Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) Read Online Free Page A
E would appreciate the effort he had made to live close to Him.
"Oh, sir, it is hot. Yes?" the little dark guy asked him. His bare feet stuck in the brown, oozing muck, with his black trousers rolled to the knees. The man's scraggly mustache dripped with sweat.
"Uh-huh," Jesse answered.
"You do not talk much, sir, for such an energetic young man."
"Uh-huh."
"I have told you I left my country when I was only twenty. Now I work so that I may bring the rest of my family to the United States. Might I ask what has brought you to Memphis?"
Jesse stopped in midscrape of the knife, looked down into the empty cracked pool, and simply said, "God."
He stood and walked back to his room, one of only three with a working toilet, where the red shag carpet deeply covered his toes. He winced. The damp, musty smell was like ghosts from a hundred puking guests. He opened a window as an 18-wheeler roared past.
No television, no "Kool AC," like the neon sign advertised out front. Just a room and a hot plate at the Heartbreak Motel. He grabbed his last two pieces of white bread, smeared butter on the spongy pair, and placed them on the plate. The smell of burning butter made his mouth water as he changed into a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut out and blue jeans. He sat on the edge of the bed and rolled the crisp new jeans into a two-inch cuff. Perfect, he thought, running a hand over his bare upper arm to make contact with a stenciled black tattoo. He'd paid a hundred bucks for it on Beale Street.
The tattoo was of a young Elvis Presley wearing a crown of thorns, a simple inscription below: "He died for our sins."
Every afternoon was the same. After eating supper and getting dressed, Jesse would leave the Heartbreak Motel and walk two miles to Graceland. There, he would stroll through the gift shops at the Elvis Mall and sit for hours in the darkened car museum. He could watch clips from E's films in '57 Chevys cut in half and turned into seats.
Sometimes, when no one was around, he would slip under the velvet ropes and slide into E's cars, feeling the leather where He'd sat, the steering wheels and the gear shifts He'd touched. A vehicle to that connection he'd always felt with E. Jesse would sink low into the floor of the backseat and smell the holy air that E had breathed. Sometimes he'd stay there until the following day, sleeping in E's cars.
Today they showed Viva Las Vegas, and he thought about that incredible chemistry between Ann-Margret and E. They did everything but touch each other. It was like they were so damned close to tearing each other's clothes off, but it was like there was some kind of force field between them. Somethin' holding them back. All she could do was coo and purr the whole damned film. Man, oh man.
Jesse shook his head and walked next door to the gift shop, a buzzin' in his loins like a snapped electric cable. Out of all the official shops, this one concentrated mostly on T-shirts and small tokens of love. The pencils, coffee mugs, buttons, necklaces, postcards, and toenail clippers, all of them icons of affection.
Inside, he watched two middle-aged women--one short and dumpy and the other trim and athletic with frizzy hair and big boobs. Jesse massaged a hand over a dusty porcelain head of Elvis. He smiled and walked toward them, pushing back the jet-black pompadour that cascaded over his forehead. He ran his fingers over the back of his neck, real modest-like, and gave the trim woman with big boobs a good two-second eye contact. He knew he had it, that confidence E had. The way of working the eyes and body. A way of showin' that you were a little shy, but the devil sure did know where you lived.
"Afternoon, ma'am," Jesse said.
She nodded her head and gave a little grin. "Do you work here?"
"Ah, no ma'am. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you look just like him. I guess you know that, though," she giggled.
"Ma'am, I can show you all Memphis like you've never seen. I can take you to some of the places not
"Oh, sir, it is hot. Yes?" the little dark guy asked him. His bare feet stuck in the brown, oozing muck, with his black trousers rolled to the knees. The man's scraggly mustache dripped with sweat.
"Uh-huh," Jesse answered.
"You do not talk much, sir, for such an energetic young man."
"Uh-huh."
"I have told you I left my country when I was only twenty. Now I work so that I may bring the rest of my family to the United States. Might I ask what has brought you to Memphis?"
Jesse stopped in midscrape of the knife, looked down into the empty cracked pool, and simply said, "God."
He stood and walked back to his room, one of only three with a working toilet, where the red shag carpet deeply covered his toes. He winced. The damp, musty smell was like ghosts from a hundred puking guests. He opened a window as an 18-wheeler roared past.
No television, no "Kool AC," like the neon sign advertised out front. Just a room and a hot plate at the Heartbreak Motel. He grabbed his last two pieces of white bread, smeared butter on the spongy pair, and placed them on the plate. The smell of burning butter made his mouth water as he changed into a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut out and blue jeans. He sat on the edge of the bed and rolled the crisp new jeans into a two-inch cuff. Perfect, he thought, running a hand over his bare upper arm to make contact with a stenciled black tattoo. He'd paid a hundred bucks for it on Beale Street.
The tattoo was of a young Elvis Presley wearing a crown of thorns, a simple inscription below: "He died for our sins."
Every afternoon was the same. After eating supper and getting dressed, Jesse would leave the Heartbreak Motel and walk two miles to Graceland. There, he would stroll through the gift shops at the Elvis Mall and sit for hours in the darkened car museum. He could watch clips from E's films in '57 Chevys cut in half and turned into seats.
Sometimes, when no one was around, he would slip under the velvet ropes and slide into E's cars, feeling the leather where He'd sat, the steering wheels and the gear shifts He'd touched. A vehicle to that connection he'd always felt with E. Jesse would sink low into the floor of the backseat and smell the holy air that E had breathed. Sometimes he'd stay there until the following day, sleeping in E's cars.
Today they showed Viva Las Vegas, and he thought about that incredible chemistry between Ann-Margret and E. They did everything but touch each other. It was like they were so damned close to tearing each other's clothes off, but it was like there was some kind of force field between them. Somethin' holding them back. All she could do was coo and purr the whole damned film. Man, oh man.
Jesse shook his head and walked next door to the gift shop, a buzzin' in his loins like a snapped electric cable. Out of all the official shops, this one concentrated mostly on T-shirts and small tokens of love. The pencils, coffee mugs, buttons, necklaces, postcards, and toenail clippers, all of them icons of affection.
Inside, he watched two middle-aged women--one short and dumpy and the other trim and athletic with frizzy hair and big boobs. Jesse massaged a hand over a dusty porcelain head of Elvis. He smiled and walked toward them, pushing back the jet-black pompadour that cascaded over his forehead. He ran his fingers over the back of his neck, real modest-like, and gave the trim woman with big boobs a good two-second eye contact. He knew he had it, that confidence E had. The way of working the eyes and body. A way of showin' that you were a little shy, but the devil sure did know where you lived.
"Afternoon, ma'am," Jesse said.
She nodded her head and gave a little grin. "Do you work here?"
"Ah, no ma'am. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you look just like him. I guess you know that, though," she giggled.
"Ma'am, I can show you all Memphis like you've never seen. I can take you to some of the places not
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