Free Leavin' Trunk Blues by Ace Atkins

gyrating and going crazy on that old thing. If I were a door knob …”
    “All right, all right.”
    “So what’s up?” Doyle asked.
    “King Snake Records, Billy Lyons, and Ruby Walker,” Nick said and took a sip. ‘Take your pick.”
    “New project?”
    Nick nodded.
    “Who’ve you talked to?”
    “The Sweet Black Angel.”
    “Ruby talked to you?” Doyle asked before raising the bottle to his lips again.
    “Yeah.”
    “I’m impressed,” he said. “I once asked her to cut a record in prison and she told me to go fuck myself.”
    “You’d throw your back out.”
    “That woman could sing, man,” Doyle said, ignoring him. “There weren’t many women like her. I’d put her in the same class as Memphis Minnie or Bessie Smith. But her career probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer than it did. She sang old-style blues like Minnie. Probably would have hit the revival circuit in the sixties. But I don’t think she could’ve adapted to the times like Koko or Etta. Wonder if she still sings?”
    Nick shrugged.
    “Who else you looking for?”
    “Just met a man named Peetie Wheatstraw. I guess this would be Peetie number two. He was new to me.”
    “I know Peetie Wheatstraw,” Doyle said, sneering. “Only his name’s not Wheatstraw. It’s Jerome Tompkins. He didn’t have a fucking thing to do with King Snake and don’t let him tell you any different. He’s a bottom feeder.”
    “Owns a place called the Soul Train.”
    “Only seen him on Maxwell Street.” Doyle pointed his finger at Nick’s chest. “But I wouldn’t write down a word that idiot tells you. He’s sucked a half-dozen players dry. Got no talent, although he says he plays piano. Shit, he plays a fucking Casio down at the new Maxwell Street Market. He has about as much business sense as my fat, hairy ass.”
    “Your ass is pretty smart, Doyle.”
    “Yeah, why don’t you kiss it?”
    “Don’t want to get a razor burn,” Nick said. “Hey, man, I could use some direction.”
    “Shoot.”
    ‘You and Moses Jordan still tight?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Good thinkin’, man. Moses Jordan and Billy Lyons were buddies from way back. Let’s see,” Doyle said, fiddling with the cigarette in his hand. “Jordan had switched over to King Snake from Diamond. He was pissed off about not getting his fair share and I’m sure he was right. Anyway, I think he was pissed when Diamond wouldn’t sign Elmore King. He thought King was damned near the second coming but the brothers at Diamond weren’t impressed. King became one of Jordan’s first projects with Lyons.”
    “King won’t return my calls.” Nick took a huge sip. He could feel the travel nerves wash away.
    “He can be a moody asshole,” Doyle said. “King’s been babied too much. When you get your ass kissed everyday, you think you don’t have to act human anymore. He’s been wiping his ass with friends for the last ten years. You hear that last album? What a pile a shit. He gets a bunch of coke-sniffing Hollywood producers to give him a pile of cash and a hand job and he turns out something that sounds like twelve-bar hip-hop.”
    Nick laughed.
    “But Jordan is still real tight with King, so don’t make any jokes,” Doyle said. “He treats King like he was his son. And believe me, King treats Jordan like he was the shit. I don’t know this, but I’ve heard Jordan still gets a fifty-fifty cut on everything. One of those Elvis-Colonel arrangements.”
    “You know where King lives?”
    “Bought a big-ass farm out in Woodstock. Man, it looks like the Delta out there. Has a big red barn, cattle, all kinds of shit. But he’s in Europe … I can find out when he’s supposed to be back.”
    Nick dumped his cigarette and started a fresh one. Somehow Doyle’s office made him feel like he needed to constantly keep a cigarette burning. Smelled like the inside of a Vienna cafe.
    “You remember that shitty VW van you used to have?”
    “Yeah,” Doyle said, giving Nick the