Ace Atkins - Dark End of the Street

“Hey, wait. Royal? Tell Rance to go get Muddy out of the pen and bring him here. Hell. So, what is this all about? Who are you?”

I introduced myself and Abby. I briefly told him about Abby’s parents – trying to get through it without too many details – and how we believed that Nix was connected.

“So why come to me?”

“We want to know about him.”

“You want to know if he’s just a good ole boy or a fuckin’ – excuse me – Nazi,” Russell said as a fat Lab came into the room shaking its wet coat and rested its snout in his lap. Russell rubbed his head and picked up a towel to dry the dog.

“Who is he and who are the Sons of the South?” I asked.

“Christ. I drove about an hour out of my way and am gonna have to haul ass back to some rubber-chicken dinner tonight because you want to know about my opponent? Shit, Royal, way you were talkin’ made it sound like this boy might have pictures of Nix screwin’ a goat.”

Everyone around the table laughed except Royal, who looked a little pissed. Russell tossed the towel on the ground and leaned back in his chair. He placed his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling.

“Letters?”

In the rain, Royal and I walked back to my truck for the papers we’d found at Abby’s. And for the next thirty minutes after we returned, we sat around and read useless memos and congratulatory messages from Nix to Abby’s dad. I knew she felt invaded and uncomfortable, and I was sorry for that. But I also knew this was the only way to get him to talk.

“Well,” he began. “You want to tell me your deal in all this, partner?”

“I’m a friend of the family.”

“How’d you know her father?”

“I didn’t.”

Abby said, “He’s my friend.”

Russell was good, an old poker-player type who could watch a man’s face and see what was clicking behind the facade. But I was pretty damned good, too, and stared right back. JoJo had taught me well.

“She hire you?” he asked.

“No.”

“What do you do, Travers?”

“Loaf.”

He laughed.

“I teach blues history at Tulane.”

“No kidding,” he said, a big smile crossing his lips. “Been to the Sunflower Festival, I’m sure.”

“Yep.”

“You know we’re not too far from the Stovall plantation where Muddy made that record for that man with the Library of Congress.”

“Alan Lomax.”

“You know him?”

“I met him once in D.C.”

“He still around? I bet he’s got some stories goin’ back into Clarksdale in the day when white folks kept to their side of town.”

“He’s in Florida. Been pretty sick.”

Russell had gotten me way off subject. I was used to people answering questions with a question or trying to angle the conversation so they could learn about you. That kind of talk usually came from oily record company types who got pissed when I asked them about royalties for some of the blues players I’ve worked with. But this was different, Russell seemed to have a genuine interest in the history of the Delta and had apparently done more than just read a few liner notes.

The politician scratched the ears of his big dog and finished off his beer. He offered me one and I refused.

“So,” I said, trying to get back to Nix. “Is he a Nazi?”

Russell clenched his jaw and rubbed his bare feet together. One foot was bruised and swollen purple around the big toe. He looked over at Royal and the older man shrugged. Apparently he did more than just look out for the place. He was an adviser of some sort.

I smiled for a minute. I’d bullshitted my way into a lot of things, mainly to find musicians or people who owed them money. But here I was sitting with the man who could be the next governor of Tennessee and I had to keep smiling. My ole tracker mentor would be damned proud. Rule one: You can bullshit your way through anything.

A maid placed a silver tray of pickles, salami, cheese, and sausage in the middle of the table. We all took a few things off the tray and sat back while Russell seemed to contemplate me.

“Is she one of your students?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“So what does this have to do with blues?”

I thought about telling him about Clyde James and Loretta and my time in Memphis and the casino and everything leading up to the meeting. But it was one of those things that I knew would only make him more suspicious. It was better to keep it clean. Friend of the family. New information on Nix.

“She’s a friend, man. I don’t know what to tell you. The Oxford police aren’t listening to her and we wanted to know more about Nix and the Sons of the South.”

“And you thought, ‘Let’s just knock on the door of ole Jude’?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

He studied my face again.

“Well, nothin’ I can tell you can get me in trouble. I tell some of the media, ones I can trust, the same thing. First off, if you tell someone else what I say I’ll deny it. Not ’cause it’s not the truth but because it could get me sued.”

He sighed. Rain pattering on the metal roof the only sound in the room.

“Sons of the South is dangerous as hell and Nix’s connection to them scares me for our state. You care about blues and the heritage of black folks around here? Nix doesn’t see that. The South is white. The music. The culture.”

“Celtic.”

“Yep,” he said, pointing the nose of his empty beer at me. “Exactly. Their favorite word.”

“And-”

Royal broke in: “This will illustrate our point,” he said. Not even looking at Russell as he spoke. Almost like a father. “Two years ago there was some trouble in Biloxi during spring break. Remember? It was national news. Well, some black college students were accused of raping a white girl and tearing up a bar. Turns out the girl was in some wet T-shirt contest and had brought five men back to her room with her. I don’t know the particulars and don’t want to. But when it made the news, we know some members of Sons of the South went to Biloxi looking for the boys when they were released from jail. They dragged one behind their car on a country road and crucified him on a barn door with a nail gun.”

Russell looked at my face as I listened. He nodded and gave it the proper pause before speaking again, to let the weight of the story sink in to both of us.

“The thing that makes them dangerous,” Russell said, “is that the makeup of the SOS isn’t a bunch of truckers and pig farmers. We’re talking about college professors, lawyers. Big-time Nashville businessmen. You ever live in Tennessee?”

I shook my head.

“Tennessee is really like three states. You have the east around Nashville that is blue-blood and conservative as hell. Voted against Gore in the election. Then you have the west that’s more rural and usually aligned with us. Then you have Memphis. Memphis is another world. Mostly black. Democrats till they die. The worry comes from the swing Nix could have in those western counties. His speeches sound awfully good to the Bible-thumpers.”

“But what about the gambling?” I asked. “I mean, he supports a state lottery and gaming on the river. Why aren’t the Bible-thumpers opposed to that?”

“They are. But he talks about how gambling could attract big money and skirts the issues, bringin’ up rhetoric about family values and a return to the Tennessee he knew as a child. He’s charming as hell and keeps the SOS just enough in the shadows that no one really attacks it, besides some good reporters who understand how damned dangerous this could be. Shit, today there was a whole profile on him in the Nashville paper and the reporter only mentioned the SOS in one paragraph. The SOS is Elias Nix. Founder, member, and demagogue.”