I sip my drink. Melting ice has drowned the gin. “I’m not on any side.”
“Then you’ve forgotten the primary political reality of your home state.”
“Which is?”
“There’s no middle ground. Whatever’s there gets crushed to powder by the sides. I’d pick one quick if I were you.”
Mackey stands abruptly and drifts back into watchful orbit around his candidate. The conversation couldn’t have gone any worse if I’d set out to make him hate my guts. This is the man upon whose mercy I advised my father to throw himself?
I stand and walk into the hallway, half looking for Dad and half aiming for the bar. I’m almost to the alcohol when a powerful hand closes on my shoulder and a voice whispers in my ear:
“Don’t move, you outside agitatin’ son of a bitch.”
I whirl, ready for anything, only to find the laughing bearded face of Sam Jacobs, whom I’ve known since we were five years old.
“A little nervous, are we?” Sam wiggles his black eyebrows up and down. “Wishing we’d been a little less candid with the fourth estate?”
I punch him in the chest, then hug him hard.
When Sam and I were tenth-graders at St. Stephens, an assistant football coach invited the varsity football team to establish a chapter of the Brotherhood of Christian Athletes at the school. While the rest of the team lined up to get the necessary applications, two boys remained in the otherwise empty bleachers: Penn Cage and Sam Jacobs. As a Jew, Sam was barred from membership. And I—ever since walking out of Episcopal communion at age thirteen—was a devout agnostic. Under the suspicious gaze of teammates and coaches, Sam and I left that meeting joined in a way that had more to do with manhood than football ever would. Now a petroleum geologist, Jacobs is one of only three non-family members who flew to Houston for Sarah’s funeral.
“It’s great to see you, Sam. What are you doing at this tight-ass function?”
He grins. “I’ve sold Don Perry enough Wilcox production to qualify him as a certified oil maggot.”
“So, that’s how he paid for this palace. You must be doing well.”
“I ain’t complaining. When the bottom dropped out of the drilling business, I slid over into production. Bought up old wells, worked them over, got
them running full bore, and sold out at an obscene profit. It’s getting harder to find wells, though. Everybody’s into it now.”
“I’m sure whatever happens, you’ll be the guy sitting on top of the pile.”
“The last guy clinging to the limb, more like.” Sam sips his drink. “How does it feel?”
“What?”
“Having everybody in the place stare at you.”
“I’m pretty used to the fishbowl lifestyle now.”
“Natchez is a lot smaller bowl than Houston. Even small waves seem big here.”
“Come off it. A week from now, who’ll give a damn about that article?”
“Everybody, ace. How much do you know about the BASF deal?”
I shrug. “A little.”
“That chemical plant means salvation to a lot of people. Not just blue-collar either. These doctors need patients with private insurance to keep the gravy train running. Everybody’s on their best behavior, trying to sell Natchez as a Southern utopia. We’re pushing our opera festival, the literary celebration, the hot-air balloon race. And this morning you tossed a toad right into the punch bowl.”
I glance around the room and instantly find what I’m looking for: Caitlin Masters, deep in conversation with two older men. “You see that girl?”
Sam cranes his neck. “Caitlin Masters?”
“You know her?”
“I know she’s fine as wine and worth a few million bucks.”
“She printed a little more than I intended her to.”
“Fess up, man. You were just being you. At your pompous best.”
“That’s what Dad said.”
“Speaking of your old man, I’m surprised he came.”
Before I can ask what Sam means, someone taps me on the shoulder. Sam hides a smile behind his drink. I turn and look into the luminous green eyes of Caitlin Masters.
“Are you going to slug me?” she asks.
“If you were male, I might consider it.”
“I know I angled that story in a way you didn’t expect.”
“
Angled
it? Try sensationalized it. Remember the words ‘off-the-record’?”
Her lips part slightly in surprise. “I honored that request.”
“About the Hanratty execution. But as for Del Payton—” I force myself to shut up, not wanting to argue the point in front of a crowd.
“Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow?” she suggests. “I’d like to help you understand why I did what I did.”
I want to say no, but just as yesterday, something about Caitlin Masters makes me want to see her again. The jade dress is linen, and it lies against her skin like powder. She is a study in elegance and self-possession.
“Is that a no?” she asks.
“Once burned, twice shy,” Sam chimes in.
“I like Wilde’s quote better,” Caitlin rejoins.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The burnt child loves the fire.”
She winks at me, then turns on her heel and walks away, ignoring the gazes of half the people in the room, who have watched our exchange with intense interest.
“You sure know how to liven up a town,” Sam says, his eyes glued to her retreating form. “And she knows how to fill out a dress. A
shiksa
from dreamland, that one.”
I step hard on his toe. “You already married one of those, remember? What were you saying about my dad?”
“I’m surprised he came, is all.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure Judge Marston is on the guest list.”
I feel a sliding sensation in my stomach. A quick survey of the room yields no sign of either Marston or my father. Squeezing Sam’s shoulder, I push off through the crowd. Natchez is a funny town. People involved in running feuds frequently socialize together. Men who’ve gutted each other in business disputes leave their rancor at the doors of certain seasonal soirées, and it’s not unheard of to see a woman who has caught her husband in bed with someone else pouring punch for that woman—or man—at a party.
Leo Marston and Tom Cage are different. The judge once made it his mission to try to ruin my father’s medical career, and Dad hates him with a fury that will brook no false bonhomie. He behaves, in fact, as though the judge were dead. Since Dad rarely goes anywhere other than his office or the hospitals, he rarely crosses paths with Marston, making that illusion easy to maintain. But if Sam Jacobs is correct, that might change tonight. Dad has already drunk one bourbon, probably two by now. If Marston provokes him, Dad is capable of swinging on him. With that thought my blood pressure plummets, because with it comes the memory that my father is carrying a gun tonight.
Catching sight of a silver head a few inches taller than the others near the bar, I move quickly forward, take Dad’s arm, and pull him into the kitchen. It’s empty save for a black maid, who smiles and nods when she sees us.
“What’s going on?” He takes a sip of his bourbon and water
sans
water.
“Judge Marston’s on the guest list. He may already be here.”
Dad blinks. Then his cheeks turn red. “Where is he?”
“Dad, this isn’t the time or the place.”
“Why not? I’ve avoided that SOB too many years already.” His breathing is shallow, and his motions have a jerky quality that might be the result of anger or alcohol.
“That’s the whisky talking. You’re a hundred percent right about Marston, but if you talk to him now, you’re going to hit him.”
Or shoot him.
“And I’ll have to spend all my time at home defending you on a battery charge. That’s after I bail you out.”
“What do you want me to do? Leave?”
“Considering what we have to do in the next few days, I think you should.”
That brutal reminder of the blackmail situation gets his attention.
“What about talking to Mackey?” he asks.
“I already did. And this isn’t the place to discuss it.”
His eyes flit back and forth; then he dashes his plastic cup against the stainless steel sink. “Goddamn it. Let’s go.”
“Stay close to me.”
I take his forearm, lead him into the hallway, and freeze. Twenty yards away, in the open front door, stand Judge Marston and his wife, Maude. The odds of getting through that door without anyone making a smart remark are zero. I drag Dad back toward the kitchen.
“Where the hell are we going now?”
“The back door’s closer to where I parked.”
“You saw Marston, didn’t you?”
He tries to pull free. I tighten my grip and hustle him toward the back door, knowing that if he really tries to resist me, I won’t be able to stop him.
“Goddamn it, I’m not running!”
“That’s right, you’re not. You’re taking the advice of your lawyer.”
“You’re not licensed in this state.”
“Actually, I took the Mississippi bar exam when I graduated, and I’ve paid the licensing fee every year.”
He is so distracted by this information that he allows himself to be pulled through a side garden to the street.
“Here’s the car.” I unlock my mother’s Maxima—the damaged BMW having been consigned to the garage—and practically push him into the driver’s seat.
He looks up at me, eyes anxious. “You felt Mackey out?”
“Yes. It was like feeling out a porcupine. We’re going to have to go the other way.”
“What other way?”
“We’re going to have to buy the gun.”
He blinks in disbelief. “Christ. Are you sure?”
“It’s the only way. I want you to call Ray Presley at ten in the morning. Tell him I’ll be at his place at ten-thirty. That doesn’t give him enough time to get the police involved.”
Dad looks down at the steering wheel. “Goddamn it, if anyone has to do this, it should be me.”
“You’ve been under Presley’s thumb too long. He’d never buy your bluff. Do you have a hundred thousand dollars liquid?”
He looks up, helpless with rage. “It’ll cost a fortune in penalties, but I can get it. And I won’t have a damn cent to pay the IRS in January.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back. But there’s no point in creating a paper trail to me yet. Have the money at your office as early as you can. I’ll pick it up. I may not offer Presley the whole hundred grand, but I need to be able to go up to that.”
He looks too dazed to keep track of this. “Well . . . get in. We’ll get it all figured out.”
“I’m not coming, Dad.”
“What?”
“I want to talk to Sam Jacobs about Presley. Sam knows everything that goes on in this town. Have you got everything straight?”
He takes a deep breath and nods slowly. “I’ll have the money waiting. Ray too.”
“Good. Now, go home and get some sleep. And don’t speed. The last thing you need tonight is a DWI.”
He gives me a somber salute, then shuts the door, starts the engine, and pulls slowly away. I stand at the curb and watch the taillights wink out as he hooks around the block to get headed home on the downtown streets, which are all one-way.
After years of putting men into prison—even into their graves—for committing crimes, I am about to cross the legal line myself. Tomorrow morning I am going to risk prison, forced separation from my child, to try to spare my father the same fate. That knowledge simmers in my stomach like a bad meal, acid and portentous. Is it the right thing to do? Is it stupid? Ultimately, it does not matter.
It’s the only thing I can do.
As I pass through the wrought-iron gate of the Perry garden, I see a figure standing at the foot of the steps leading to the side door of the mansion, and the orange eye of a cigarette burning in the dark.
The shrubs and trees in the garden are lighted with white Christmas lights, like little stars. Nearing the steps, I realize that the figure is Caitlin Masters. She’s rocking slightly to the rhythm of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” wafting from the back of the house. I stop a few feet from her.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
She blows a stream of smoke away from me. “I don’t. You’re hallucinating. Is your father okay?”
“He had an emergency call. So, you only smoke at parties?”
“Only when I’m bored.”
She doesn’t look bored. She looks like she’s been waiting for me. “Are there many people in town your age?”
She cuts her eyes at me. “You mean men?”
“I guess I did.”
“
Nada.
It’s a desert.” She stubs out the cigarette with her sandal and takes a sip of her drink. It looks like white wine, but it’s not in a wineglass, and in the dim light has a tinge of green.
“Is that Mountain Dew?”
“God, no. It’s a gimlet. Gin and Rose’s lime juice. Raymond Chandler turned me on to them.”
The Chandler reference surprises me. I’m starting to suspect that Caitlin Masters is full of surprises.