“What’s that?” Billy asked. He dismounted and tied the horse to a post.
I handed him the book and he flipped through all the pages, all the black-and-white photographs of all the girls and all their statistics and numbers that corresponded with the tattoos in their mouths.
He flipped through a few times and then stopped on one picture. He stared at it and then closed the book with a thump.
“Thinking about burning some of that old hay,” I said. “Want to join me?”
Billy grinned, a tall, skinny man in his deputy uniform.
He helped me toss some of the old bales into a heap and I put my Zippo to the edge of them, the dry grass quickly catching and igniting in a rush of fire. Billy picked up the book and tossed it into the dead center of the bales. We stood there for a long while and watched it catch and burn, seeing some of the faces of all those lost girls from long ago curl and smolder and turn to nothing.
As we walked back to the horses, taking off their bridles and slipping the saddles from their backs, I asked, “Did you ever hear from Lorelei after she left?”
“A few times. I got postcards from North Carolina, and even one from New York. She never left an address. After a couple years, they just stopped.”
“You ever get your daddy’s Buick back?”
He shook his head.
“Or the money you cut from the Hoyt Shepherd job?”
“Wasn’t much.”
“Enough to start over.”
“I guess.”
From the damp earth, you could smell the last bits of the fire, dying and smoldering, and leaving the smell of fall on the wind.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Background information provided by: Ed Strickland and Gene Wortsman, Phenix City: The Wickedest City in America; Margaret Anne Barnes, The Tragedy and the Triumph of Phenix City, Alabama; Alan Grady, When Good Men Do Nothing: The Assassination of Albert Patterson; the film and newsreel The Phenix City Story; the Albert Patterson murder trial transcripts; and files of the Columbus Ledger.
Nuria Chaparro, your constant friendship, support, and tireless replies to my questions were the foundation of this book. Thank you for introducing me to your father, the heroic Lamar Murphy. I’m better for knowing him.
Thanks to the entire Fussell family for the round of introductions in Phenix City and Columbus, Georgia. And to the Carson McCullers Center, for shelter while I researched this novel, and to Tim Chitwood at the Ledger, who went above and beyond to get me the Phenix City files.
For my two important friends in New York: Neil, wasn’t that easy? You’re a tough, demanding trainer. And I’m grateful for it. Esther, what can I say? You are the greatest agent of all time. I’m honored to know you.
A special thanks to two great writers: Elmore, the knock-out artist, for his continued wisdom, humbling example, and great work, and Bob Crais for a much-needed pep talk and brainstorming session.
Thanks to John Patterson, a man who lived this story, for giving me his valuable time and patient answers that meant so much. And to Joe Atkins, my great friend and brother in noir, who brought me back to Phenix City and showed me a story that lived in my family’s backyard.
For all of those who provided support or took me back to the wickedest days of Phenix City, thank you: Jim Cannon, Charley Frank Bass, Jan Shepherd, Rankin Sherling, Ray Jenkins, Billy Winn, John Lupold, Pete Hanna, Jere Hoar, and my boxing trainer, Larry Greene.
Norwood Kerr and Rickie Brunner at the Alabama Department of Archives and History opened their doors and made me feel right at home. And Jake Reiss, who has been pushing me to write about my home state for some time – Jake, here’s that Alabama book!
For my family: Mom, Charlie, Paige, boys, and all matter of in-laws. And to my grandfather, Bogue Reuben Miller, who knew most everyone in this book but died too early to tell his secrets.
As always, thank you, my brother, Tim Green, for your never-ending loyalty and friendship and pushing me in the last round. And to Angela, my beautiful, brilliant, wonderful wife, the best friend a man could have.
