Free West Seattle Blues by Chris Nickson

“That’s what’s it says there in the Bible. But yeah, that’s what I thought. Basically, my son sounds like he was a stupid fuck. It’s not good to learn that about your own kin.”
    “Yeah,” I agreed, “I can see that.”
    “Doesn’t mean whoever killed him shouldn’t be punished, though.” He looked me in the eye. “Maybe especially now.”
    “Let it go, Carson,” I said. “You just agreed you were lucky. Next time you could be dead. You had a lesson and got off lightly. Look at it this way: You’ve got a gig to play. You’ve got bands covering your material. You could have a whole new career.” I said it with a smile but I tried to put some iron behind my words. “I’m sorry your son’s dead, but whatever you do now won’t change that fact. And maybe it’s better left alone.”
    “Then
you
find out for me.”
    “When people are shooting?” I asked, shaking my head. “No. Simple as that. No.”
    “All you need to do is ask a few questions. And down here, not up in Everett.”
    I was confused. “I thought that was where your son lived.”
    “Yeah, but he was killed in Seattle.”
    “The cops will have already followed up any leads. It was four years ago. You read the reports in the papers for yourself.”
    “I got a couple names from the people I talked to.”
    “Carson…” I warned.
    “I’d go myself, but I can’t. Not until my leg’s healed.”
    He was playing me. We both knew it.
    “No. I mean it.”
    “Okay.”
    I made sure everything he’d need was in easy reach, and gave him a hug before I left. He smelled of tobacco, booze and antiseptic. I didn’t believe him. He’d given in too easily. He’d be back, asking me again. And he’d get the same refusal.
    In the car I inserted a cassette of Carson’s second album and pressed play. I’d found the LP at the St. Vincent de Paul in White Center, and taped it. It came from the early Seventies, a time when the lush country-politan sound was still big in Nashville, before raw outlaw country tried to take back the music. Strings swept over everything, making even the harshest song into something saccharine. All the roughness in the voice, the thing that gave it character, had been smoothed out. It was bland. A few years ago I’d have thrown it in the trash, but now I knew the guy, I listened. I still didn’t like the album but Carson could certainly write a song. And he knew how to turn a phrase to bring something alive. I could understand how someone might listen closely, see the beauty under the dross and decide to cover it. Whatever they did would be an improvement. “Idaho Sweetheart” came on, one of his big hits. Now that I knew Carson’s history, the lyrics made sense. The song had been all over AM radio back in ’72. Hearing it, I recognized it instantly. It took me back to driving with my dad in his big old Delta 88, sitting at the other end of the bench seat with my hand hanging out the window as we crossed the Aurora Bridge.
    Then I was home. Dustin sat in the living room, watching a sitcom. He raised his eyebrows as I walked in.
    “Well?” he asked. “Have you agreed to anything yet?”
    “No!” I told him. “And I’m not going to.”
    It must have been something in my tone. He stared at me, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to think. A trace of anger, resentment, sadness? It was hard to tell.
    “Just don’t get yourself into anything you can’t get out of,” he said finally. Then he reached out and took my hand. “I know you, Laura. Even if you don’t want to do it, you will in the end. That’s all I’m saying. Help the guy if you want, but make sure you keep yourself safe, okay? Nothing dangerous. It’s not just you anymore.”
    “I know. But I’m not going to do it. Jesus, the guy just got shot. I don’t want to be anywhere close to that.”
    “Has he asked you?”
    I nodded. “He wants me to talk to a couple people down here.”
    Dustin shook his head, as if it was what he’d