Blues Highway Blues (A Crossroads Thriller Book 1) Page 12

  Daniel hadn’t thought of it in those terms before, but not having a pinkie was going to take a little something off his guitar playing. “Yes.” He looked down at the missing digit and the infection that had replaced it. “That and worse. Much worse.”

  The revelation made Mr. Atibon grumble, “Well, it’s late for that now. We lil’ more an hour outside of Nawlins and you jus’ tellin’ me there’s folks huntin’ your ass like some rabid ol’ opossum.”

  Daniel understood the old man’s concerns, but he had learned not to take them too seriously. “I can let you out if you want.”

  “Out!” The offer alarmed Mr. Atibon more than the news they were being pursued by finger-taking bad guys. “There ain’t nuthin’ out here but gators, snakes, and rednecks—and I’ll be goddamned if’in I can say which is worse.”

  “Well, you can make your own way when we hit the city.”

  “Don’ think I won’t,” he vowed defiantly.

  “That’s probably best.”

  “Damn right that’s best.” Mr. Atibon was quiet for a moment, but just a moment. “You gonna buy me pecan waffles for my troubles first,” he added. “Then I’m gone.”

  Daniel turned his head so the old man wouldn’t see him smile. “Fine.”

  “Damn right, that’s fine.”

  Another mile passed in silence before Mr. Atibon again found he couldn’t contain his curiosity. “Sho’ must be whole lotta money.”

  Daniel was lost somewhere between deep thought and drowsiness. “How’s that?”

  “Lot of money,” the old man repeated. “Goin’ to this trouble, with folks after you cuttin’ your finger off an’ whatnot.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  Mr. Atibon scoffed, “It’s always the money.”

  “Well, it’s the money,” Daniel conceded. “But just because I need it to save my son from—”

  “Son?” Something in his question suggested the old man knew about having a boy.

  Daniel nodded. “What I’m really afraid of is what they’ll do—”

  “The finger-cutters?”

  Daniel nodded again but couldn’t help thinking back to Randy’s last phone call. “They’re worse than that. And I know what they’ll do if they find my son before they find me.”

  Mr. Atibon thought on this for a minute. “Where your boy at?”

  Daniel shook his head sadly. “I don’t know.”

  “How’s that happen?”

  Daniel thought about the possibilities, even the unthinkable ones. “I’m not quite sure.”

  Mr. Atibon didn’t say anything for a while. When he broke his silence, his voice was soft and shaky. “Terrible thing, havin’ a child.”

  Daniel was a little taken aback, not by the statement, but by the emotions that cracked the old man’s voice. He disagreed, but did it as gently as he could. “It was the best thing ever happened to me.”

  The old man nodded, but it didn’t change his mind. “That’s ’cause you ain’t lost yours yet.” He looked off into the just-brightening sky, searching for the fading moon’s remains. “Havin’ a child jus’ gives Fate a hostage. This is a mean ol’ world, old friend. You’re better to live alone.”

  “You had a child?” The question was out of his mouth before Daniel could consider its propriety or sensitivity.

  Mr. Atibon’s face was turned to the window so all Daniel could see was the silent nod of his head.

  “What happened?”

  The old man was slow to answer and Daniel knew better than to press the matter. After a few silent miles the old man announced, “I had me a son too. Beautiful boy. Eyes as dark as the night sky, sparkled just like they was filled with stars.” He stopped for a moment, as if he didn’t want to talk over the memories he’d just conjured. “And they was.” He shifted in his seat. “Filled with stars.”

  He cleared his throat to continue. “But things was never right with his mama. She moved him all over the goddamn place. Here and there. Married herself a proper man an’ they gave my boy his name.” No matter how much time might have passed, it was clear the old man was still furious about it. “Ain’t that the goddamnedest?”

  Daniel nodded that he thought it was.

  “Never got to spend much time with him—not one-on-one—but I watched over him every day o’ his life, you can be sure.” He took off his straw porkpie hat and rubbed the grayed tufts of hair still on the top of his head. “Every goddamn day.”

  He replaced the hat when he was ready. “Tried to do right by him. Gave him everything I could—an’ then some. But he was wild.” Mr. Atibon laughed to himself. “Just like me.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Well, I tell ya’,” he started to explain. “Every man got a kind a woman he fancies. Fat woman. Skinny woman. Mean woman. Sweet woman. We alls gots our desires.”

  Daniel didn’t say anything, but his thoughts drifted off to Connie as if to prove the old man’s point.

  “Every man like what he likes, and my boy, he liked other men’s women.” The old man looked hard out of his window and his voice grew as cold as a tomb. “Some cowardly sonofabitch poisoned him.”

  Daniel had only meant to make enough conversation to pass the remaining miles. He instantly regretted having trespassed into something so private. And painful.

  “Strychnine in an open bottle of whisky he handed my boy as a friend. Took him three days to die.” The old man wiped away what he would’ve denied was a tear. “He was just twenty-seven.” Then he wiped away another.

  “Don’t you worry though,” he cleared his throat and his voice regained all its rough edges. “Death don’t have no mercy in this land. I set out on that sonbitch like a hellhound unbound. My boy, he died easy compared to what I put him through.” The old man pounded his walking stick once against the Kia’s floorboards as his thoughts faded into memories that were darker than the south Mississippi night.

  The old man sniffled. “They let these fields get overrun with that giant ragweed—like regular ol’ ragweed weren’t bad ’nough. Make my eyes water like I been cuttin’ onion all damn day.” Alibi laid, he wiped his eyes. “And nothin’ grows like it grows in the Delta.”

  Daniel looked out past the endless expanse just beginning to become discernible in the gathering dawn. “I remember seeing all the news coverage last year when it all flooded.” He wondered if he’d lost track of time. “Was that two years ago?”

  Grateful for the opportunity to change the topic of conversation, the old man pronounced with certainty, “Last year. This year. The ol’ Delta, she’ll flood again this spring. But you can cleanse your soul in that muddy water. And it’s the floods bring the dark soil make this place so damn fertile. That’s why the blues grow here too. People think they all sad songs, but that ain’t right. Don’ get me wrong, every blues song ’bout one kind a flood or another, but they got the hope for rebirth in ’em too. That’s what we all lookin’ for, jus’ another chance.”

  Daniel thought the old man was right, but neither one of them said another word until New Orleans.

  Nancy Ravensong knew she’d seen the man in the photograph just the night before. He’d come into the station in the middle of the night and right away he’d struck her as odd. Troubled. Seriously troubled. Even among the road-weary, hard-traveling flotsam and jetsam that drifted through the double glass doors every night, he stuck out as someone in some very deep shit.

  And yet at the same time, she had only the haziest memory of him. His hand, wrapped in filthy bandages. Fresh blood. Lots of it. And then nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just blackness. An awful blackness that frightened her.

  Why couldn’t she remember more?

  “I don’t know.” She handed the photo back to the well-dressed black man. “I can’t remember any more. I just don’t know.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know, bitch?” The mean little one had a voice as sharp as the serrated edge of a hunting knife.

  “She means she don
’t know.” The big man’s voice was low and soft but filled with force as he calmly slipped the photo back into his suit coat. She was grateful for his intercession and relieved he was calling an end to their questioning.

  “He was here,” she repeated, trying to demonstrate her willingness to cooperate. “I just can’t remember anything else.” Why couldn’t she remember?

  “We appreciate you trying,” the black man assured her.

  “Thanks.” His big brown eyes had no kindness in them, but she thought they smiled at her just the same. Self-consciously, she brushed a loose strand of her long, black hair behind her right ear.

  “That’s it?” the Mexican demanded of his traveling companion.

  “No,” the big man replied, apathetic to the other’s obvious agitation. “We also need fifty dollars on pump six. And—” He paused to consider his options. “A pack of the Phillies.” He fished his wallet out of his pants pocket and put two Grants on the counter.

  Nancy took the bills and credited the pump. She rang up the register and then handed him his change and the smokes. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah, there’s something else,” the little one insisted. “Why don’t you fucking tell us whatever you’re holding back before I jump this fucking counter and—”

  “Hey, hey, hey!” The big man put an oversized palm on his partner’s chest. “There’s no reason for this.”

  “No reason? She fucking knows something. I can see it in her eyes.”

  “She already told us. He came in here last night, gassed up, and got out. Just like a couple hundred other folks. You think he told her where he was going?” The big man didn’t make any effort to conceal how ridiculous he thought his partner was being. “We knew it was a long shot. We took it and got what we got. Now, let’s gas up and go.”

  “She knows more,” the little man insisted. “I can see it in her eyes.

  The only thing Nancy knew for certain was that her memory of the past night had a deep, dark hole in the middle of it. “I’m not keeping anything.” It was the truth, but it sounded like a lie to her too. “I swear.”

  The big man left a twenty on the counter. “It’s cool.”

  “It’s not cool!” his partner insisted.

  “If I say it’s cool, then you can motherfucking skate on it.” Nancy had been right: they weren’t kind eyes. And they focused on the little man with a threat of imminent violence that needed no words to be heard. “Got it?”

  The little man tried not to look kowtowed. “Whatever.” But it didn’t work.

  The big man turned back to Nancy. “You have a nice night now.”

  She smiled. “You too.”

  He turned to his partner. “Let’s go.”

  The two walked toward the door, but before they got there the little one stopped. “You go gas up. I’m going to take a piss and grab a Red Bull.”

  “Take a piss, then drink some piss,” the big man joked. A thought crossed his mind and he looked back at Nancy behind the counter, then at the little man. “We got no time for any more of your psycho shit,” he warned.

  The little man brushed off the unspoken suggestion. “I’m going to take a piss. You can shake off my dick if you don’t trust me.”

  “I mean that shit!”

  “Go gas up. I’ll be right out.”

  The big man took a last look at the girl behind the counter and decided that not even his partner could be that off-the-rails twisted. “All right.”

  The glass door hadn’t closed shut behind him before the little man went to the door and threw the deadbolt. The click it made locking in place caught Nancy’s attention and she looked up, alarmed to find him advancing toward her.

  “Now, let’s try this again,” he snarled. “My way, puta.”

  She didn’t see the blade in his hand until he was already over the counter.

  Ten minutes later the little man slid into the BMW’s passenger seat and tried not to let on he was out of breath.

  “What took you so fucking long?”

  “Nothing. Let’s go.”

  The big man put the car in gear. “The boss called while you were in there playin’ with yourself.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “They got another hit on Erickson’s credit card. Used it for a cash advance.”

  “Where?”

  “Cleveland.”

  “Ohio?”

  “Mississippi.”

  “Fuck.”

  “We goin’ down to the Delta, boy.”

  “Don’t call me ‘boy.’”

  Moog hit the gas and the BMW pulled off into the night.

  Billy Gibbons had a place about ten miles down the way and was a regular at the station. He was still grumbling to himself about the BMW that’d cut him off by the highway entrance ramp when he pushed open the doors to the convenience store and found her there in a pool of her own blood.

  Nancy Ravensong had slipped off into an awful darkness.

  Compared to some New Orleans institutions, the Camellia Grill may not be as universally associated with the Crescent City as others, but it’s an honest-to-God institution just the same. For more than seventy-five years, the city’s socialites and sinners have crowded into the small dining room—its walls painted a dreary shade of pink like some unmarried great aunt’s bathroom—and bluesmen and businessmen have sat shoulder-to-shoulder around her counters.

  It was just after five in the morning when Daniel and Mr. Atibon stepped in from beneath the flickering torch above the door, and the grill room was uncharacteristically empty. It was too late for the last of Bourbon Street’s revelers, who had already choked down their Chef Special omelets and stumbled off toward wherever or whatever they called home. And it was still just a bit early for the ambitious business folks and meaningfully employed types who’d yet to arrive for the most important meal of the day.

  When he heard the bell on the door tinkle, the dreadlocked counterman called out, “Take a seat anywhere, mon,” but he never took his eyes off the grill he was scraping. Even with his scraggily beard, the kid couldn’t have passed for more than twenty. He was tall and lean, with a voice as smooth as Caribbean rum and a relaxed manner that made it clear he was still running on “island time”—which is even slower than “NOLA time.”

  When he was finished with his greasy task he turned toward the morning’s newest customers, now seated on stools at his counter. “Now, what can I do for you?” His tone was playful and his movements as fluid as Montego Bay. Until he saw Mr. Atibon sitting in front of him. That sight stopped him dead.

  “Whatchu doin’ here, ol’ mon?” The kid’s eyes grew as big as the plates stacked neatly under the counter. He took a step back and desperately searched the room for available exits, genuinely alarmed by the unexpected visitation.

  Daniel first looked up at the counterman and then over at his traveling companion. “You know this guy?” he asked, although it wasn’t clear who he was asking.

  “I know lotsa people.” The old man smiled. “In lotsa places.”

  “Whatchu want, mon?” The kid’s island accent was tinged with suspicion and as much defiance as he dared to manifest. “I already pay you what I owes you.”

  “Oh, quiet yourself, boy.” Mr. Atibon gave him a dismissive wave of his hand. “You know some debts you don’t ever pay in full.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but there was an undeniable element of menace crouched and hiding behind his words. “But donchu worry ’bout none of that today. Right now all I want from you is waffles.” He grinned. “For now.”

  “Ain’t got none, mon.” There was more than a measure of relief in the counter guy’s response, like the absence of waffles meant there was no more reason for the old man to stick around. “Dat waffle iron busted.” He pointed at the broken appliance in case anyone had any doubts. “Dey got a guy comin’ over later today, but it won’t heat up right now.”

  Mr. Atibon looked up at the counterman like he was a willful child trying to keep a secret from a
parent—and failing miserably. “Go check it.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, mon. It no work for two, tree days,” the young man protested as he walked over to the waffle iron beside his grill. He reached out to touch the appliance to prove his point—and then jerked his hand back with a yelp as his flesh hissed against the hot surface.

  He sucked on the burnt tips of his fingers, then looked over at Mr. Atibon with a troubling blend of reverence and terror. “Whatchu want with the waffles, mon?”

  “Bacon.” Mr. Atibon grinned triumphantly. “And leave some ‘oink’ in it, don’t go cookin’ it all to leather on me.” He stopped to scan the laminated menu. “And some fries. Fresh basket. Nothin’ been sittin’ longer than I have. An coffee.” He looked to Daniel, who was still amazed by what he’d just witnessed. “Same thing for this one.”

  Daniel didn’t object to the order, but he had to know, “How did you—with the—” He couldn’t find the words and so he simply pointed over at the supposedly broken waffle iron the counterman was now filling with batter.

  “Who knows?” the old man said with a shrug. “World’s filled with book-learnt folk who’ll tell ya they understand how everything works, but they don’t know a goddamn thing—not a thing matters, anyway. Hell, every one of those know-it-alls will fall in love. Love,” he scoffed. “How do you explain that? Ain’t nobody knows, but crazy shit beyond our control or understanding happens every damn day.”

  “It’s not the same,” Daniel insisted.

  “Now you take a guitar,” the old man continued. “Seventeen frets. Six strings, ’lessen ya use five an’ tune it down like some of ’em do. A man got five fingers each hand.” Mr. Atibon looked at Daniel, and then at his conspicuously missing pinkie. “’Lessen he’s you. But even still, a country’s boy math-a-matics will tell ya there gotta be a limit to what a man can play before it’s all been played before. But, I’ll be goddamned if those six strings ain’t an infinite universe if a man’s gots soul enough to find it.”

  “But there has to be an explanation,” Daniel interrupted, but there was no stopping the old man.