by Lewis Perdue
"So what's the problem?"
I wanted to say the looks and comments from her uncle and the black LAPD detective made me second-guess my own motivations. I also wanted to express unspeakable things like AIDS, condoms, and whether we really wanted to do this without a commitment, marriage whether in the eyes of God or the law. But for reasons I don't understand, I didn't say any of it.
"Oh, yes," I said. "I do so much like you." My voice broke. I cleared my throat. "Jasmine, I ... I more than like you." I looked at her eyes, her face, and I connected with the most valuable words I knew. "I love you."
The confusion swirled in her eyes.
"Oh, Brad. I love you too." She gave her head a little shake. "But why-"
There were all those things I wanted to say. In the end, I lacked the courage and she began to cry. I stepped forward to give her a hug. When she turned away, it broke my heart.
As she dressed with her back turned toward me, I pulled on my shirt and zipped up my shorts. I prayed for her hurt to go away and hoped this hadn't jinxed our relationship. My brain told me any relationship unable to survive the intelligent exercise of good judgment would not last, but my heart disagreed.
After what seemed like the passing of geological time, Jasmine turned and wiped the remains of a tear from her right cheek. When her face offered me her trademark enigmatic smile, I knew it was going to be all right. She accepted my hug this time and gave me one in return.
"That was a smart move," she said. "Damn you. One of these days, you'll tell me about it." It wasn't a question.
"Uh-huh," Jasmine said. "Yes, you will. And you know what? I believe you love me. Otherwise you wouldn't have done that. And I love you too."
Fatigue rushed into the calm moment, filling the vacuum left by passion and leaving us desperate for rest. We extended the sofa bed in Tyrone Freedman's makeshift living room. I set the alarm on my watch and we fell asleep in each other's arms.
CHAPTER 66
Without the blare of 50 Cent flooding out the open windows of a slammed Honda with seventeen-inch rims and a rear-window decal declaring the driver a "Bad Ass," shoppers coming out of the grocery store at the west end of the square in Itta Bena might have caught the strains of an acoustic guitar drifting out the open door of the old dry goods store across the street.
They might have heard the nearly on-key voice of a wrinkled, leathery old man who had once gotten drunk with Mississippi John Hurt, singing about pain and betrayal. But the shoppers didn't hear, and had they been able, they wouldn't probably have cared, such is the nadir to which the blues have sunk in the belly of its creation.
The old dry goods store turned juke joint had no signs, no name, no atmospheric old metal chewing-tobacco signs, or any of the other cultural tattoos sought by affluent white tourists. This place was simply known as Lena's, and as soon as some damned tourist stumbled in by accident, she'd shut it down, find some other place for it, and pass the word among the regulars. Vacant buildings were easy to come by.
But for now, Lena's lay in the shadow of the big water tower, kitty-corner from the police station and fire department, and steps west of a bar where patrons rarely let musical appreciation get in the way of serious drinking.
Tonight, Lena's was hopping. Early arrivals sat in folding chairs jammed around card tables, while the rest crowded around the walls, squatted on the worn wooden floor, and leaned against the big folding banquet tables Lena used as a movable bar. Cigarette smog hung in layers and almost chased away the naphthalene pungency of mothballs, which had once protected the dry goods store's wool fabrics.
Oh, Bob shot once and Louis shot too,
shot poor Collins, shot him through and through The old man sang close enough to the right notes to be enjoyable and far enough off-key to be authentic, none of the perfect-pitch and over-orchestrated stuff usually found on CDs that leached out the pain and emotion.
In the far back corner of Lena's, almost to a door marked "Restrooms", which actually led outside, John Myers sat at the end of a small rectangular table with Jasmine's uncle, Quincy Thompson, and Pete Mandeville, a high-yellow deputy who had been present at the murder scene when the Feds had arrived. The very end of the folding table groaned under the meaty elbows of the Itta Bena police chief, a giant man with an oversize, black cowboy hat and skin so tight, shiny, and impenetrably dark it reflected like a mirror.
Wedged into the most uncomfortable spot in the room, shoehorned right into the display window behind where the front door opened, sat two thirtysomething white men with tailored suits, $50 haircuts, and perfectly straight, overly bright teeth. They squirmed uncomfortably and nursed the cheap rye Lena had poured for them. Occasionally, one of them would sip at his glass, then grimace. Lena was not about to pour them the good stuff.
The singer everybody called Pap finished with the angels laying Ol' Collins away, then amid a respectful silence, he made his way masterfully through the final bars, and when he finished, the applause would have drowned the loudest of 50 Cent's best.
When the applause trailed off, Quincy Thompson picked up where he had left off. "I tell you it's all because of that white boy. All his fault for coming here to get in Jasmine's pants." He looked around, expecting confirmation. Nobody met his gaze. "So, you think those boys're civilian or military?" Mandeville cocked his head
toward the front door.
"Civilian. Look at the haircuts," the police chief said, his voice rolling deep like
distant thunder. "And the suits; sure ain't military tailoring. You can hardly spot the pieces
they carryin'."
"The one on the left followed me to John's," Mandeville said.
"T'other one was cooped in his car out front a my house when Pete arrived," Myers
said.
"Our tax dollars at work," the police chief rumbled.
"Yeah, yeah, but you're missing what's going down and it's all that Stone boy's
fault," Quincy persisted.
Myers rolled his eyes. The other men concentrated on their sour mash, rattling the
remains of the ice and the bourbon.
Quincy tried again. "No, listen to me. It—"
"Oh, yeah, Quince, you must certainly be right," Myers said sarcastically. "That
rich ole white boy who lives in the middle of mo' jelly roll and poontang than you ever
wet-dreamed about flew umpteen thousand miles just to get yo' niece in bed." Myers drained his bourbon, then leaned toward Quincy. "Boy, for a damned
professor, you can be awfully fugging dumb."
Mandeville stifled a laugh. Quincy glared at him.
"Quincy, Dr. Stone's all right, never mind his grandaddy. He came out here
because your sister—God rest her soul—asked him to."
"I know that, John, but I don't trust white people, that boy especially. Look at the
blood running through his veins. No way he can get away from that." Quincy paused. "I
just won't ever get over my daddy and all the years he worked for the Judge and looked
after that boy. And ain'no way to forget Daddy Al sittin' around telling us, 'I ain'no
ordinary niggah. I's lawyuh Stone's chauffeur."' Quincy looked at John expectantly. "Can
you forget?"
Quincy looked around the table. "Well, can you forget? Uh-uh. No, suh! White
folks just trouble, and we always caught in the shit swirlin' round 'em." He looked around
the room and stopped when his gaze fell on another white face in the audience. "And you been spending so much time on the crackers by the door, you ain'even
mentioned the white boy over there." Quincy cocked his head. "Why's he got the pick of
the spots? And look at Lena! She's pouring him the same good bourbon we got." Myers closed his eyes and shook his head, then opened his lids halfway and spoke. "Quincy, you got a real thing here and we'd all like you to keep those opinions to
yourself. It ain't helping a thing. We all got our iss
ues. But we have us here a problem we
got to work right or your niece'll have a lot more on her mind than some horny white boy." The police chief and Pete Mandeville nodded then.
"All right," Quincy Thompson said reluctantly. "But answer me 'bout the white
boy Lena's taking such good care of. I've seen him here befo'." They all watched as the
leathery old singer went over and greeted the man.
"An' lookit! Even Pap's got to go over and lick the man's boots."
"Cut it out, Quincy!" Pete Mandeville's voice carried a leather-stropped edge.
"That's Steve La Vere. If it weren't for him, the rich record companies would've robbed ole
Robert Johnson's heirs blind. Man's spent a lot of his money to keep blues alive. The real
stuff, not prissified tourist crap."
"Now don't you be knocking B. B. King again," the police chief said. "He's an Itta
Bena boy."
"Awright." Myers waved his hands. "Can we be done with this?" Mandeville and the police chief nodded. Quincy Thompson glared at them all in
turn, slumped in his seat, and crossed his arms in front of him.
"Okay, Quincy. So tell us about this phone call," Myers said.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Quincy said reluctantly, then sat up. "That's why I went out to
the old sharecropper shack. Shanker called me, said I might know where Jasmine would
be. I had no idea when I arrived she'd be there in the white boy's bed in her underwear—" "Let it go, Quincy?" the police chief boomed.
"Uh-huh. Well, they're supposed to meet at Judge Stone's old cotton gin at three in
the morning." He inclined his head toward the back of the room. Everybody at the table
knew the old shuttered gin in a weed-covered lot about two hundred yards northwest of
them.
"Didn't Pap used to work there back in the bad old days?" Myers asked. The police chief nodded."Most everybody worked for the Judge back then. I know
my papa did." He paused for a moment. "The Holy Rollers got a tent set up across the
street, little bit this way from it. They've had a revival there this time of the year for as
long as I can remember."
"Why they meeting?" Mandeville asked. "With Shanker,"
Quincy shook his head.
"I got an idea or two," Myers said. "Most I picked up from looking into the
Talmadge case—and some I learned a lot from Vanessa. I'll tell you what I know and
maybe we can figure out what to do."
CHAPTER 67
Beneath the fluorescent glare in the Greenwood courthouse offices commandeered by Homeland Security, David Brown sucked another Marlboro down to his fingertips as the encrypted wireless phone rang.
"Brown."
"We got something."
"Go on."
"The tap on Tyrone Freedman's ISP shows a lot of activity; it's encrypted and
running through proxy servers outside our jurisdiction,"
"Isn't that illegal?"
"No, sir. Not yet."
"Well, we squeeze those bastards on Capitol Hill and make it illegal." Brown
grabbed his Marlboro box. It was empty. He ran his finger hopefully inside the box. Nothing. "Shit."
"Sir?"
"Nothing." Brown threw the box toward the wastebasket and missed. The red-and-white flip-top landed on the floor near two other empties. "So, if we
can't figure out this guy's net traffic, what the fuck good is it?"
"It's coming from his trailer."
"So?"
"Freedman's at the hospital."
"Bring his black ass to me." Brown smiled.
"Sir! And something else."
"Speak."
"We have a make, model, and license plate for the dead blonde's new rental car." "APB everything."
"Sir!"
CHAPTER 68
By midnight, the full moon had slipped to the horizon as Jasmine brought us into Itta Bena along a one-lane dirt road. She turned the headlights out as soon as we left Highway 7 and navigated by the now-fading moonlight. We navigated an overgrown section where blackberry vines clawed at us. Then she stopped. Ahead lay a patched asphalt road lined with modest houses.
"Where in the world are we?" I asked.
"A little north of the gin."
I rolled my window down. The scent of night blooms and summer flowers rolled in
with the moist, cool air. "Let's make a circle to look for bad guys, then find a parking spot." "No problem." She accelerated slowly, turned left, and clicked the headlights on. Less than a minute later, we intersected the main drag right at the old Turnipseed house and turned right.
Miss Eve's house—I couldn't for the life of me remember her real name—passed by on the left. She had been a widow with a house full of yellow and green parakeets and chickens outside. I remember going through the coop with her often. There were hens sitting on hay nests, and she would collect brown eggs and put them in a straw basket she allowed me to hold the day I turned six. Next to Miss Eve's, someone had built a house on the lot the Judge's wife, Mamie, had used as a vast rose garden.
Shortly after Jasmine turned left by the little brick Presbyterian church, a small car with glaring blue halogen headlights and purple under-the-chassis neon rocketed by in the opposite direction. Moments later, we passed the gin. Instants later, an Itta Bena police car trawled past us in the opposite direction. My heart held still for a moment. I followed it and exhaled when it disappeared without making a U-turn.
"Can you make a circle and bring us by the gin so it's on my side?" She nodded and made a loop through a modest, well-kept block of houses. It took me a moment to recognize it as Balance Due. Gone were the unpainted, weathered shacks with ditches out front full of excrement and waste water.
"You know, there's a street named for my grandfather not too far from here." I shook my head. "Al Thompson Street? Really?"
"Really."
I thought about this for a moment. "He deserved a lot more as far as I'm
concerned." A persistent smile brightened Jasmine's face as she drove the SUV back around the gin clockwise. When we slowed for a right-hand turn short of the square, I heard somebody playing "Hard Time Killin' Floor."
And the people are driftin' from door to door Can't find no heaven, don't care where they go. Whoever was playing the guitar was doing a damn fine job of emulating the open D-minor licks that had become a trademark for Nehemiah "Skip" James and the rest of the Bentonia bluesmen.
The singer finished off with a single note on the open second string followed by a D7 chord. It was one of James's trademark endings and brought thunderous applause.
"Skip James," I said. "One of my favorites."
"Mine too. The music's coming from Lena's. Real blues."
She turned right and made her way back toward Balance Due without driving past the police station.
"You'll have to take me there sometime."
"Yes, I will." Jasmine offered me her best smile. "I surely will."
Across the street from the gin and about a block down, I spotted a gas station and auto repair shop, closed for the night. Vans, cars, and pickups, obviously left for repair crowded its parking area and the concrete apron around the pumps.
"How about there?" I asked.
In moments, Jasmine backed the SUV up between two pickup trucks and turned off the lights. The space fit the SUV like a knife sheath, but offered a clear view of the gin.
"Keep the engine going for now."
I scanned the gin and everything around it for maybe a quarter of an hour.
"Okay, kill the engine."
We sat there watching the occasional vehicle pass and listening. I strained to hear sirens or a helicopter thrumming. But the darkness carried only the occasional loud stereo from passing cars along with the distant rumble of thunder. We also enjoyed the blues music carried sporadically by the night air. No sirens, No choppe
rs.
Just before 1:00 a.m., I climbed over my laptop bag, our packed luggage, and the sniper armament and ammo in the back of the SUV and left Jasmine in the SUV with her Ruger in her lap. I headed for the gin with the H&K automatic tucked in the back of my cargo shorts.
My cargo pockets were jammed with every spare magazine I could find. It was all covered by the tail of one of my blue oxford-cloth shirts left unbuttoned and hanging out. My clothes and white skin made me a good target in the dark, but unlike Jasmine I had brought no dark clothes and all of Tyrone's were too small.
I carried the dead sniper's small night scope casually in my right hand as I made my way down a weed-covered track toward the old, rusty hulk. A young child's irrational fears of the place stirred in my belly. It took me more than half an hour to make my way around the building and inside it. I couldn't make a full circle because some sort of annex at the back was attached to another block of structures.
Waning moonlight sifted through holes in the tin roof, casting subtle shadows across the vast, vacant space. The shadows rustled. I feared rats, but the night scope showed a mother possum with her young clinging to her underside. I looked around and found the interior crawling with the sluggish and shy marsupials. They crawled over the tall rafters and beams high above the floor and nested almost everywhere I looked.
Snakes undoubtedly lived here as well, feeding off the possums and their young. I feared the copperhead most because, unlike rattlesnakes, it struck without warning. Finally, I walked outside and stood under the wagon-shed overhang, right under the big suction pipe that had once terrified me, and used the small, thin LED light attached to my Leatherman to signal Jasmine. I followed her through the night scope until she was safe next to me.
Shortly before 2:00 A.M., we went inside to wait.
CHAPTER 69
From his vantage point half in a culvert leading under Martin Luther King Jr. Drive close to its intersection with Sunflower Road, the compact, muscular man surveyed the ramshackle cotton gin with his small monocular night-vision scope. Brad Stone had been good with his caution and preparation, but nobody was perfect.
