South down Interstate 55.

A hundred miles from Springfield to St. Louis. He could make that in just about an hour, but he didn't feel like going fast. Not today. Not now. In fact, he decided to stick to the speed limit.

Anyway, he had all the time in the world, didn't he?

As soon as he started to see the mileage posts whiz by the Caddy, he put Springfield and Curtis and Lincoln all behind him. That was, after all, what this whole trip was about. Forget about the past. Figure out the future.

W. C. Handy's "St. Louis Blues" rang through his mind. He tapped out the tune with his left hand on the door, and his arm resting on the open window.

Hate to see the evening sun go down,
'Cause my baby done left this town.
Feelin' tomorrow like I feel today.
I'll pack my trunk make my getaway.

.

It was a bar just like any other. Aside from a few local posters and pictures of local celebrities, you'd never guess it was St. Louis. Elwood pulled up a seat and ordered whatever was on tap. With only two dollars left in his pocket, he'd better make it last.

He also knew he'd have to find out what the local economy was like, in terms of opportunities and pawn shops. But first he'd have a drink.

He looked around at the other men sitting at the bar. The regulars, he guessed, were serious and already well underway in their drinking. He shook his head, then looked up to the tv screen, and tried to listen. The evening news had just started. The bartender asked if he wanted it turned up, and he shrugged. Either way was fine.

"And congress is still working out the details for its proposed Natural Gas Policy Act. This proposal, as part of the National Energy Act, is designed to protect Americans from potential monopoly pricing during the current natural gas shortage facing this country..."

"Haven't seen you around here," the bartender noted. An older man, he was dark, and thick, skinned. "Where you in from?"

"Chicago," Elwood replied respectfully, although his attention had now turned to the news.

"Looks like we have loads of traveling music today," he said, pointing to another man on the end of the bar. "Detroit," he added, as if the information would mean anything to Elwood.

Elwood briefly looked over, then raised his chin and eyebrows in acknowledgment of the other man. Had he known it would mean he'd have to endure his company, he would have ignored him. But he didn't, so the man from Detroit got up and took a seat next to Elwood.

"Salesman?"

Elwood looked confused, then realized he was the only one in the room with a shirt and tie. He shook his head, silently, trying to listen to the tv.

"Well, you look like one. Either that, or the C. I. fucking A!" His unwelcome drinking buddy slapped him on the back, and laughed.

"Neither."

"Good. Hate the fucking CIA. Creeps In Action. That's what that stands for!"

Elwood realized that something about the man wasn't right. He either had quite a bit to drink already, or he was taking some sort of street remedies for whatever ailed him. Or, perhaps still, he was faking it somehow. He couldn't tell if it made him harmless, or more dangerous. Still, something was wrong. His clothes seemed too dirty and torn to match up with his neat, short haircut and very clean nails. He wore a jacket in the heat of August.

Even Elwood, with his sleeves rolled up, had left his jacket in the back of the Bluesmobile in this heat.

"So," the man continued, holding out his hand. "I'm John." The name was perfect for the man. Anonymous. "You wouldn't by any chance know where I could... maybe..."

John paused, sniffled, and rubbed one finger under his nose. He continued. "You know. Maybe find some entertainment?"

Elwood thought about it. Normally, he would think he meant a strip club or something like that, but the finger made him think this man was looking for something else. A mirror in the bathroom, a razor blade...maybe some snow on a hot summer night. It was nothing Elwood could offer.

Elwood shook his head and looked up at the tv.

"And now, in International news, negotiations with the rebel forces in the African Republic of Mmbito have come to a dead standstill. The militia has contained the fighting in the south, but ..."

"What the fuck is that all about?" John said, pointing up at the tv.

Elwood's stomach was tight. This whole scene was making him very uncomfortable. This discussion wouldn't help matters any.

"I mean, those brothers in Africa over there.." John continued. Although he was black himself, the comment sounded as contrived as if it came from an English butler trying to leave his upper crust surroundings. "Shit. What the hell are they fighting about?"

The bartender shrugged. Elwood looked around. No one seemed to follow, and even fewer people than that even seemed to care. Didn't anyone read a paper anymore?

"Well, it's a political statement of the masses," Elwood began, humbly. "In a post-colonial nation, where a new class of urban elites are negotiating the sale of the country's natural resources to multinational corporations, the masses are fighting back. After a century of colonial exploitation, and now a decade of dealing with the rise of capitalist investors who are more interested in creating personal wealth and accumulating capital than creating a nationalist identity and protecting natural resources, it is a desperate attempt to force the government to..."

Elwood stopped his speech, as the rest of the bar turned all eyes towards him. He rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses. Was he the only one who even heard of Mmbito? Thinking it over for a second, he realized he probably was.

"I, like, heard that, somewhere..."

"What are you, some kind of professor?" The bartender was surprised, and a bit impressed. He poured Elwood another beer, indicating it was on the house.

John slapped him on the back again, laughed and shouted out "No, man, you ARE in the CIA! Shit! That must be it!"

"Nope. I'm a blues musician."

John, and several other of the barflies paused, then broke the silence and laughed out loud.

Elwood took a long drink of his beer. This was a mistake, coming in here. St. Louis was a big city. He should have waited till he made it further into the city limits.

"No. Wait a minute," John said, standing up. "No, you're right. Hey! I know you! Hey? Ain't you one of the Blues Brothers?"

"Yeaah-up," he replied calmly as he turned away and looked at the tv again.

"Yeah, man! I know you! I love your stuff!" Whether flattery or fiction, neither could bring a change to Elwood's expression while he assessed the situation.

"Shit! I love your stuff!" John repeated, growing excited. "I saw you guys once... in Detroit! Shit!"

Elwood just nodded. When John held out his hand to shake it, he cautiously reached out and took hold.

"Shit! I love your stuff. Soul Man... Yeah. That's awesome. You gonna play that one for us?"

"Not tonight." Elwood pulled his hand out of the man's grasp, with a bit more of a struggle than should have been necessary. In response, John wrapped his arm around Elwood's shoulder, as if they were long lost buddies.

"You are playing...?"

"Not tonight."

"Damn. Hey, lemme buy you a drink." He motioned to the bartender to bring a few more over. John pulled a few loose bills from out of his pocket, and slapped two fives on the bar. Both were Lincoln side up.

This was getting to be unbearable.

"Shit! The Blues Brothers!" John broke out in a loud cackle.

"Hey, somebody cut him off..." Someone on the other side of the bar cried out, watching the uncomfortable exchange between the two men at the bar.

"Nah... it's ok. I love these guys!" John laughed again, and took a drink of his beer. It was obviously one in a long line for that night. Finally, he turned and looked at Elwood and squinted his eyes.

"Now, which one are you?" The question set off a few guys at the bar. Over the laughing someone cried out...

"Whew-ey! Hey Mick! Cut him off now!" someone cried out from the crowd. The bartender looked over, then nodded slightly.

"You're Jake, right... " he said patting him on the shoulder. "Right! JAKE!"

Elwood had enough. From Lincoln to Joliet and all the way to Mmbito, this was downright uncomfortable. He swivelled away from him in his seat, as if to leave.

"Aw, man. Don't leave. Sing something, Jake!"

"Not tonight."

"I love Soul man... yeah.. and that other song you sing. How's it go? " He scratched his head, then backed off. He held an invisible microphone in his hand and started to do a bad impression of Jake. His body flailing around, like a mocking, off key version of his brother. But if the performance was bad, the lyrics he could remember were even worse.

"Next I caught a ride with da da da da,
she said she was from da da do...
And what she did... what she did,
what she did ,what she did
made me think of you...!"

Elwood shook his head. He couldn't believe this. It was like the fucking Penguin had transformed herself into this creature named John. Knowing every one of his sins and misdeeds and regrets, he was sent here, by God himself, just to torture Elwood. Every guilty feeling was destined to be dragged up to the surface, and poked at just for the Penguin's pleasure.

"Don't give up yer day job, pal..." another voice cried out.

Elwood calmly got up from his barstool and turned as if to walk away.

"Doing my best to get back to you.. ain't nothin I rather do..."

With that, Elwood turned around, grabbed John by his jacket, and swang. The blow landed squarely on his chin. But before John hit the floor, three guys jumped up started to pull Elwood away.

Struggling to get out of their hold, he made another fist, and awkwardly pointed to his hand, and the tattoos across his fingers.

"The name is Elwood!"

.

John was out cold on the floor, and Elwood quickly realized what he had done. He rolled his eyes, then closed them tightly, and just said "Shit." It wasn't like him. He hadn't been in a fight since way back at St. Helen's. It really wasn't his style.

What else could go wrong?

The bartender shook his head, sighed deeply, and made his way out from behind the bar. He gave Elwood a dirty look as he passed by.

"I'm sorry, man..." Elwood said. "But, like, he was really getting to me."

"Yeah. I know," the bartender said. He understood why, but he just wished Elwood hadn't done it on his shift. He bent over and rolled John on his back.

"Hey! Someone get his wallet! He won't be using it!" A few of the regulars laughed.

"Drinks all around!"

"Shut up," the bartender cried to the peanut gallery across the room as he leaned over John's body.

"He was really really drunk, man!" Elwood pleaded.

"He only had two beers, buddy."

Elwood seemed perplexed by that statement. Really? Could this guy really not hold his drink?

The bartender slowly pulled a gun from John's back pocket. Elwood dodged the bullet on that one, quite literally.

"Is he alive?" Elwood asked, worried that his luck was going from bad to worse.

The bartender looked up at him, and just nodded as he started to rifle through his pockets looking for some ID. He pulled out a thin bifold, which he slowly opened.

"Hey!" the peanut gallery continued, laughing. "How much is in there?"

The bartender closed his eyes, let out a single long whistle, and shook his head.

Elwood knew that wasn't good.

"Hey, man, what's his name? Is that his wallet?"

"Nope," the bartender said, still shaking his head. "It's his badge."

"Fuck," Elwood said incredulously. "He's a cop... I just knocked out a cop."

The bar fell deathly silent, and several of the regulars began to gather up their personal belongings at their seats, just in case a quick exit was needed.

"John Mackee, F.B.I."

"Fuck!" Elwood yelled, his heart beat rising. "He's a fed!? What the hell was he doing here! Drunk?"

The bartender stuffed his badge back into his pocket, and placed the gun back in his belt loop.

"He wasn't drunk... Maybe a good actor, but he wasn't drunk. Looks like he was staking someone out."

"Shit," Elwood continued. "And he was asking me about getting some coke, too. Fuck, man. I gotta get outta here..." Elwood's eyes darted around the room, as he looked for the exit.

"Wait a minute, don't panic! Give me a hand." Elwood and the barkeep reached down and picked up John, and dragged him over to a corner booth.

"Shit. He knows who I am, man! He mentioned my brother by name," Elwood said.

"Calm down, okay?"

For some reason, those words hit home. Calm down. Sure. He could do that. That was, after all, his specialty. He took a deep breath, and exhaled.

They propped Johns limp body up in the booth.

"Listen, you gotta help me out. I mean, a fed..."

"Look, I'll have to call it in... but when they come, I'll tell them you was heading west." Elwood was a bit confused. Was he helping him out, or fishing for more info to use when he snitched?

"Hey, you've got a 3 out of 4 chance to stay ahead, right?"

"What about those guys? My car...?

The bartender looked around the room, which had been slowly emptying.

"Anyone see anything?"

There was silence. Elwood looked at John, at the room, then back at the bartender. Finally he looked towards the door.

"Look, you just get the fuck out of here, and don't let me see you again. Ok?"

With a small wave, all Elwood could muster up was a shaky "Thanks, man."

A/N: There is a small crossover here. John Mackee is not my creation. If you don't know who he is, it doesn't matter. If you do, you know I don't own GAH.