The old underbelly of society, blues, was now the main focus of a town once overrun by white landowners. There was a damned good museum housed in the old train station and a few local businessmen had opened a juke with a Hollywood actor who was born around here.
But the old circuit I remembered from ten years ago was gone. Sunflower Avenue was pretty much vacant and old Wade Walton, who used to cut my hair – telling stories of doing the same for Muddy Waters, Ike Turner, and Sonny Boy Williamson – was dead. His store just an empty cinder block shell down by the museum that sat in the shadow of hulking grain elevators.
It was Monday afternoon and gray and cold. Fat black clouds floated by as if they were in a dirty river. No thunder or rain. Tornado weather. An electric hum in the air and complete silence around the downtown.
I had a lot of friends at the museum. Most of them pretty up-to-date on politics; one was a former raging hippie who knew exactly where to find Jude Russell’s place. It was on Highway 61 running down toward a little town called Alligator.
Abby waited in the car while I used a pay phone to call Loretta. I knew she’d been appreciating the updates and I was glad to give them. It made me feel a connection to home that I always needed while I was on the road. It was almost as if I wanted someone to remind me who I was.
The phone rang on a rough connection to New Orleans, wind blowing paper cups and clinking aluminum cans across the street. The phone kept on ringing and I looked at my watch, a warning siren howling in the distance.
Inside my truck, Abby was reading liner notes on some CDs and playing with her hair. Two more rings. Ever since we’d met I had this overwhelming feeling that I needed to protect her. It felt like she was family. The way I imagined a big brother would look out for a younger sister. Like if some boy went too far with her, you’d feel the need to put his head through a wall. It was like that. I wanted to put someone’s head through a wall for Abby. Being with her in Oxford at her house and meeting Maggie only made that more intense.
I waved. She waved back.
The phone kept on ringing. Nothing.
T he hunting lodge wasn’t hard to find at all. It was just hard getting into. My buddy at the Delta Blues Museum had told me I’d have no problem finding it because of the wall around it. I asked him to describe it and he simply said, “You’ll see.”
And I did. A log fence surrounded the property, probably about fifteen feet tall, with pointed edges on the top like the old cavalry forts, or the gate in Jurassic Park. There was a dirt road that followed the wall for about a half mile until a break where I saw the outline for a retractable door. An intercom with a keypad looped from a metal post and I drove next to it.
I thought about pushing some buttons and asking for a Whopper with fries but that kind of shit usually made people mad while I laughed at my own joke. Maybe I could do a different voice.
“Do you think they’d like me to do an impression?”
“Who?”
“Usual stuff. Sean Connery. Angry Chinese man. Scooby Doo’s country cousin.”
“Scooby Doo’s country cousin.”
“Really?”
“No.”
I punched a few buttons and for a while nothing happened. Just a few fat drops of rain intermittently began to pound the hood. Finally, the intercom crackled to life.
“I’d like a Whopper with fries. No, make that onion rings.”
“This is private property,” the voice said. Sounded like a woman.
“I’m here to see Jude,” I said, you know, using the whole first name thing. They’d think we played golf together, drank Heineken, and slapped each other’s butts in the shower.
“Sir, security has been called.”
“Everything’s under control. Situation normal. We had a slight weapons malfunction.”
Abby shook her head and kind of laughed, burying her face into her hands. I was laughing into the rain, too. Laughing at how damned stupid I suddenly realized I was for thinking I could knock on the front door of a house owned by a man running for governor. I’d put the Ghost in reverse, my arm on the back of the passenger seat, when three men holding shotguns blocked our path. They wore yellow rain slickers, hoods obscuring their faces.
My heart beat a little faster.
A man knocked the shit out of my window, so hard I remembered how much it cost to repair it. I rolled it down and looked at him, water twisting off his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. He had a gray goatee and hard blue eyes. A plug of tobacco in his mouth.
“No onion rings?”
He just looked at me.
“Not a Star Wars fan?”
“What?” he asked, just plain out aggravated we were wasting his time.
“You know Obi-Wan? Luke? Chewie? The Force?”
“Out. Get out of the car.”
“Sorry, I was just curious. Saw the road.”
“You lookin’ for Mr. Russell?”
I glanced over at Abby and she was shaking and staring at her shoes. Her back was hunched as if it would hide her from the men.
Pissed me off. Pissed me off these motherfuckers would do that to her.
“Hey man, fuck you. I came here to see Jude Russell and if he’s here, great. I got something to tell him. If not, kiss my ass.”
I heard the clack of a shotgun and he reached for my door handle.
Without thinking, really acting more stupid than brave, I pulled out the Browning and leveled it at his head. Other shotguns clacked around me as he dropped the gun and took a few steps back. His face white and his mouth open.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I said. “I have a message for Mr. Russell about Elias Nix. It’s something I’m sure he’d want to know.”
The man nodded slowly.
“Put down the gun, sir,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”
I did and the men jumped to each door pulling me and Abby out into the rain. The thunder cracked way over a cotton field as they opened the mammoth doors, yawning like a whale, and pushed us inside.
Chapter 32
Instead of cussing out the men who stuck guns in our faces a few minutes ago or demanding to see Russell, I asked for a cup of coffee. I smiled pleasantly at these hard-core rednecks in flannel shirts and duck hunting boots and told them just three sugars would be fine. The man with the gray goatee, who had first pointed the shotgun into the car, then nodded to an old black woman. She left and reappeared a few minutes later with a steaming mug stamped with a Labrador’s face.
“Thanks,” I said. “Got a little wet during the whole Bataan Death March up to the lodge. Nice place though. Very Ralph Lauren meets Ted Nugent.”
I glanced around at the deer and boar heads on the wall. A full-sized black bear, various large-mouth basses on plaques, and even a bald eagle. Man had actually stuffed a bald eagle.
I sipped my coffee – not bad – at a hardwood table that sat about twenty. A black chandelier with thick unlit candles hung overhead, reminding me of paintings I’d seen of the Spanish Inquisition.
The man with the gray beard didn’t say much to me but had been nice to Abby. He’d immediately offered her a sweatshirt and a towel when we walked inside. She took the towel and was patting her hair dry when a momentary flash of lightning knocked off the lights for a second.
The man took a seat by me and finally introduced himself. Easy to remember. Royal Stewart. I shook his hand and sipped the hot coffee while the other men loaded up their guns among dozens in racks by the front door.
“Didn’t mean to scare you; we were all out hunting when we got a call,” Stewart said. Had a pleasant deep hum to his voice with a dose of Memphis in it. “Kind of my job to look out for the place and Jude. So, no misunderstanding. All right? Just finish that coffee and head on.”
“Didn’t come here for the coffee. But it is good. Do I detect a little nutmeg?”
“What is it?” Stewart asked, the pleasant hum with a mean quiver in it. “You want Mr. Russell to pay out for a little gossip? He doesn’t do things like that.”