“Like the betrayal of an old friend?”
“Possibly. I’ve heard the rumors, of course.”
“Have you heard a name?”
“Three or four. Some more plausible than others. I don’t want to dignify any of them. But with Max they could all be true. He’s a legendary pussy hound.”
Dr. Kirby’s casual use of this term reminds me that his courteous manner is a veneer he preserves for business hours and mixed gatherings. At heart, he’s a Southern male who spends his holidays and summers in hunting camps and fishing cabins. He sees life as it is, and he’s quite capable of speaking with crude candor.
“I understand, Jack. I appreciate you telling me this.”
He nods and takes another drag off the Winston, quickly burning the cigarette down to a stub.
“Are you going to tell anybody else this information?” I ask.
“I think I’m pretty much obligated to pass it on to the police. Don’t you?”
“Yeah. I faced a similar dilemma earlier today. Someone left a photograph in my car, a tip having to do with Buck’s murder. I’d like to keep it to myself, but I’ll give it to the sheriff just before I publish it.”
Dr. Kirby rolls his eyes. “For all the good it will do, right?”
“With our sheriff? You’re right.”
“Can you tell me who the photo implicated?” he asks.
“I shouldn’t.”
“I shouldn’t have told you about Sally.”
I give him a wry smile. “What do you know about Dave Cowart?”
The doctor scowls. “A belligerent redneck. Some of the crooks in this town are old-time rogues, you know? Best drinking companions you could hope for. Not Cowart. He’s stupid and greedy and doesn’t have a lick of moral sense.”
“Well, I’m about to make an enemy of him. Probably his boss, too. Beau Holland.”
“Another prize ass.” Kirby throws down the cigarette butt and grinds it out with his patent leather shoe. “Beau Holland comes from a long line of arrogant, effete bastards.”
“It shows.”
“Do you carry a pistol?”
Dr. Kirby asked this as casually as he would inquire if I carried a pocket watch. “I started last night.”
“Good. Wear it night and day. If you’re going to make enemies of Cowart and Holland and their pals, you need to keep your head on a swivel.”
The doctor’s matter-of-fact warning sobers me. “Sounds like you know some firsthand information about them.”
Kirby looks off into the trees. “I’ve lived in this town a long time, Marshall. That Poker Club’s a unique little organization. When they want things to happen, sooner or later those things happen. Sometimes you can trace it back to direct action by a member, but more often you can’t. Take civil rights. I know of no direct ties between the Poker Club and the Klan or even the White Citizens’ Council. In fact, I don’t think the members give much of a damn about skin color. If you’ve got the money to live where they live, you’re mostly welcome—schools being the exception. They don’t like their kids going to school with blacks. They don’t mind a few black football players peppering the teams, but they don’t want their daughters dating them.”
“The old miscegenation bugbear is still alive and well.”
“Yes, indeed. But the Poker Club has funneled enough money to black leaders in this county over the years that things have stayed just how they like them. And if a few colored boys got killed back in the day for not knowing their place, well . . . nothing led back to the Poker Club.”
“That was a long time ago, Jack.”
“Not to me. But if you want more recent history, I can think of five or six men who ran afoul of the Poker Club in the last twenty years and wound up ruined or dead.”
“Murdered?”
Dr. Kirby turns up one palm. “It’s never that cut-and-dried. One-car crash. Hunting accident climbing through a fence with a rifle. Another guy got caught up in his own bush hog, bled to death.”
“And nothing traced back to the Poker Club?”
“Never.” Dr. Kirby looks back at me. “Sounds a lot like Buck Ferris drowning in the Mississippi River, doesn’t it?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“Remember what I said about your pistol. Make sure you don’t have any accidents.”
“I hear you.”
The doctor gets to his feet with a groan. “I’d better get back in there and take a last stab at your father. I’ve still got one more house call to make.”
I smile at him. “You’ve got some lucky patients, Jack.”
A shadow passes over his face. “In general, if I’m going to see somebody at the end of my day, they’re pretty unlucky. But that’s life, son. Enjoy it while you’re still young.”
I walk to the side door with him but don’t go in myself. “I don’t feel too young these days, Jack.”
He stops and turns back to me. “Then you’re blind. If you could see yourself from eighty-three, where I’m standing, you’d know different. Get yourself a pretty girl and make some babies. That’s all that matters. You can use that Pulitzer of yours for a doorstop in the nursery.”
Like a lot of people, Dr. Kirby mistakenly assumes that the Pulitzer Prize is a statue, like an Oscar. “I’ll try to do that,” I tell him. Then I stick out my hand, and he takes it, his grip surprisingly firm for his age.
His wise eyes find mine once more. “I told your father the truth, Marshall. If he keeps drinking, he’ll be dead in a month. Maybe even a week. His liver could quit any time. His heart, too. You need to prepare your mother for that.”
“She’s pretty tough, Jack.”
The doctor releases my hand but not my gaze. “Not as tough as you think. Southern women don’t show their pain to anybody. They aren’t raised that way. But they feel it. So, as unpleasant as Duncan has made the back end of her life, Blythe is still going to shatter when he goes. She’s suffering from severe sleep deprivation right now. Depression, too.” Kirby glances at his watch. “Will Duncan leave her pretty well fixed financially?”
I shake my head. “If he’d sold out six years ago, when values were high, he might have got eight or nine million. Today we’d be lucky to get ten percent over the real estate value. That’s how fast the business has changed.”
“Damn. That’s the world now, isn’t it? I’m glad you’ll be here to help Blythe pick up the pieces.”
I look back in silence, absorbing the message he clearly intends for me to get: Don’t plan on flying out of here the day after your father’s funeral . . .
“Thanks for your frankness, Jack.”
He gives me a quick salute, then marches back into our house. But he’s already thinking about the next house he’ll visit, the next family living under the shadow of death.
Chapter 25
To my amazement, Jet calls my burner phone at 6:20 p.m. and tells me she’s five minutes from my house. I go out to wait for her on the patio as I did yesterday, but not on the steamer chaise. If we have sex, we’re going to do it inside. There’ll be no more tempting fate, not with things as they now stand.
Once again, Jet appears from the trees across the mown field and walks steadily toward me, only today she keeps her clothes on. The sky has turned deeper blue as the sun moves toward the western horizon. Jet has changed out of her courtroom attire; she’s wearing jeans and a sleeveless top. As she nears the patio, I step into the grass and give her a long hug.
“How did you get away?” I ask.
When she pulls back, I see that she’s wearing more makeup than usual, and her eyes are bloodshot. “They’re practicing baseball, believe it or not. The traveling team. Max said it was the best thing for Kevin, and Paul agreed. They’re over at the Baptist church field. They’ll be at it till seven thirty, but I need to leave in thirty minutes. We can’t take even the slightest risk right now.”
“Agreed. Let’s get inside.”
After a brief kiss, I lead her into the house. Jet walks over to a cabinet and removes an opened bottle of pinot noir, then pours herself a glass and takes a long sip.
“What’s it been like over there?” I ask. “How’s Kevin doing?”