Page 16 of His Third Wife

“Shut your old angry ass up!” an older man with a round belly that made him look thirteen months pregnant ordered, bumping into Emmit purposefully.

“Oh, Scoot, ain’t nobody talking to your crusty ass,” Emmit said as Jamison greeted the other man with a hug, as well.

“You fools should be. I say let the man make his own decisions. Live his life. Make mistakes.” Scoot looked into Jamison’s eyes with careful speculation. He was a retired detective who’d been serving as the chapter’s historian for seventeen years.

“Oh, there’s no mistake here, gentlemen,” Jamison proclaimed. “I love my wife.” He smiled as he had practiced in the mirror before the press conference he’d held with Val just three days after the wedding.

Emmitt and Scoot looked at each other with wide smiles and then, after a little straightening, back at Jamison. They knew what he was doing. They knew why he was doing it.

“Well, that’s wonderful, young brother,” Scoot said as earnestly as he could after having three shots of bourbon before coming to the meeting. He patted Jamison on the shoulder.

“Young love. Good as gold,” Emmit added, patting Jamison’s other shoulder.

“Good as gold,” Scoot repeated. “And, on that note, I believe I have a date with my favorite friend—Jack Daniel’s.” He laughed a little and pointed both index fingers at Emmit before starting out the door.

“Oh, I’m coming,” Emmit said. “Jamison, you coming out with the old men for drinks? It’s fellowship time.”

“Drinks? Where?”

“You know. The Rainforest,” Emmit revealed, referring to the rainforest-themed basement bar of another brother.

“Oh, hell, last time I hung out there I almost lost my wallet,” Jamison recalled.

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“That’s all?”

The two laughed, and Jamison quickly looked over both shoulders before he spoke again.

“Hey, I actually wasn’t joking when I said I was coming in here to see you.”

“What’s going on?” Emmit’s softened demeanor matched Jamison’s new low tone.

“I need some information, and I know you’re the guy to get it from.”

“Oh, my ear hasn’t been to the streets in a minute,” Emmit said, using his normal bow-out in a routine that both parties knew would end with Jamison getting the information he needed—if he begged in the right way.

“Come on now, Judge. Everyone knows the streets don’t move unless you allow the stop lights to change. I’m just the man in the pictures.” When Jamison was running for mayor, Emmit became a kind of unofficial mentor to the new politician. He knew the right hands to shake. The right shoulders to rub. And the snares to avoid. His friendship promised Jamison reprieve from a testy old guard that Emmit knew well. All the old-timer sought in compensation was loyalty and privilege. Though Jamison wasn’t always sure from which pocket Emmit was drawing, he knew he needed his insider knowledge and influence.

“Stop it, now,” Emmit said. “I’m just an old judge on his way to retirement. You said it yourself.” Emmit pushed his fingers into his pocket to begin to play with his car keys.

Jamison knew then that he was prepared to talk. “I need to know what’s up with Ras. With his case.” Jamison stepped back and put his hands up to show how serious he was about needing the information.

“Ras? Come on, man. Everybody knows that’s a done deal. Eleven pounds of marijuana in his trunk? Easy felony. The judge will take a nap on that case. Bring the gavel down on the side of justice.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Jamison said. “He’s a Rastafarian. It was his weed.”

“Well, he must be getting pretty fucking high.”

“You know the particulars of the case, Emmit. It was for his brothers at his house.”

“Brothers or no brothers, he’s going to prison. Intent to distribute,” Emmit pointed out. “And you know that. Makes me wonder why you’re even asking.”

“We went to school together. He’s a good man.”

“A good man who likes white girls and weed,” Emmit laughed. “Now how’s a Rastafarian going to get pulled over doing ninety-three in a BMW with a topless white girl in the passenger’s seat and a trunk full of pot? If the court don’t kill him, those nappy-headed Rasta women will.”

Jamison nodded along with Emmit’s equation for the perfect storm. But, really, the more he’d thought about it, the storm just seemed a little too perfect. Ras had been his roommate at Morehouse for one year. He knew the man was harmless.

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