Dennis took it out of Arlen's hands and passed it to Robert, Robert saying, "I wasn't gonna show you this. Then I found out we'd be soldiering together at the Tunica Muster and I thought to myself, Lookit how our heritage is tied together, going back to our ancestors. Yeah, I'm gonna show him the historical fact of it."
Arlen pushed up from the table to stand there in his starched shirt, took hold of his hat to reset it down on his eyes and said, "I'm gonna tell you this for the last goddamn time. That is not my fuckin grampa." He stared hard at Robert saying it, gave Dennis a look, then Charlie. Said to him, "You know what the deal is," and walked out of the kitchen.
"He still thinks I was talking about Bobba," Robert said. "I told him no, it's your greatgrandfather… asshole. The man doesn't listen, does he? Got the brain of a chicken and believes whatever's in his head."
Robert sat there a moment, then jumped up and was in a hurry now, something on his mind. He laid his case on the chair and ran out of the kitchen.
Dennis and Charlie looked at each other.
Charlie picked up the Early Times and poured himself a good one. He said, "You know where he's going?"
"I imagine to tell Arlen something."
"Like what?"
Dennis shook his head. "I don't know."
"He's a talker, isn't he?"
"Yeah, but it's always a good story."
"You believe that's his grandpa was lynched?"
"His great-grandpa."
"I'm as bad as Arlen. And that's his kin up on the bridge?"
"According to Robert."
"You sounded like you knew about it."
"Not much."
Charlie let it go. He looked at the pistol lying on the table and wanted to heft it, but decided he'd better not. He said to Dennis, "Why's he carry a gun?"
"He heard there's a lot of crime here."
"In Tunica? And he's from De-troit?"
"I imagine he packs there, too."
"You know what kind it is?"
"A PPK, the one James Bond had."
"I thought it looked familiar."
There was a silence, not long, a few moments, and Dennis said, "Last night Arlen was gonna kill me. Tonight he's sitting here at the table."
"It's gonna pass," Charlie said.
"I think I should tell John Rau. Get it over with.
It's on my mind all the time, knowing it's what I should do. Shit, I probably could go to jail for not saying anything."
"You heard him," Charlie said. "We made a deal."
"Keep quiet or get shot. That's some deal."
"Nobody," Charlie said, "gives a shit about Floyd. I'm telling you, it's gonna pass over."
They both looked up as Robert came in the kitchen. Dennis said, "What'd you forget to tell him?"
"That I won't say nothing about his shooting Floyd," Robert said. "You all aren't gonna say nothing, are you? I advise you, be better if you didn't."
Dennis said, "It's all I think about."
Robert shook his head. "Let nature take its course."
11
ONE OF THE WHORES AT JUNEBUG'S-two in the afternoon, the place empty-walked up to John Rau at the bar having a Coca-Cola and said, "Hi, I'm Traci. You want to see my trailer?"
"I bet it's nice," John Rau said, "but I'm waiting to see the proprietor. The bartender's gone to check."
"Junebug left," Traci said. "You want, we could party till he gets back. I don't have an appointment till three."
John Rau said, "Traci, I'm with the state highway patrol."
And she said, "Oh, was I going too fast?"
John Rau smiled at her, a cute girl in her little halter top and shorts, and that was a cute thing to say, was she going too fast. Flirting with a police officer. This place, it didn't surprise him. He'd been told they had live sex acts on the stage there in front of everybody-probably this cute girl and another one, or some farm boy with a big wang. Lock the door and hang a sign out, Closed, with all the cars and pickups in the lot and along the road. Junebug's had that skunky smell of beer and stale smoke, but did more business at night than any of the casino bars. The bartender, an old guy in an undershirt hanging from frail shoulders, was coming back along the bar getting ready to tell him no, Junebug wasn't here, didn't know where he went or when he was coming back or where he lived or whatever else had anything to do with him.
John Rau brought his ID case from the inside pocket of his navy-blue suitcoat and showed Traci he was with the Criminal Investigation Bureau. He said, "I don't hand out tickets and I'm not one to party, so…" He flipped the case closed as the bartender approached shaking his head.
John Rau nodded, accepting it, as Traci was telling him she collected ashtrays, had ashtrays from all the casinos, from places in Memphis, Jackson, Slidell, New Orleans-"let's see"-Biloxi, Pascagoula, Mobile… She said, "Okay then," and he watched her wander off, not going anywhere. Not more than eighteen years old. She'd go in the ladies' room and smoke a rock and one day she wouldn't be here.
He watched her turn to the door as it opened to bright sunlight behind someone coming in, a guy wearing a hat John Rau would recognize from two hundred yards, facing a line of Confederate skirmishers across a field. The figure in the doorway hesitated and seemed to change his mind about coming in-until John Rau, sure of who it was now, called to him, "Hey, Arlen, is that you?"
The trip wasn't a waste of time after all, John Rau pretty sure this was the man who'd shot Floyd Showers, or had it done.
Shit. It was too late now to duck out, the cop looking right at him. Arlen came on in raising his hand to the state cop and getting a cordial tone ready. "Hey, chief, what're you doing here, fixing to get laid? Hey, I got to piss before I wet my pants. You wait there, chief, I'll be right back." He hurried along the bar and into the back hall to the men's. He did have to piss, unzipped and stood at the rusty urinal as he got his phone out of his back pocket and punched a number.
"What're you doing? You got some little girl with you?" He listened and said, "Well I'm about to have a conversation with a state dick dropped by for a Co'Cola. When I'm through, and it ain't gonna take long, I'm coming to see you." He listened and said, "What do you think for, you dumb shit."
He punched another number.
"Fish? Drop what you're doing, we're going on a job." He listened and said, "I'll tell you on the way.
Pick me up at Junebug's." He listened again and said, "No, nothing that big. Your forty-five, something you can slip in your waist."
He walked up to the state cop standing at the bar in his neat suit and tie and his Co'Cola, Arlen cordial again as he said, "I bet you're ready for the Cross Roads. You know what uniform you're gonna wear?"
This state cop didn't offer his hand. "The Second New Jersey Mounted Infantry, though I think dismounted this time. I lost a beautiful mare at Yellow Tavern. Stepped in a hole and broke her leg. How about yourself, Forrest 's Escort?"
"I may as well serve under Walter," Arlen said, "since I work for him." He wished he could think of this state cop's name, so he could throw it in while they took time to bullshit each other before getting to the point. "I haven't been to the site yet to look it over."
"It'll remind you some of Brice's."
"Too bad we can't use the actual battlefield."
"Even if we could," this know-it-all cop said, "Brice's is too far away to do Tunica any good. You have to look at this muster as a way to promote Tunica."
"I guess you're right," Arlen said, nodding to the bartender, who came over in his sour undershirt popping open a can of Bud. Arlen took a long swallow, giving himself time to wonder if he should mention Floyd before the cop brought it up. Ask how the investigation was going. Show he'd talk about it like anybody else. He wished he could think of this state cop's name. He believed it was John something. Arlen had reenacted with him, remembering him going either way, gray or blue, hardcore to his buttons; and he remembered this John something testifying to evidence in court when he went down on the extortion charges. Two years of his life in the toilet.