Today I will not make that plunge, for the “jook joint” that Chief Logan directed me to squats in the trees on the ledge overlooking that wild drop. It’s a juke, all right, just like the ones that used to dot Highway 61 all the way through the Delta. The Crayola purple cinder-block building has eight or ten vehicles parked out front, and a tin-roofed appendage spews smoke into the sky from a rusted vent pipe, spreading the mouthwatering smell of cooking pork for miles. The building’s black-painted windows have been covered with airbrushed paintings of martini glasses, Colt .45 Malt Liquor cans, and bubbling champagne bottles. Above this hodgepodge of images someone has splashed the words “CC’s Rhythm Club” in bold graffiti script. Most juke owners would have chosen CC’s Blues Club, which make me wonder whether the eponymous C.C. named his (or her) establishment after the infamous Rhythm Club in Natchez, where 209 African-Americans burned to death in 1940. This whole building could easily fit inside Pithy Nolan’s parlor at Corinth, but more human drama unfolds within these walls over a Labor Day weekend than has in Pithy’s mansion over the past twenty years.

Lincoln Turner’s white pickup is parked on the right end of the line of vehicles—I confirm it by the Illinois plates—so I park my Audi on the left end. Given that Lincoln has no idea I’m coming, keeping a reasonably clear line of retreat seems prudent. I see no police car as I walk to the front door, and I don’t know whether to feel better or worse about that. Since CC’s stands outside Chief Logan’s jurisdiction, it’ll be one of Sheriff Billy Byrd’s deputies who responds to any 911 call made from here. Of course, most of CC’s customers don’t think of the police in terms of aid, so emergency calls are rare.

When I walk through the door, the club’s patrons don’t turn to me and freeze, nor does the jukebox screech to a halt, as it does in schlock movies. About half the patrons glance in my direction, but most quickly go back to their business. Only the bartender stares, waiting to see what my intentions might be.