"Paul J. McAuley - Cross Roads Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

The second man, skinny and mournful, said, "I heard he been on the radio in Detroit, singin spirituals.
Shit, he been round this country a couple three times now."

"Race records are a big thing in New York," Turner said, already in deeper than he'd intended. "That's
why we're very interested in Robert Johnson."

"What they know bout the blues in New York?" the old man said. "You go tell your boss that down here
is the rightful home of the blues, no place else. Why, I play harmonica myself. I get the blues real bad
sometimes."

The mournful man said, "Bobby Johnson, he got 'em worse of all."

"He got a mojo hand, no mistake," the old man said, and drank from the enamel jug and smacked his
lips.

"They say ol Legba gave the boy a lesson in the blues, in exchange for his soul," the mournful man said,
and there was a hush as if an angel had passed overhead.

The old man took another drink and said, "Well I don't know if that be true, but I do know one time
Bobby Johnson couldn't play a lick to save himself. I got the story straight from Son House. Bobby
Johnson, he could play harmonica right enough, but he was always fixin after playin gitar. Hung out every
joint and dance and country picnic there was, pesterin the players to give him a chance, but he was so
bad it wasn't even funny. Anyway, he went away maybe a year, and I don't know if he went to the
crossroads with ol Legba or not, but Son House told me when he came back he was carryin a gitar, and
asked for a spot like old times. Well, Son was about ready to take a break, and told Bobby Johnson to
go ahead and got himself outside before the boy began. But that time it was all changed. That time, he tol
me, the music he heard Bobby Johnson make put the hair on his head to standin."

It had the air of a story told many times. There was a silence, and then the mournful man said, "He near
to burnt down the place tonight, and that's the truth."

The old man said, "Son House tol me Bobby Johnson tol him a man called Ike Zimmerman taught him
how to play, but what truth's in that I don't rightly know."

Turner, whose first name was Isaac, felt an airy thrill.

The burly man in the bib coveralls hauled himself to his feet, using as a support one of the posts that
propped up the corrugated tin roof that sloped above the porch. He pointed at Turner and said, "You
fools tell this stranger whatever's on your minds, an you don't know who he is."

"He tol you he scouting talent, Jake," the old man said. He told Turner, "You come on down to Mr
Willis's dry goods store tomorrow, Mister New York, I show you stuff on the harmonica you ain't never
before heard."

"He ain't no scout," the burly man said. "He got the look of the law about him." He came down the steps
towards Turner, a mean glint in his eyes.

"I'm just passing through," Turner said, and raised his hand to his chest, ready to collapse the
Oppenheimer Pinch if he had to.