“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.”
Russell made a little sandwich from the remaining cheese, pickles, and salami from the tray and folded it into his hands like a magician before taking a bite.
Royal looked at his watch and stood up. He stared down at me and put his hat back on. “Mr. Russell has to get, folks. We appreciate your time and hope it’s helped you some. If you do find anything that connects Nix to what happened to your parents, you let us know.”
Russell stood, too, and wrapped one arm around Abby’s shoulders. At first, the move made her stiffen, but as he pulled her closer, she relaxed a little and smiled back.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost my mother when I was in college and had to drop out for a year. Didn’t understand how I could ever make it without her. But you do. You will.”
His brown eyes softened and he squeezed her even tighter.
“Y’all be careful out there,” he said.
I said we would and walked out of the hunting lodge and back to the Gray Ghost, to head back up Highway 61 to Memphis. Abby was quiet after we left. She just stared into the long gray curtains of rain and the red taillights stretching far in front of us. In the corner of my eye, I saw her pulling the sweatshirt over her hands like mittens as my radio played an old Peetie Wheetstraw tune.
“Nick?” she asked. “Would they help us if we found more papers of my daddy’s?”
Chapter 33
Perfect snapped her cell phone shut and told Jon that Ransom had finally given the word. She immediately started thinking of ways they’d take Travers and the girl, most of her plans with her distracting the hell out of Travers while Jon shoved a gun in his face. She could play the sex kitten, the confused tourist, or maybe the victim. Maybe she’d teach Jon about the big game: wife beater. That wasn’t too bad. She could scream and yell
