Crossroad Blues by Ace Atkins

Author:Ace Atkins
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 0101-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

To punish himself about not being there when they were killed was to wallow in self-importance. He didn't even have a gun and probably would be dead now, too. Just a forgotten shadow in New Orleans. Maybe a plaque or scholarship at Tulane or a good story or two at JoJo's.

He rested his elbows on the cracked brick wall and looked toward the river. He could see the Greater New Orleans Bridge and Algiers Point. A tugboat flashing a tiny red light passed under the bridge towing a barge.

Nick wanted to find whoever killed Willie Brown. They extinguished his life too easily. Too cheaply. Like it was the Delta of fifty years ago. This wasn't the way it was supposed to work now. It felt like a violation or a blatant kick to the head.

Nick knew all he could do was wait for what the Leflore County Sheriff's Department found out. See if they could find a man who looked like Elvis. He felt ridiculous as he explained it was the young one, pompadour and clean sideburns, not Las Vegas. They'd have to pick up half the truckers in Mississippi.

Nick flicked a long ash over the warehouse edge.

No one would know what was on those records now. Baker had to have known what was on them. Maybe he told someone about the tracks, and they became so greedy that men died. It had to be something more than just a rare copy of “Terraplane Blues.” Maybe they really were those recordings—a huge piece in the ragged puzzle that was Johnson's life.

Maybe Johnson did record in 1938, like Cracker said. Maybe he wasn't a confused old man.

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