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Moleen was eating a tuna fish sandwich on a paper plate inside the Plexiglas-enclosed back porch. He looked rested, composed, his eyes clear, almost serene. Outside, blue hydrangeas bloomed as big as cantaloupes against the glass. “I'm sorry to bother you at home,” I said. “It's no bother. Sit down. What can I do for you? You want something to eat?”
“You're looking good.”
“I'm glad you approve.”
“I'm not here to give you a bad time, Moleen.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you hear about a guy named Sweet Pea Chaisson getting whacked out by Cade?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“A black woman died with him.” He nodded, the sandwich in his mouth. His eyes were flat. Against the far wall was a mahogany-and-glass case full of shotguns and bolt-action rifles. “Call it off,” I said. “What?”
“I think you have influence with certain people.”
“I have influence over no one, my friend.”
“Where's Ruthie Jean?”
“You're abusing my hospitality, sir.”
“Give it up, Moleen.
Change your life. Get away from these guys while there's time.” His eyes dropped to his plate; the ball of one finger worked at the corner of his mouth. When he looked at me again, I could see a nakedness in his face, a thought translating into words, a swelling in the voice box, the lips parting as though he were about to step across a line and clasp someone's extended hand. Then it disappeared. “Thanks for dropping by,” he said. “Yeah, you bet, Moleen. I don't think you picked up on my purpose, though.”
“I didn't?” he said, wiping his chin with a linen napkin, his white shirt as crinkly and fresh as if he had just put it on.
“I have a feeling me and Clete Purcel might be on somebody's list.
Don't let me be right.”
He looked at something outside, a butterfly hovering in a warm air current against the glass.
“Read Faust, Moleen. Pride's a pile of shit,” I said.
“I was never theologically inclined.”
“See you,” I said, and walked out into the humidity and the acrid reek of the chemical fertilizer Julia was feverishly working into her rosebushes.
But my conversation with him was not over. Two hours later he called me at the bait shop.
“I don't want to see you or your friend harmed. That's God's honest truth,” he said.
“Then tell me what you're into.”
“Dave, take the scales off your eyes. We don't serve flags or nations anymore. It's all business today. The ethos of Robert E. Lee is as dead as the world we grew up in.”
“Speak for yourself.”
He slammed the receiver down.
It was hot and dry that night, and through the bedroom I could see veins of heat lightning crawl and flicker through the clouds high above the swamp. Bootsie woke and turned toward me. The window fan made revolving shadows on her face and shoulders.
“Can't you sleep?” she said.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”
