Dark End of the Street

At the bar, a deputy sheriff with a wide grin, his hat upon the lacquered bar, sat watching the lone player on stage hit some notes that just hung in that smoky air filled with sadness, despair, and a world of heartache.

I took a pull off a can of Budweiser and watched the old man knock out some more truly beautiful licks and nod with his appreciation of his Fender, as if the Fender worked independently of him. I knew how he felt. Sometimes I’d hit that sweet spot on my harps and it was almost as if someone else had played it. Like Little Walter or Sonny Boy were doing some serious channeling.

The kid was drinking Coca-Cola from a mug filled with crushed ice. He had a fat, wet paper bag of boiled peanuts by him that was still hot. He shelled them onto the floor as he watched the player continue out his set and snuck looks at Abby.

I lit another cigarette and leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, as a couple of college girls danced by the stage with a drunken laziness.

“They leavin’ you alone?” Abby asked.

“They’re still around,” he said. “See that dude at the bar?”

I saw a black man in a camouflage baseball hat drinking beer. Raven stared right at him and the man looked back at the stage.

“He’s DEA,” he said, grinning. “Still can’t find out how I get it in.”

One of the dancing girls, probably in her late teens or early twenties, in tight jeans and short red sweater, walked by, running her fingers under Raven’s chin as she passed. Abby studied her hands and took a breath. I smiled.

“So, kid,” I said.

“Raven,” he said.

“Raven,” I said. “How much you know about the action in Tunica?”

“I know they have women there that ice skate in their bikinis and has-been country singers that get paid in prostitutes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I raised my eyebrows and looked back to the stage where the old man launched into some more north Mississippi blues. Ghostly riffs that spun and hung in the air like the patterns of smoke around us. A constant knocking drumbeat that seemed to come from an impatient spirit.

“What about the Dixie Mafia?”

He shook his head and laughed. “No way, man. Who are you?”

“He’s cool, Raven,” Abby said. “You know what happened to my parents?”

He nodded.

“Nick’s helping.”

“Why didn’t you come to me? Who is this guy anyway?”

I closed my eyes and with a deep breath I said, “Listen, kid, I mean Raven. This is important as hell. Some people kidnapped Abby and took her to a casino. I was there looking for a friend of mine and helped her get out. Now I’m just looking for some information.”

“Dixie Mafia? No way.” He dropped some peanut shells on the floor and reached in the sack for a handful more. I glanced at Abby and she moved beside Raven and told him a few things I couldn’t hear over the music. He nodded and nodded and then looked back at me.

“You lie to her,” he said. “And I’ll kill you.”

His eyes were black and hard and I believed he would try.

“Fair deal.”

She patted him on the knee as he finished chewing some more boiled peanuts, the final notes of the blues player swirling around us, dope smoke as thick as ever.

“What casino?” he asked.

“Magnolia Grand.”

He laughed to himself and shook his head. “Ransom.”

I took another pull of the beer, and leaned closer.

“Levi Ransom,” he said. “Runs Dixie Mafia north of Biloxi. Motherfucker would love to run me out one of these days.”

“What’s he like?”

“Never seen him. Heard he had a man skinned alive for fucking his wife and that he raises pit bulls for fighting out at his farm. Think maybe he’s from Memphis. Met people in Angola who helped him. Set him up. My father was there. If he was alive, he could tell you about Ransom.”

“Let me ask you this, would he have the kind of juice to influence politics?”

“Where you from?”

“Louisiana.”

“You have to ask that? Gambling is money. Money runs the state.”

“What about a group called Sons of the South? State’s rights. Rebel flags. All that shit.”

Raven shook his head and poured more Coke into his mug. Abby leaned back into the sofa, her face tired and worn. Lines of determination under her eyes.

“What about Elias Nix?” she asked.

“Yeah, I know Nix. Some Republican asshole from Nashville. What about him?”

I asked, “Could he be buddies with this guy Ransom?”

“Listen, dude. Ransom is a legend around here. You hear whispers about what he wants and then it happens. If I heard Ransom wanted to move in on me, my ass would be gone. But Ransom is smart. He doesn’t let people get too close. Like I said, I know he runs the Grand and a couple of other casinos. Has to be tied to the syndicate in Biloxi. That’s all.”

My face must’ve shown a lot of disappointment because Raven asked me to take a walk with him. Abby stayed behind and we went out through a back entrance to a little spot outside where old-time porch chairs lay rusting. I stood watching the patch of forest and all the cars bright in the intermittent glow of the moon. His eyes squinted and focused on me again.

“I wasn’t kidding about killing you,” he said, showing me two handguns he wore under his leather coat.