Tishomingo Blues

Dennis hesitated. He needed to get away from here but didn't want to walk around to the front and run into Charlie, and maybe sheriff's people arriving. He said, 'I'd appreciate it. But could you get the car and meet me by my truck? I have to get something out of it.'

No problem.

He couldn't tell the year of Robert's car, new or almost, a black Jaguar sedan, spotless, shining in the lights, rolling up to Dennis still wondering what the guy did.

They kept to themselves driving away from the hotel, leaving behind the neon Dennis didn't think was as tiring as amusement park neon; this was quiet neon. He began to relax in the dark comfort of leather and the expensive glow of the instrument panel. He closed his eyes. Then opened them as Robert said, 'Old 61. Yes.' And turned right onto the highway to head south.

He said, 'Down there's the famous crossroads.' He said, 'You like blues?'

'Some,' Dennis said, starting to think of names. 'What's that mean? Some.'

'I like John Lee Hooker. I like B. B. King. Lemme think, I like Stevie Ray Vaughan… '

'You know what B. B. King said the first time he heard T -Bone Walker? He said he thought Jesus himself had returned to earth playing electric guitar. They cool, John Lee and B.B., and Stevie Ray 's fine. But you know where they came from? What they were influenced by? The Delta. The blues, man, born right here. Charley Patton from Lula, lived on a cotton plantation. Son House, lived in Clarksdale, down this road.' Robert's hand reached to the instrument panel and pushed a button. 'You don't get off on this you don't know blues.'

The sound came on scratchy, a guitar setting the beat.

Dennis said, 'Jesus, how old is it?'

'Recorded seventy years ago. Check it out, that's Charley Patton, the first blues superstar. Listen to him. Rough and tough, man. Hits you with it. He's doing `High Water Everywhere,' about the flood of 1927, changed the geography of the Delta around here. Listen to him. `Would go to the hilly country but they got me barred.' Turned away by the law, the high country for whites only. They made songs out of what was going on, their life, how they were getting fucked by the law or by women, women leaving 'em. All about man and woman, about living on plantations, on work farms, chain gangs… This man, Charley Patton, his style begat Son House and Son House begat the greatest bluesman ever lived, Robert Johnson. Robert Johnson begat Howlin' Wolf and all the Chicago boys and they put their mark on everybody since, including the Stones, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton… Eric Clapton use to say, you don't know Robert Johnson he won't even talk to you.'

Dennis had to think, trying to recall if he'd heard of the man Robert Johnson.

Robert Taylor still talking, telling him, 'Thirty seven miles down this highway past Tunica you come to the famous crossroads…' He paused and said, 'Shit.'

Dennis saw high beams coming at them, headlights and the wailing sound of law enforcement on a dark country road and a pair of sheriff's cars blew past, going toward the hotels.

Robert looked at his rearview mirror. 'I know they not after me. How about you?'

Dennis let it go, turning to watch the taillights until they disappeared.

'I expect sooner or later I'll be pulled over,' Robert said, 'driving around in an S-Type Jag-u-ar 'stead of out in the field choppin' cotton.' He glanced at the mirror again, then touched the button to turn off the blues.

'Where they going could be something big. Security man I talk to at the hotel? A brother use to be with the Memphis Police, he say the Isle of Capri 's been held up twice. Two dudes come in the front wearing ski masks in Mississippi, scoop up three hundred thousand from the cage, security cameras getting the whole scene. They take off, run into a roadblock and one of 'em's shot dead. The second heist, the newspaper makes a point of saying was unprofessional. Three dudes walk out with a hundred thousand and disappear into the night. It makes you think you don't need to be a pro, do you? A dude robs both Harrah'ses, the old casino on Sunday, the new one on Wednesday, gets away with sixty thou. Witness say the man's front teeth are gold. You bet they gold, the man's a success. Yeah, Tunica County, Mississippi,' Robert said, 'use to be the poorest county in the U.S. Jesse Jackson called it our Ethiopia. There still people farm… Look on the backseat, all the pamphlets and shit I've picked up. The one calls Tunica a place where, I think it says, small-town friendliness is still a way of life. That's long as you don't get mugged, your car jacked or nobody passes off any funny money on you. Counterfeiters, man, love casinos.'

Dennis had questions, but kept quiet, listening.

'The sheriff they use to have? Went down for extortion, getting payoffs from drug dealers and bail bondsmen. Drew thirty years. A deputy was brought up, but he made a plea deal, testified against the sheriff and only drew two to five. A man running for sheriff, to take the one's place went down? They find him lying in a ditch, shot in the head. They elected a brother as sheriff and now it's cool, least the bad dudes aren't wearing badges.'

Dennis was becoming at ease with this Robert Taylor from Detroit, a guy with style and what he called his own agenda. Robert was giving him leads and Dennis felt he could say anything he wanted and Robert would play it back in his own way, showing off, and they'd talk the talk with each other.

'You learned all that from the hotel security guy?'

'Some. Some I had looked up for me.'

'Planning your trip.'

'That's right.'

'See what there is to offer.'

'Check it out.'

'What to look out for, like the crime situation.'

'You can't be too careful.'

'Historical points of interest?'

Robert turned his head to look at Dennis. 'You being funny, but history can work for you, you know how to use it.'

It stopped Dennis for a moment.

'You look into business opportunities?' 'You could say that.'

'Like mobile homes that aren't mobile?'

Robert said, 'Hey, shit,' grinning at him in the dark. 'You quicker than I thought.'

4

'I STARTED TELLING YOU ABOUT this man name Kirkbride,' Robert said. 'He started his business from what he made owning trailer parks. But you go back a couple of generations the Kirkbrides are farmers. Was Mr. Kirkbride 's grandpa, the first Walter Kirkbride, owned land over in Tippah County and had sharecroppers working it for him-one of 'em being my great-granddaddy. Worked forty acres of cotton, what he did his whole life. He's the one I'm named for, the first Robert Taylor. Lived with his wife and children in a shack, five little girls and two little boys, my granddaddy being number seven, Douglas Taylor.'

Dennis said, 'This is a true story?'

'Why would I make it up?'

They turned off the highway to approach Tunica, leaving open country and the night sky for trees lining the road and the lights that showed Main Street.

'That's the police station,' Dennis said, 'coming up on the left. The squad cars we saw were county, they didn't come from here.'

Robert said, 'Like you been checking up on crime yourself.'

'Go up past the drugstore and turn left, over to School Street and turn left again.' 'You want to hear my story or not?' 'I want to get home.'

'You gonna listen?'

'You're dying to tell it. Go ahead.'

'See if you can keep quiet a few minutes.'

Dennis said, 'I'm listening.' But then said, 'Is this how the Taylors came to Detroit and your granddad went to work at Ford?'

'Was Fisher Body, but that isn't the story. I'm holding on to my patience,' Robert said. 'You understand what