Ain’t That the Truth

“It’s Hoodoo Voodoo, man. His daddy was a Houngan and his mammy a Witch Queen, and the Delta is like a separate nation within the United States. Throw in a helping of secrecy, a dollop of criminality, and as many names as he cared to use. He wasn’t born Jackson Monroe and the ‘Truth’ nickname only applied to his music. For the rest he was a psychopathic ju-ju man who was feared and hated in equal portions.

“His guitar playing and vocal abilities were such that if he had concentrated on a musical career he might well have gone far. I’m pretty sure he did cut some tracks for back-room labels that were gone almost as soon as they appeared. If you could find them now, Al, I am sure they would create a stir, but you will get no help.”

Drake didn’t understand. “There have been other unsavoury characters who nevertheless enjoyed reasonable careers,” he said. “Surely this guy can’t be that much worse. It’s as if he’s been written out of history.”

“You’d better believe it, Al. People went missing, but although bodies were rarely found it was known where to point the finger; not that anyone did, of course. That would have seen your name added to the list.”

“So where do I start, Sam? I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead!”

“Last I heard, some years back now, he was doing time. Try checking the Delta prison system. It was almost guaranteed he would end up a Big House inmate.”

Read more in Compromising the Truth by Bryn Fortey