"I asked him," Dennis said to Robert, "if he told it as a funny story. I'm so scared I'm shaking the ladder."
Arlen still held back. Cool-headed or confused, wondering what the hell was going on here.
Robert said to Dennis, "Mr. Novis and that little dude, they were the only ones out there?"
"And Charlie."
"I was in my cage," Charlie said. He believed Arlen was deciding what to do, and would come out of his chair mean and ugly once he did.
Robert said to Dennis, "Was somebody told you one of 'em is saying that?"
"Somebody who heard it spread the word around and it got to the TV news lady, Diane. She's the one told me."
"Reliable source," Robert said. "So it was either Mr. Novis here telling people you were on the ladder, or the little dude, Junebug. I would tend to think it was the Bug and not Mr. Novis. See, I was out to Junebug's place. I met him, bought some product off him. He didn't say nothing about shooting Floyd that I heard, but he seemed like the kind would tend to brag on it."
Charlie watched him looking straight ahead now at Arlen, frowning a little, like he was curious.
"Were you there, Arlen, at Junebug's? You weren't some of them came out to look at my Jaguar, were you?"
Robert, the next moment, was smiling.
"I sure like that hat. I bet there's nothing farb about you, huh? Am I right? You'd take a hit before you got caught wearing anything wasn't pure Confederate. And I mean a real hit." Robert raised his hand toward Arlen's eyes, stones set in his head. "Listen, I'm not fuckin with you. I mean what I say as a compliment to your integrity. I'm wearing the gray same as you account of I'm Southron going back a ways." Robert paused and gave Arlen a serious look now. "Did you know there was sixty thousand African Confederates fought for their homeland same as white boys did? But see, nobody wanted 'em at first. I mean either side. The high-ups would say, `We don't think these colored boys will stand and fight. They don't have the background.' The what? Over in Africa the motherfuckers are chasing lions naked, with spears-they don't have the background? You know what I'm saying, Arlen? They warrior stock, all the motherfuckers brought over here."
Robert sipped his whiskey, put the glass down, and his pleasant expression was back.
"Yeah, for Brice's Cross Roads I'm gonna be in Forrest's Escort. I heard you soldier with Mr. Kirkbride in these reenactments. That's gonna put us close in the field, huh? The field of battle. Listen, I like to show you something, prove my Southron heritage. Also show me and you have a tie to the past."
Charlie said, "I'm going Yankee this time."
As Robert reached for his briefcase and made room for it on his lap.
"I think Don Mattingly was the only Yankee I struck out during my career in organized ball."
Robert was snapping the briefcase open, raising the lid.
"But there weren't that many Yankees faced me, that I can recall."
Robert said, "Where is it?" His head bent to look in the case.
They watched him take out a file folder and lay it on the table.
They watched him take out a handful of maps and lay them on the table.
They watched him take out a pistol, a blue-steel automatic, and lay it on the file folder on the table, Robert's head still bent over the case.
Charlie saw Arlen not moving a muscle staring at the pistol now; Dennis watching the show, Dennis calm about it, not appearing anxious or surprised.
Robert said, "Here it is," and Charlie watched him bring out a photograph that looked like an old one-turning brown-people on a bridge-and watched him reach to place the photo in the middle of the table, next to the Early Times.
Robert said, "Arlen, you know who that is?"
Arlen hesitated. He leaned over the table for a moment, sat back again and said to Robert, "It looks like a nigger hanging from a bridge."
"Lynched," Robert said.
Arlen nodded. "What it looks like."
"That's my great-grandfather," Robert said. He paused to look at the photo, upside down to him on the table. "And you know who that gentleman is wearing the suit of clothes? To the right, up on the bridge?" Robert's head raised. "That's your greatgrandfather, Arlen."
Charlie caught Robert's eyes move to glance at Dennis, Dennis still cool, no expression on his face to speak of, both of them waiting as Arlen reached for the photo and brought it to him.
He said, "That ain't Bobba."
"I believe you talking about your grandfather," Robert said. "This is your great-grandfather, not your Bobba."
Arlen kept shaking his head.
"Lawrence Novis," Robert said, "foreman at the Mayflower plantation, TippahCounty." He said to Dennis, "Isn't that right?"
"According to county records," Dennis said.
Charlie looked from Dennis back to Robert, Robert saying, "Born in HollySprings, MarshallCounty, I believe 1874."
" '73," Dennis said.
Arlen, still shaking his head, said, "Uh-unh, that ain't him. Goddamn it, I was a boy I knew him."
Robert said, "Listen, Arlen? Listen to me. I didn't mean to upset you. I thought maybe you already knew your great-granddaddy lynched that man in the picture, my own great-granddaddy, rest his soul. And cut his dick off. Can you imagine a man doing that to another man-even one you gonna lynch? Listen to me, Arlen. Lemme have the photo back before you mess it up."
Dennis took it out of Arlen's hands and passed it to Robert, Robert saying, "I wasn't gonna show you this. Then I found out we'd be soldiering together at the Tunica Muster and I thought to myself, Lookit how our heritage is tied together, going back to our ancestors. Yeah, I'm gonna show him the historical fact of it."
Arlen pushed up from the table to stand there in his starched shirt, took hold of his hat to reset it down on his eyes and said, "I'm gonna tell you this for the last goddamn time. That is not my fuckin grampa." He stared hard at Robert saying it, gave Dennis a look, then Charlie. Said to him, "You know what the deal is," and walked out of the kitchen.
"He still thinks I was talking about Bobba," Robert said. "I told him no, it's your greatgrandfather ... asshole. The man doesn't listen, does he? Got the brain of a chicken and believes whatever's in his head."
Robert sat there a moment, then jumped up and was in a hurry now, something on his mind. He laid his case on the chair and ran out of the kitchen.
Dennis and Charlie looked at each other.
Charlie picked up the Early Times and poured himself a good one. He said, "You know where he's going?"
"I imagine to tell Arlen something."
"Like what?"
Dennis shook his head. "I don't know."
"He's a talker, isn't he?"
"Yeah, but it's always a good story."
"You believe that's his grandpa was lynched?"
"His great-grandpa."
"I'm as bad as Arlen. And that's his kin up on the bridge?"
"According to Robert."
"You sounded like you knew about it."
"Not much."
Charlie let it go. He looked at the pistol lying on the table and wanted to heft it, but decided he'd better not. He said to Dennis, "Why's he carry a gun?"
"He heard there's a lot of crime here."
"In Tunica? And he's from De-troit?"
"I imagine he packs there, too."
"You know what kind it is?"
"A PPK, the one JamesBond had."
"I thought it looked familiar."
There was a silence, not long, a few moments, and Dennis said, "Last night Arlen was gonna kill me. Tonight he's sitting here at the table."
"It's gonna pass," Charlie said.
"I think I should tell JohnRau. Get it over with.
It's on my mind all the time, knowing it's what I should do. Shit, I probably could go to jail for not saying anything."
"You heard him," Charlie said. "We made a deal."
"Keep quiet or get shot. That's some deal."
"Nobody," Charlie said, "gives a shit about Floy
d. I'm telling you, it's gonna pass over."
They both looked up as Robert came in the kitchen. Dennis said, "What'd you forget to tell him?"
"That I won't say nothing about his shooting Floyd," Robert said. "You all aren't gonna say nothing, are you? I advise you, be better if you didn't."
Dennis said, "It's all I think about."
Robert shook his head. "Let nature take its course."
Chapter 11
ONE OF THE WHORES AT JUNEBUG'S-two in the afternoon, the place empty-walked up to JohnRau at the bar having a Coca-Cola and said, "Hi, I'm Traci. You want to see my trailer?"
"I bet it's nice," JohnRau said, "but I'm waiting to see the proprietor. The bartender's gone to check."
"Junebug left," Traci said. "You want, we could party till he gets back. I don't have an appointment till three."
JohnRau said, "Traci, I'm with the state highway patrol."
And she said, "Oh, was I going too fast?"
JohnRau smiled at her, a cute girl in her little halter top and shorts, and that was a cute thing to say, was she going too fast. Flirting with a police officer. This place, it didn't surprise him. He'd been told they had live sex acts on the stage there in front of everybody-probably this cute girl and another one, or some farm boy with a big wang. Lock the door and hang a sign out, Closed, with all the cars and pickups in the lot and along the road. Junebug's had that skunky smell of beer and stale smoke, but did more business at night than any of the casino bars. The bartender, an old guy in an undershirt hanging from frail shoulders, was coming back along the bar getting ready to tell him no, Junebug wasn't here, didn't know where he went or when he was coming back or where he lived or whatever else had anything to do with him.
JohnRau brought his ID case from the inside pocket of his navy-blue suitcoat and showed Traci he was with the Criminal Investigation Bureau. He said, "I don't hand out tickets and I'm not one to party, so. .." He flipped the case closed as the bartender approached shaking his head.
John Rau nodded, accepting it, as Traci was telling him she collected ashtrays, had ashtrays from all the casinos, from places in Memphis, Jackson, Slidell, New Orleans-"let's see"-Biloxi, Pascagoula, Mobile ... She said, "Okay then," and he watched her wander off, not going anywhere. Not more than eighteen years old. She'd go in the ladies' room and smoke a rock and one day she wouldn't be here.
He watched her turn to the door as it opened to bright sunlight behind someone coming in, a guy wearing a hat JohnRau would recognize from two hundred yards, facing a line of Confederate skirmishers across a field. The figure in the doorway hesitated and seemed to change his mind about coming in-until John Rau, sure of who it was now, called to him, "Hey, Arlen, is that you?"
The trip wasn't a waste of time after all, JohnRau pretty sure this was the man who'd shot Floyd Showers, or had it done.
Shit. It was too late now to duck out, the cop looking right at him. Arlen came on in raising his hand to the state cop and getting a cordial tone ready. "Hey, chief, what're you doing here, fixing to get laid? Hey, I got to piss before I wet my pants. You wait there, chief, I'll be right back." He hurried along the bar and into the back hall to the men's. He did have to piss, unzipped and stood at the rusty urinal as he got his phone out of his back pocket and punched a number.
"What're you doing? You got some little girl with you?" He listened and said, "Well I'm about to have a conversation with a state dick dropped by for a Co'Cola. When I'm through, and it ain't gonna take long, I'm coming to see you." He listened and said, "What do you think for, you dumb shit."
He punched another number.
"Fish? Drop what you're doing, we're going on a job." He listened and said, "I'll tell you on the way.
Pick me up at Junebug's." He listened again and said, "No, nothing that big. Your forty-five, something you can slip in your waist."
He walked up to the state cop standing at the bar in his neat suit and tie and his Co'Cola, Arlen cordial again as he said, "I bet you're ready for the Cross Roads. You know what uniform you're gonna wear?"
This state cop didn't offer his hand. "The Second New Jersey Mounted Infantry, though I think dismounted this time. I lost a beautiful mare at Yellow Tavern. Stepped in a hole and broke her leg. How about yourself, Forrest's Escort?"
"I may as well serve under Walter," Arlen said, "since I work for him." He wished he could think of this state cop's name, so he could throw it in while they took time to bullshit each other before getting to the point. "I haven't been to the site yet to look it over."
"It'll remind you some of Brice's."
"Too bad we can't use the actual battlefield."
"Even if we could," this know-it-all cop said, "Brice's is too far away to do Tunica any good. You have to look at this muster as a way to promote Tunica."
"I guess you're right," Arlen said, nodding to the bartender, who came over in his sour undershirt popping open a can of Bud. Arlen took a long swallow, giving himself time to wonder if he should mention Floyd before the cop brought it up. Ask how the investigation was going. Show he'd talk about it like anybody else. He wished he could think of this state cop's name. He believed it was John something. Arlen had reenacted with him, remembering him going either way, gray or blue, hardcore to his buttons; and he remembered this John something testifying to evidence in court when he went down on the extortion charges. Two years of his life in the toilet.
The cop said, "I heard Dennis Lenahan, the diver ...?
Beating him to it.
"Was on the ladder, way at the top, when you and Junebug shot Floyd. That's the story going around. You hear it?"
Jesus, getting right into it. Arlen said in the cop's face, "No, I don't believe I have."
"It was right here, I'm told, where it started. Either you or Junebug bragging about it."
"It was me, I'd know, wouldn't l?"
"Well, I'd lean more to Junebug saying it than you. Maybe you weren't around?"
"If what you're telling me is true," Arlen said, "then what you're saying is the diver seen who did it."
"I expect so, if he was there."
"Then whyn't you ask him?" Arlen stared right at the cop as he said it. Looked him right in the fuckin eye.
The cop said, "I intend to. You bet." "So he hasn't stepped up hisself." "No, he hasn't."
"Why's that, you suppose?"
"I imagine he's been threatened."
Now the cop in his Sunday suit and tie, an American flag on it, was looking him in the eye, but not giving it much. This was not like any cop Arlen had ever been exposed to. He seemed more like a lawyer.
"Tell you the truth," Arlen said, "I wouldn't have any reason to whack Floyd. He never done nothing to me. I believe that man was so miserable he mighta done hisself in, tired of living in the gutter."
"Five in the back of the head?"
"Oh, is that right?" Arlen said. "My goodness." He paused and said, "Come on, chief, why don't we quit fuckin the dog here. You gonna bring me up on a story somebody heard in a bar? When was it, the night before last? Hell, I was right here where I'm standing most of the night." He turned his head to the bartender. "Wesley, where was I the night Floyd died and went to heaven?"
"Right there," Wesley said, "where you're standing."
Arlen found out at Parchman Jim Rein was the best do-anything man you could have at your side-Jim Rein already behind that razorwire for assaulting county prisoners too aggressively. He had entered as a fish, what they called all new arrivals, but swore he'd never get hooked, become some inmate's wife. Anybody approached JimRein with romantic ideas Jim cracked his head open. In no time at all he was Big Fish, too mean to land. Arlen came into the population, a homeboy from Tunica, and Fish became Arlen's bodyguard, working for him just as he had when they were both sheriff's deputies.
They had the same relationship going nowdriving north on 61 toward Tunica in Fish's black Chevy pickup. Fish reminded Arlen of Li'l Abner.
Arlen told him about this boy Robert last
night showing him the picture. "A nigger hanging from a bridge and tells me it was my grampa Bobba lynched him."
"Your grampa, huh?"
"See, I'd have known. But I never heard of Bobba doing that. It would've been a good story to tell people. Then I'm leaving, this boy Robert come out to the car, says don't worry, he won't say nothing about my shooting Floyd. I told him, `Stand there, I want to talk to you.' He says, `Later,' and walks in the house."
JimRein said, "Where'd this boy Robert come from?"
"I have to find that out."
"Or how he knew about Floyd."
"It musta been the diver told him. I kept thinking, I'm sitting there at the table with him, he could be a federal agent of some kind. I kept my mouth shut till he shows the picture of the nigger was lynched. I have to look into this boy Robert." He told JimRein about his conversation with the state cop just now, as much of it as he could remember word for word and saying he couldn't think of the cop's name.
"The one come out with you? That's JohnRau, the CIB man. I was talking to a deputy's on the case with him's my cousin? He says far as they's concerned JohnRau don't know shit. They not doing nothing for him they don't have to."
"I should've had you do Floyd 'stead of the Bug."
"I told you I would, but I had to go to Corinth for my uncle's coming-home party. Eighteen years he was in."
"How's Earl doing?"
"Looks fine but don't know how to act now he's out. Earl's in the grocery store with Aunt Noreen? He asks can he go by himself over to where he saw the cans of Deviled Ham. Aunt Noreen says she told him, `Earl, you don't have to ask permission no more to go someplace.' Eighteen years, man." JimRein turned his head. "Where we going?"
"The bughouse," Arlen said.
He watched JimRein think about it before starting to grin. "That's what Earl says Parchman was like, everybody in there's crazy. He was looking forward to conjugal visits, only he never had none in the eighteen years. Aunt Noreen was too embarrassed to get in the trailer there on the grounds, people watching her."
"It's where I got the idea," Arlen said, "of sticking whores in trailers at Junebug's. Ever since Rosella left him and took the kids Junebug's in there once a night with that little Traci. He sits home all day hungover smoking weed and watching TV. Or you catch him holding auditions, checking out some little girl with big titties on her wants to be in show business. Nights, when he's at the club, he'll have Eugene baby-sit the dog with a shotgun."