Pretty good, actually. The bartender was a fluke; besides his students and the Hermanos crowd, there weren't too many people in town who would know him.
The lawyer, if that's what he was, and Willy Joe and another man, a small skinny weasel with a sallow complexion, watched him as he walked down the aisle. He sat down wordlessly.
The sallow man thrust out a hand. "The bag." Norman slid it over. "I smell gun oil."
Norman tried to keep a neutral expression while the bodyguard, if that's what he was, zipped open the bike bag and sorted through its contents. "It's valve oil you smell, genius. I'm a musician. I was cleaning a trumpet." They might know something about his sex life, but he doubted they knew which instruments he played. Definitely not trumpet.
"It's okay, Solo," Willy Joe said. "Professor wouldn't bring a gun in here." The man zipped up the bag slowly, staring.
He slid it across slowly. "What outfit you with?"
"What?"
"You've killed people, maybe lots." He was almost whispering.
"It's in the way you walk, the way you're not afraid. So you were a soldier?"
This man was dangerous, "Hundred and first. Second of the Twenty-third. But that was a long time ago."
"You killed men, Professor?" Willy Joe said conversationally. "As well as fucking them?"
Interesting that he didn't know that elementary fact. "As I said, a long time ago, both."
The lawyer leaned forward, and he did whisper: "There's no statute of limitations on being a faggot."
Norman felt heat and a prickling sensation on his palms, the back of his neck, his scalp. Adrenaline, epinephrine. He knew his face was flushed.
If they hadn't been in a crowded restaurant, at this moment he might find out how many of them he could kill before he died. Certainly one.
"There ain't no need to be insulting, Greg," Willy Joe said. "Let's not use that word."
"I apologize," he said. "This is a financial proposition, not a moral judgment."
Norman sat completely still. "Go on."
"We know that your wife knows," the lawyer said. "She paid off the police." He looked up as a waiter approached.
"My name is Bradley," he said. "For today's specials, we—"
"I want the special," Willy Joe interrupted. "We all want the special."
"But we have four—"
"We want the first."
"The grouper?"
"Yeah. What kinda wine goes with that?"
"I would suggest the Bin 24, the—"
"Bring us two bottles of it. Pronto?"
"Yes, sir." He hurried away.
"You was sayin', Greg."
The lawyer paused, staring at Norman. "To be blunt, it's your wife's money we're after. Her inheritance."
"We have a joint account."
"We know that, of course. But your wife seems to have enough on her mind right now. So we thought we'd approach you instead."
"She'd lose her job," Willy Joe said. "Even if she didn't go to jail, for buying off the cops. And you and your boyfriend would get Raiford for sodomy. Separate cells, I think."
"You might live through it," the lawyer said, "but he wouldn't. A fag ... a homosexual cop in Raiford."
"They'd use him up real quick," Willy Joe said.
One chance for the offensive. "I don't think you've thought that through, Willy Joe. Qabil has a lot of friends on the force." He saw the man's eyebrows go up and thought, My God, they didn't know his identity. But he pressed on. "And he's a family man, cute kids; everybody likes him. You send him off to certain death in prison— yourself not a man well loved by the police—and what do you think his friends are going to do to you?"
"I got friends in the police, too."
"It just takes one who's not your friend, but is a friend of Qabil's. You may have noticed that the police kill criminals all the time, in the course of their duties. If one of them killed you, he wouldn't go to jail. He'd get a promotion."
"This isn't about Qabil," the lawyer said. "It's about you and your wife. Your wife's job and money."
"Oh, really. You can expose me as a homosexual without naming my partner?"
"This Kabool ain't the only one you done," Willy Joe said.
"Oh? Name another." Norman stared into the little man's face. "Give me one name and I'll write you a check." There were no others, not in this state, this country.
"You're a piece of work," the lawyer said. "You take a false premise and build a considerable edifice of conjecture."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Norman said. "That's your job."
"You can't fuckin' turn this around," Willy Joe said.
Norman stood up. "Why don't you discuss the ramifications of this," he said quietly. "Your life expectancy after you condemn a cop to death." He picked up his bag.
"Sit down," Willy Joe said.
"See you here tomorrow, same time."
"I can have you killed," he said in a harsh whisper, theatrical.
Norman looked at the sallow man. "You, Solo?"
"Nothin' personal." He smiled a genuine smile.
"See you soon." Norman turned to go and almost ran into the wine steward. He snatched one bottle out of the ice bucket. "This one's mine, thanks."
He heard Solo laugh as he walked away. "Balls. You got to admit he got balls."
Southeby
"Norman!" Odd to see his neighbor at a fancy place like this.
"Mr. Mayor." Norman saluted with his left hand and strode toward his bike.
"He looks familiar," his companion, Rose, said.
"Aurora Bell's husband. We're neighbors."
"They let you bring your own bottle to a place like this?"
"I guess." He held the door open for her. Nothing wrong with the mayor having lunch with his university liaison. He didn't know that most of his office knew exactly what their relationship was, and thought he was a fatuous old fool. Some of them had an even lower opinion of her, for being able to stand him.
Southeby stiffened when he saw Willy Joe Capra at a far table, along with that slimeball Gregory Moore and some other gangster type. Capra locked eyes with him and gave a small nod.
"Right this way, Mayor," the maitre d' said, and led them back to a table distressingly close to Capra's. Southeby took the chair that would put his back to them.
A waiter came with menus and took their drink order. He asked for lemonade, though he could have used something stronger. She ordered E.T. Lager, a new local brew.
"That any good?"
"Probably not. I just want to see the label." She lowered her voice. "You know those guys?"
"Not to speak to, except the oldest one, Greg Moore. Used to be public defender. Now he works for the little wop, Capra, who's got Mafia connections. The third one, I don't want to know."
He hadn't noticed that she flinched at the word "wop." Blond and blue-eyed, three of her four grandparents had come from Tuscany.
"He's the one the petty cash goes to?"
"Jesus, Rosie!" He took a leatherbound notebook out of his jacket pocket and riffled through it.
"Really, I'm curious," she said, just above a whisper.
"Who told you this?"
"You withdraw it for 'office supplies.' That's a lot of staples, Cam."
"Okay. It's a kind of insurance. For the building, not for me."