Thanks," Nick said, taking the wrinkled coffee-stained sheets. "I have a dozen copies in my office."
    "Probably won't help anyway."
    "Why's that?"
    "I think he spent the most time with an old man in his seventies. He's not listed. Interesting thing is, the man claims he knew Robert Johnson."
    Nick laughed. "Everybody in the Delta claims they met Johnson."
    "I know, but Michael believed him. Said the old man lived like a hermit out in the woods. No electricity. Nothing. Said he hadn't much contact with anyone in years."
    "Where's he live?"
    "Greenwood, I think. Can't tell you his name or how to find him. Can't be too hard though."
    "Why's that?"
    "The old man is an albino."

Chapter 5
    In Memphis, Jesse Garon honed his switchblade knife on the rough, concrete edge of the Heartbreak Motel's empty swimming pool. He sat and watched the Sri Lankan manager tossing handfuls of wet, moldy leaves onto the mildewed diving board above and thought what a waste of time. No one comes to this end of Elvis Presley Boulevard anymore. Only the devout. But