Nick Travers has it all: enough money left from his days as a professional football player to live in a converted New Orleans warehouse and a job--teaching the history of the blues at Tulane--that lets him sit in atmospheric bars like JoJo's (a "darkened cave of happiness") listening to his favorite music and occasionally blowing a few riffs on his harmonica. But the comfortable life doesn't satisfy Nick. His first outing as a sleuth (Crossroad Blues), which took him to the Mississippi Delta in search of some lost records by legendary guitar player Robert Johnson, caused Nick considerable emotional pain. This second blues-related mystery is even darker, sadder and much colder--moving Nick to Chicago in December, to the once-vibrant blues scene on the South Side, now mostly a graveyard haunted by dead or forgotten talents. One of these ghosts is Ruby Walker, the "Sweet Black Angel" whose songs about leaving the country for the city sold lots of records for the King Snake label. But Ruby has been sitting in prison for 40 years, convicted of killing her lover--King Snake founder Billy Lyons--and dumping his body in Lake Michigan. Now she wants Nick to help her prove her innocence. Pursued by a demonic killer known as Stagger Lee and his team of deadly hookers, Nick suffers almost more pain than the book's short length can bear. What constantly redeems it is Atkins's ability to bring his hero to full, rich life in the bleakest of settings--and the author's rampantly contagious love for the blues and the musicians who created it. (July) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|
Leavin' Trunk Blues
Narrated by Dion Graham
Ace AtkinsUnabridged — 9 hours, 56 minutes
Leavin' Trunk Blues
Narrated by Dion Graham
Ace AtkinsUnabridged — 9 hours, 56 minutes
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Overview
locked in a prison cell ever since.
Now, a flickering hope emerges for Walker in the form of letters from a Tulane University blues historian named Nick Travers. She agrees to an interview only in exchange for him checking out what she calls the truth behind Lyons's last hours.
Travers soon learns there are those who still want the details of Lyons's death to remain hidden in the rubble of the blighted neighborhoods.
Editorial Reviews
Atkins' research into blues history adds depth and context to the always-entertaining story, which whizzes by like an old, familiar song heard on the car radio late at night.
Nick Travers, pro footballer turned academic, is back for his second riff as the blues historian with dynamite in his fists. This time out he leaves his Tulane University home base en route for Chicago to interview legendary songbird Ruby Walker (the "Sweet Black Angel"), who some think topped even Bessie Smith as the greatest blues lady of them all. Nick won't have any trouble locating her, he knows, since for the past 40 years she's bunked in an Illinois state prison. Convicted of murdering her manager/lover, downtrodden Ruby has been virtually sphinxlike while serving a life sentence—no interviews, almost no communication with anyone. But much to Nick's surprise she's expressed a desire to see him. She wants more than that, he soon learns: she wants him to put on his Sherlock cap and prove her innocence. She's heard about him, she says, heard how he helped others (Crossroad Blues, 1998). "Hope can be mean," she tells him, but thanks to him, she has hold of it again. Nick finds her irresistible, of course, and begins an investigation that takes him deep into the sad, bad world of blues musicians, where he encounters dirty secrets, ugly lies, a former lover, and a demented though dedicated murderer. In the end, however, he does give Ruby a little to smile about. Atkins loves his blues musicians and writes eloquently about them, but the beat of his pacing, bogged down in backstory, can be the most funereal feature of this murderous tale.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940159388193 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Recorded Books, LLC |
| Publication date: | 06/11/2024 |
| Series: | Nick Travers , #2 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Five nights earlier,
New Orleans, Louisiana
JoJo's Blues Bar was a warm shot of whiskey, a cold Dixie onthe side, and blues that could exorcise demons like a voodoopriestess. The bar stood in a narrow brick-and-stucco building offConti Street where a blue neon sign spilled light onto beer-stainedasphalt. As Nick Travers walked through its beaten Creoledoors, he could feel the music under his buckskin boots anddeep into his bones. The last of the New Orleans blues joints puta good hum in his heart.
Gold tinsel and plastic holly hung across the bar and jukebox.Fat red pepper lights winked on stage as Loretta Jackson growledher deep holiday blues like a lioness on the prowl:
"Merry Christmas, baby,
you sho' did treat me right.
Bought me a diamond ring for Christmas,
now I'm livin' in paradise."
JoJo's wife had the whole smoky bar flowing with the music.Whistling. A few yells. She had just started her first set andalready had the crowd working, her red sequin dress wrappingher large brown body.
Nick wandered through a mass of dancers by the jukebox asFelix flitted behind the deeply scarred mahogany bar to fillorders. His bald head and the multicolored liquor bottles glowedin the blinking blue lights. At JoJo's, there was heat, there waswhiskey, and there was music. Felix didn't even look Nick inthe eyesas he popped the top from a Dixie and slid it down thebar.
Nick removed both gloves with his teeth and tucked them intothe side pocket of his jacket. Some of the foam spilled on hishand. Cold, but warmed the soul.
He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the bar, and staredat the black-and-white photographs of the long-dead greats: GuitarSlim, Huey "Piano" Smith, Professor Longhair, Babe Stovall,and Little Walter. Nick glanced at the photo by the end of thebar and raised his beer. Underneath sat an empty bar stool. Aseat once reserved for a man they called Henry.
"Nick, you would fuck up yore own funeral," JoJo said in a richbaritone voice from the darkness behind him. "Yore an hour late."
"It's all the fashion now," Nick said, as he lit a cigarette.
"Oh ... yore late for fashion ... well, goddamn, I feel muchbetter."
JoJo had on a suit tonight. Black and creased to perfection. Hewas a sharp black man in his sixties with white hair and atrimmed mustache. His hands and fingers were thick from yearsof manual labor, and he wore scars on his knuckles from fightingin jukes all around Mississippi.
He was a great musician who never quite made it. He'd playedbackup on some of Loretta's recordings, but for the most part hewas the man in the shadows. JoJo started the bar back in theearly sixties, something for him to do while he waited for famethat would never come. But today there wasn't a blues musicianalive who didn't know about the man's juke. A little Delta on theBayou, JoJo always said.
"You been down at the peep show, haven't you?" JoJo asked ashe frowned. "Down on Bourbon watchin' young girls havin' sexwit' goats."
"Donkeys," Nick said, sipping on the cold Dixie. A BlackenedVoodoo with a nice beaded label. "That and finding a little religion."
"Oh shit." JoJo raised his eyebrows. "You kicked Jesus' ass,didn't you?"
"Let's just say he's been saved," he said.
"You can't do that. Beat up Jesus, man. Ain't that sacrilegiousor somethin'? I mean, you kicked Jesus' ass."
Jesus was a street grifter who worked the park benches by St.Louis Cathedral at night, dragging a cross on his back and askingfor tips. An old sax player Nick knew gave the jackass his rentmoney to pray for his dead mother. The old man was drunk andlonely and the grifter had used him.
"I got Fats's money back," Nick said, pulling the wad of cashfrom his pocket and placing it into JoJo's palm. "The only Christianthing to do."
"Guess that man deserve it then. Gettin' his ass kicked likethat."
"Damn, that guy smelled bad, looked like he combed his hairwith Crisco," Nick said, blowing smoke away from JoJo. "Makesure Fats keeps some of this until his gig New Year's Eve."
"You got it," JoJo said. "Thanks."
JoJo's eyes grew soft and he gave a pleasant wink. Nick pattedhis hunched back and flicked the cigarette into an ashtray by hiselbow. That's why he liked JoJo's place, everything was real convenient.Cold beer to the left and an ashtray to the right. Harddrivin' blues on stage. What more could a man want?
"Loretta pissed?" Nick asked.
"Hell, I don't know. I ain't scared of my woman," JoJo said."You think I'm one of those pussies who calls their wife `theboss'?"
Nick laughed and pulled out a Hohner Chromatic harp. "Shemind if I join her?"
"I don't know," JoJo said as he let out a long, deep chuckle."'Fraid to ask."
Nick had known the Jacksons for almost twenty years. Hard tobelieve it had been that long. When they met, he'd just come toTulane and had fallen in love with the old city. Felt like he'dalways belonged here, like his old spirit had wandered downthose bleak alleys before. One Saturday night, while exploringthe Quarter with some teammates, Nick had discovered JoJo's.They'd been stumbling around and looking for some refuge fromthe rain.
Months later, a scuffle in the bar's parking tot forged his lifelongfriendship with JoJo. After Nick had tossed two men aroundlike they were blocking dummies, another man had poked a guninto Nick's ribs. At about the time Nick caught his breath, JoJohad rounded the corner with a couple of cops. Not only did JoJosave Nick from the guy with the gun, but also made sure the copsdidn't haul his ass off to jail. After that night, Nick gave JoJo andLoretta passes to all the football home games. Hell, he didn'thave any family to use them. His mother was dead and his fatherwas too drunk to care.
When his father finally died from a broken heart and a rottedliver a few years later, JoJo and Loretta became his only family.They were the ones who waited for him all night in a rainy parkinglot when be returned from his father's funeral. They were theones who had him over for dinner twice a week and coaxed himto join their mostly black church.
The Jacksons were his only constants from his time at Tulane,to playing for the Saints, through his pursuit of a doctorate inSouthern Studies at Ole Miss, and back to Tulane to teach blueshistory. Constants.
Nick drained the last drop of beer, snuffed out his cigarette,and smiled. He felt a tingling buzz in his feet as the blues swirledaround the old brick room in a sweet blend of notes. Lorettawaved him up to the old wooden stage where JoJo had alreadylooped his Shaker microphone around a stand. The guitar playerscooted over to give him a little room in the hot lights.
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Loretta said, placingher hands on her big hips. "Mmm, mmm. Sho is fine forsome white meat. Say Nicholas, a new woman got you tied upyet? No? Well, let's get you plugged into the Queen of NewOrleans' blues and wrap yo' mouth around that ole `Key to theHighway.'"
Nick started into Little Walter's mellow rhythm with Lorettabreaking into song:
"I got the key
to the highway,
feel loud and bound to go.
I got to leave here runnin,
`cause walkin' much too slow."
The hustled evening melted into slow blues burning in the pitof his stomach. Through the fog of a few beers and Loretta'srelaxed vocals, he bonded with the rain tapping against the glasson Conti. The crowd of dock workers and tourists nodded to themusic as the world became a warm mix of green, red, and blue inthe dark shadows.
At the end of the second set, Nick gave Loretta and JoJo hugsand ambled toward the old twin doors to stumble home to JuliaStreet. For some reason, he drank in the whole scene. TheChristmas lights, the way the juke blared in the corner, thechipped paint on the brick walls, and the way the bags crept overJoJo's wise, old eyes.
This was the place. Everybody has their X, that sacred spotwhere you feel most comfortable in the world. To Nick, JoJo'swas that special spot. A darkened cave of happiness. Tonight wasa moment. You can't create a moment. Moments are sporadic.Moments just happen.
Excerpted from LEAVIN' TRUNK BLUES by ACE ATKINS. Copyright © 2000 by Ace Atkins. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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