She didn’t like “little lady,” he could see that. Well hell, maybe he was gonna have to write her name down somewhere. Meantime, screw her. “All set, boys?” he asked.
They were all set. This had to be an acoustic version, of course, with no bass and the drummer doing his part on the practice pad on his lap, but they could still all work at familiarizing themselves with the idea of the arrangement. Ray gave the beat, they did the intro, and in he came, sailing on top of the music, belting it to the bus as though the bus were Yankee Stadium:
They went through the song three times, the second time trying an idea of Lennie’s, in which the girls came in and sang counterpoint against him in the bridge, going:
But Ray didn’t like it. It didn’t do anything for him, or the song, or the emotion, or the relationship with the audience. So the third time, they did it without the girls, and that was better. Then Ray borrowed Peewee’s guitar and walked down the aisle to the girl reporter and said, “You don’t want to hear the same damn song over and over.”
“I’m enjoying it,” she said, grinning at him. “I can see why you won’t take it public until after you make your deal.”
He laughed, having a good time with her. “This one’s also autobiographical,” he lied, and strummed the guitar and went into it:
Finishing, he grinned at her, and she said, “Do you remember her name?”
“Ouch,” he said. “You got me, damn it. Tell me, and I’ll never forget it again.”
“Sara.”
“With or without the H?”
“Without.”
“Lean and mean, huh, Sara?” With another good ole boy grin, Ray tapped his forehead. “I got you now,” he said, “right here in the old computer.”
“I like the IRS song,” Sara Whatsit said. “And I liked the fried-food song, too.”
“Maybe we’ll share some fried food together sometime,” Ray said, and bent to look past her out the window at the beginnings of Forsyth. “Looks like we’re here,” he announced. “Catch you later.”
“You, too.”
Feeling he’d done well enough for day one, Ray went back to his seat, returning Peewee’s guitar along the way, and looked out the big windshield at the mob clustered around the courthouse, dead ahead. TV camera crews, cops, tourists, reporters, all kinds of people. He said, “I never knew old Belle had so many friends.”
“You give them what they want,” Jolie said, “they’ll come out for it.”
“I guess.”
By prearrangement, a space had been held open for the bus, where Ray would have the shortest and quickest route across the clear space to the building. A brown-uniformed trooper waved them into this slot, with so many hand gestures and body movements, you’d think they were landing a 747. The bus bunked the curb at last, stopped, and the driver opened the door, letting in the roar of the crowd.
Standing, yawning, stretching, Ray said, “Showtime.”
“Kill, tiger,” Jolie suggested.
Ray was the first one off the bus. Cops were holding the gawkers back, but their noise was terrific. Another uniformed trooper, this one older and with spaghetti on his hat to show he was of more importance around here, stepped forward, very formal, and said, “Raymond Vernon Jones?”
“I’ll say yes to that,” Ray told him, and started on by, but the trooper held up a hand to stop him, saying, “Raymond Vernon Jones, I have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right—”
“I already been arrested, pal,” Ray told him. “We went through this part of the act a long time ago.”
“This is a new warrant,” the trooper said.
Jolie was out of the bus now and standing beside Ray like a tough blimp. She said, “What’s it a warrant for, Officer?”
“Murder,” said the trooper.
Ray wanted this shit over with. “You’re on the wrong page, my friend,” he said. “All this is done and over. We’re here for the trial.”
“I have a warrant for your arrest, Raymond Vernon Jones,” the goddamn trooper said, refusing to be sidetracked, “for the murder of one Robert Wayne Golker. You have the right to remain silent...”
Ray did.
16
The worst possible situation for a reporter is to be at the back of the bus when the interesting event is happening at the front of the bus. “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” Sara mantra’d, as she pushed her way down the aisle, making good use of elbows and knees and her heavy shoulder bag, caroming musicians and their instruments back into their seats along the way, single-mindedly plowing her furrow forward.
Still, by the time she got to the bus door, whatever had been happening was already over with and done. While tourists and journalists went nova with excitement all around the periphery, Ray Jones was being escorted in the middle of a swarm of brown-uniformed policemen toward the courthouse, and Ray Jones was in handcuffs.