"What's going on here?" We all turned, and Bell was striding across the parking lot.
"Your town thug decided to beat me up," I said as Hill got slowly back to his feet. His nose and upper lip were bleeding heavily, the blood glistening on his teeth and dripping down his chin. He wanted to come for me again, but his ribs were holding him back. Every time he moved, the pain flared in his eyes; I'd give odds that I'd cracked a couple of his ribs.
"What about that, Duane?" Bell demanded.
One of the cowboys, with the insouciant lack of fear that seems to mark the breed, cleared his throat. "Duane sure started it," he said cheerfully. "Called the young lady there a real bad name."
Bell looked us over again and then nodded. "Y'all go home and sober up," he said. "Fightin' in a parking lot doesn't do credit to anyone. And Duane, I'll see you at City Hall tomorrow, ten o'clock sharp. Now git."
Hill, snarling, turned away, still favoring his ribs. Bell watched him go, then nodded at LuEllen, gave me a measured look, and headed toward his car, where the blonde waited with folded arms.
"Goddamn, this country is goin' to hell in a handbasket," one of the cowboys said, taking a hit from his beer bottle. He looked me up and down, taking in my artist's getup and beard. "Somebody's gone and taught the fuckin' hippies how to fight."
CHAPTER 13
The next morning Marvel asked if we could meet her at the farm home of a friend, out in the country, well away from the river and the prying eyes of Longstreet.
"It's safe and quicker than Greenville, and nobody will see your car," she said. "Half an hour?"
"I'll be there."
LuEllen again decided to stay with the boat, away from new faces.
"You gonna be here when I get back?" I asked.
"Of course," she said gravely. "I'm not leaving until we find some way to grease Hill and St. Thomas."
Marvel's friend's name was Matron Carter, a plain, cheerful woman with short hair and good moves. She was shooting basketballs at a netless hoop hung on the side of a swaybacked, free-standing garage when I pulled into her yard. Marvel's car was around back, next to a vacant chicken coop. A rusty forties-style power mower appeared to be permanently parked in knee-high grass under lilac bushes at the edge of the yard, and a pear tree and a half dozen aging apple trees marched in military file down the edge of an overgrown field.
"They're waiting for you inside," the woman said, dribbling the ball as she talked. She faked one way, turned the other, and popped a fifteen-foot jump shot.
"Nice shot," I said.
"Do it for a living," she answered, running down the ball. Marvel told me later that she was a gym teacher at Longstreet High School and coached the girls' basketball teams.
The house was tired but comfortable. I went through the back door, through a kitchen, and into a small living room, where Marvel and John were sprawled on a broken-down couch.
"Harold's dead," Marvel said. She stopped me in my tracks.
"You found him?"
"We found his car. At Wal-Mart," she said wearily. "And he's gone. I can feel it. The motherfuckers took him someplace and killed him."
Tears started running down her face, and John said quietly, "They go back to when they were babies. They were raised together."
"Jesus Christ," I said, running my fingers through my hair. I was gripped by the temptation to tell them the truth but instead blurted, "We need the FBI in here."
"I don't," John said sharply. "I've had some problems with those boys. And we've still got to take this town. That's the main thing."
"Maybe Harold is OK. Maybe he had to take off for some reason," I said fatuously. I wandered over to a window and looked out. Matron Carter was pumping a wrought-iron water pump and drinking from the spout as the water surged out of the ground. In the dappled sunlight in the yard she looked beautiful, not plain. "Maybe they scared him and he took off for Greenville or Helena."
"And left his car at Wal-Mart?" John asked.
Marvel, turning in John's arms, shook her head. "No. He's dead. I can feel him. gone."
There wasn't much more to say. Marvel insisted that we keep the takeover rolling.
"Matron will be the second appointee to the council if we bring this off," Marvel said. She'd be the third.
"Can she do that? If she lives out here, outside the city."
"This is her folks' place. They're gone, dead, and nobody lives here anymore. Matron lives in town."
"OK. You can name who you want, that's your call. I'm more worried about John and your contacts at the capitol-"
"Don't worry about that. I talked to an old friend of Harold's, one of the black caucus guys. I told him Harold was missing and that it was connected to our deal. This guy is smart; he knows something's going on, and he's helping. I'll take the fucking books to the governor's man and bring back so many cops it'll look like a convention. And one way or another, on my mama's grave, we'll find Harold."
"Then we've got to set up John's part," I said. "We've got to get the bridge scam going. Get the rumors started."
"I'll start now, from here, on the phone," Marvel promised. "Two hours from now everybody in town'll know there's a rich drug dealer down here snapping up land for the bridge."
"The more I think about it, the more this sounds like bullshit," John said. "The goddamn pin-striped suit and the car and the hair – why'n the hell would they believe some strange nigger from Memphis?"
"Same reason there are a million con men working the world and making money," I said. "Greed. You're going to offer them something for almost nothing; they'll have to show you some money, but that's it. They don't have to give it to you, just show it. They don't have to put up a cent until the bridge is coming in. By that time, the profit'll be guaranteed."
"A wonderful thing, greed," Marvel said. "Where would we be without it?"
John rubbed her head. "Fuckin' Commie," he said.
When I got back to the boat, LuEllen was slumped in a deck chair with two bottles of beer and a glass, looking glum. A crumpled newspaper lay at her feet.
"Get a beer," she called as I came- aboard.
I got one, climbed up on top, and sank into the chair beside her.
"Pretty bad?" she asked.
"Pretty bad," I said.
"Is John gonna do his act?"
"Yeah."
She squinted up at the city beyond the levee, the brick buildings, the peaks of Victorian mansions beyond. "The place looks like a museum," she said. "It's hard to believe this is all happening. Look what I found."
She handed me the newspaper, folded to an editorial. The headline said LONGSTREET, AN ISLAND OF PEACE.
"Makes you giggle, huh?" she asked sourly, tipping her bottle up.
The Longstreet rumor mill was as efficient as Marvel had said it was. She made her calls and sat back, while John drove around town, made several trips out to the supposed bridge property, and talked to an engineer about soil and perc tests. Bobby phoned again on a voice line.
"I just got a call on our phone cutout about the bridge," he said. "Archibald Ballem."
"The attorney."
"Right."
"Did he buy it?" I asked.
"Yeah, I think so. I got pissed and refused to answer questions. I wanted to know where he got his information and told him the whole thing was secret. I warned him that spreading the information might damage the prospects for construction. He tried to cool me off. I don't think he'll be calling back."
"Keep monitoring the number anyway," I said.
I called John with the news. "They'll be coming," I said. "Be ready."
John got a second call two hours later. Archibald Ballem, a local attorney, wanted to talk to him and to bring along a couple of business associates. I thought it would be Dessusdelit and maybe St. Thomas. It was St. Thomas all right, but Ballem opted for muscle instead of brains; Hill was with them.