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"Get your skinny ass up before I kick it up between your shoulder blades," Posey said. "One other thing?"
"What's that, boss?"
"You tell her I drove you past that motor court today, I'm gonna take you out to a stump, nail your balls to it, and leave you there with a knife. Ain't storying to you, Junior. I seen my daddy do it when I was a boy," Posey said.
But Junior did not get up from the Coca-Cola box. "I ain't playing no more today," he said.
Posey raised his fist and knocked him to the ground. "Whup me or put me on the bucket. I ain't going to play no more," Junior said.
"I don't have to whup you. I'm gonna do it to Woodrow Reed instead," Posey said.
On the way to the house of Castille and Andrea Lejeune, Junior wondered what he had done in this world to earn the grief that seemed to be his daily lot.
He waited on the patio with his guitar and harmonica for Andrea Lejeune to come downstairs and through the French doors. When she emerged she was still wearing the polka-dot dress she had worn earlier. Her face looked haggard, somehow thinner in the evening light.
"I wanted you to know the producer at the studio called to say how thrilled he was. I'm just sorry I didn't get to hear you perform," she said.
"I understand, ma'am," he replied.
"I have to go away, Junior. But I'm going to do everything I can to see you released from prison. What happened to your head?"
"Fell down the steps," he replied, his face empty.
She gave a long, hard look at Jackson Posey standing by the pickup truck in the driveway. "Come in the house," she said.
"That ain't a good idea, Miss Andrea," Junior said.
She walked to the edge of the drive. "Mr. Posey, Junior is coming into the living room for a few minutes. We're not to be disturbed," she said.
"I cain't allow that, ma'am."
"You can't what?" she said.
She stared him down, then turned on her heel and marched inside her house, curling one finger for Junior to follow her.
"Sit down," she said.
"Miss Andrea, Boss Posey ain't an ordinary man," Junior said.
"I'm going to call every week and have someone check on you. You have nothing to be afraid of."
"It don't work like that."
She sat down in an antique chair with an egg-shaped crimson pad inset in the back and folded her hands in her lap. "The producer said you wrote a song called "The Angel of Camp Number Nine." Is that about me?"
He hesitated, then said, "Yes, ma'am, I reckon it is."
"That's one of the most touching compliments I've ever received. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd play it."
He slipped the guitar over his neck and began to sing:
White coke and a red moon sent me down, Judge say ninety-nine years, son, you Angola bound, Its the Red Hat Gang from cain't-see to cain't-see, The gun bulls say there the graveyard, boy, If you wants to be free.
Lady with roses in her hair come to Camp Number Nine, Say you ain 't got to stack no mo' Lou sana time, Gonna carry you up to Memphis in a rubber-tired hack, Buy you whiskey, cigars, and an oxblood Stetson hat.
Miss Andrea is an angel drive a Wl purple car, Live on cigarettes, radio, and a blues man s guitar
Even before he looked through the front window and saw the automobile of Castille Lejeune approaching the house, he knew there was something terribly wrong. Andrea Lejeune's face seemed repelled, as though someone had touched it with a soiled hand.
