“Pleased t’meet both o’you,” the Texan said. “Yer not from this part o’the country, ah’d wager.”
“No,” Landry said. “I’m from San Diego originally, and Paul’s from San Francisco.”
J.J. DuBose winked at me. “Nice city,” he said, putting an end to that phase of the conversation and turning his attention back to Landry. As he spoke he fished a golden cigarette case out of his pocket, shook a cigarette loose, and then spun the wheel of a gold-plated cigarette lighter that bore on its side the single gleaming monogram-med letter D. That done, he touched the flame to the cigarette and said, “But we was speakin o’courage. I wish t’God money could buy that, cause ah’d...”
He broke off, and glanced from Landry to me.
“Ah’ll level with you boys. Yer lookin’ at a dyin’ man.”
The incongruity of his statement must have struck us both at once: J.J. Du Bose looked perhaps sixty years of age, and everything about his appearance, from his burly forearms with their timberline of dark curling hair to his powerful voice, suggested he might live to be a hundred.
Noting our appraisal of his physical condition, he shook his head. “Don’t let appearances fool ya. Ah’m eaten up with cancer. That’s what comes o’smokin five packsa Chesterfields a day over forty years. There ain’t no doubt of it: ah’ve been t’every g.p. an every cancer specialist from here t’Tuscaloosa, an it cost me sixteen Gs t’hear the same thing from ever one of em: ah’m crawlin with the things. They’re all over me, in muh lungs, muh colon, muh liver. They probably reached muh brain b’now.” The Texan took a deep drag off his cigarette and smiled wistfully. “But it’s OK. Ah’m resigned t’that. It don’t scare m’none. Hail, everbody gotta die sometime. Ah’ve had a good life: ah’ve been with a lotta women — if y’catch muh meanin — ah’ve made a lotta money, ah’ve gotta nice spread. Ah coulda died, wheezin and coughin, twenty years ago an ah didn’t. The lord been lookin after me fer a long time. But that ain’t m’point.”
He drew his chair closer to the table. The wistful expression was gone now, replaced by one of remarkable earnestness.
“The point is ah ain’t got too much time left on God’s earth, an the land an the money has gotta go somewhar after ah kick. Ah ain’t got nobody t’leave it to. Nobody deservin, that is.” He scowled. “Ah’m single now, but ah was married oncet. To a Mexican woman, name o’Juanita. She’s dead now a good five years. She was fifteen years younger’n me, and I outlasted her.”
He smiled bitterly at the memory, then went on:
“Anyways, we had a son. But he ain’t a DuBose. Not by a country mile. An d’you know why? Cause he lacks the greatest dang thing God ever give us: courage. Truth t’tell, he’s the most miserable bastard was ever whelped. He’s off livin somewhar in Mexico now. I ain’t even heard of him since afore his mother died. Dint even come t’the funeral. Some people are like at. I guess it’s somethin yer born with, like a suck-egg dog, they’s nothin y’can do for em; y’either get rid of em or shoot em. I can’t very well shoot m’own boy, so I disowned em. Point bein: who in hail’m I gonna leave m’money to?” He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.
I glanced over at Landry. To my surprise he was listening to the Texan’s every word. I thought it an appropriate time to speak. “Who are you going to leave it to?”
J.J. DuBose turned to look at me, and smiled a crooked smile that even now makes me distinctly ill at ease just to recall it.
“Don’t know that,” he said. “But I kin tell you this: it’ll be someone with courage. Someone who kin show me he has guts, who’ll take anythin I kin hand im an come back fer more. You show me somebody who measures up t’that an I will write him a check that’s good at any bank in this dang state fer ten thousand dollars. An that is fer real.”
I don’t recall if he brought his fist crashing down on the table to round off his spiel with the proper punctuation mark, but it seems to me he did.
At this point the waiter returned to our table. Catching sight of our companion, the waiter smiled amiably and said, “I didn’t realize they were friends of yours, Mr. DuBose.” Then, turning to us: “Drinks are always on the house for a friend of Mr. DuBose’s.”
The Texan smiled again and said, “Y’see? Ah cain’t even give m’money away. Everwhere I go they tell me m’money’s no good. Shore is nice t’be liked.” To the waiter he said, “Gimme a stinger, Albert.”
The waiter smiled and nodded, and said, “How about it, boys? Another?”
“A double bourbon,” Landry said. I noticed he had consumed all of his while listening to our acquaintance. The waiter turned to me, but I shook my head and said, “No, I’m fine.”
As soon as the waiter had departed J.J. DuBose leaned across the table and, speaking directly to Landry now, said, “Ten thousand U.S. dollars shore buys a lotta bourbon.”
“What are we talking about?” Landry asked suddenly. “What does a person have to do to satisfy you? What kind of courage are you looking for? Someone to rob a bank — is that it?”
The Texan went into a laughing fit I thought would never stop. His broad shoulders shook with a rhythm so emphatic and well-coordinated it looked choreographed. During this fit I glanced over at Landry. His face never changed expression: he was staring intently at J.J. DuBose, and there was not an ounce of humor, or human warmth, on his features. The big man continued to laugh until his chuckles turned into a wracking cough that continued to convulse him until at length it subsided.
When J.J. DuBose was again able to speak he said, “Hail, I don’t want you robbin no bank. I got more money in m’safe at home than most banks in this state got in their vaults. Besides, that wouldn’t prove nothin other than what a fool y’were t’do such a damfool thing. Naw; t’earn the ten thousand I want y’t’do somethin not one man in ten thousand would have the nerve t’do.”
The waiter returned with the drinks. Nearly everyone beside our party had cleared out, I noticed, for the restaurant closed at midday; the hubbub of conversation heard earlier had been reduced to an ominous silence. I knew we would not be asked to leave: the waiter’s every movement, and the very intonation of his voice, showed he paid deference to J.J. DuBose.
“How bout it, boy?” DuBose finally asked. “Have y’got the stuff?”
Landry took a gulp of bourbon, then set the glass down on the table with a steady hand. “Try me,” he said.
The texan never took his eyes off him, as though afraid he might turn tail and run the second he was unwatched. “Albert,” he called. The waiter reappeared. Sensing him behind him, but not turning in his chair to look, DuBose said, “You know what to bring me. A cupful. And make sure it’s hot.”
The waiter nodded and said, “Yes sir, Mr. DuBose. Right away.” He turned and walked off toward the back of the restaurant and disappeared into the kitchen.
“This is just a little, I guess you’d call it a test, o’mine,” J.J. DuBose said. “I’ve tried it on people before, an, d’you know, not a one — not one — of em’s passed it.”
“I’ll pass it,” Landry said.
DuBose stared at him, and his eyes seemed to bore into Landry’s, as if plumbing his depths. “We’ll see,” he finally said.
Fully ten minutes passed in excruciating silence, during which I do not believe J.J. DuBose once took his eyes off Landry. I rose from my chair at one point simply to stretch, but did not say anything. The atmosphere was filled with the kind of tenseness that forbids speech. I had begun to feel queasy, as though it were I and not Landry who was being tested, and by the time the waiter appeared from the back it was such a relief to have someone break the stillness that I exhaled loudly.