Henry squeezed his left hand into a fist. He’d played a lot of music with Pooky in the summer of 1964, and he’d never known a gentler soul, except Jimmy Revels.
“In 1966,” he said in a neutral voice, “a Klan informant told the FBI an interesting story. He was a member of the Brookhaven White Knights. The day after Norris’s store burned, his klavern got a call telling them to watch for a black boy who might be trying to make it to the train station over there, to catch the train to Chicago. They found the kid, snatched him right out of the station. A tall kid with one drooping shoulder. That was Pooky Wilson. I know, because Wilson had severe scoliosis. That drooping shoulder made him a natural bass player.”
Morehouse stared back at Henry with bovine indifference.
“The Brookhaven Klansmen handed Pooky over to three men they believed were Klansmen from Natchez. But I think those men were future Double Eagles.” Henry looked the old man straight in the eyes. “Were you one of those men, Mr. Morehouse?”
Henry saw a flicker of emotion in the man’s eyes.
“Klan informants worked for money,” Morehouse growled. “They made up whatever their FBI handlers wanted to hear, whatever kept the cash coming. You can’t trust a story like that.”
“I’ve heard two reliable stories about Pooky’s death,” Henry went on. “One says he was flayed alive. The other says he was crucified.”
“Oh, bullshit. There were a dozen rumors about that kid. I’ve heard he was driven out in a field and shot thirty times with a rifle.”
Something in the old man’s gaze belied his tone of voice. Henry was certain Morehouse knew something about Pooky Wilson’s death. As he stared into the rheumy eyes, a blast of intuition told him that Morehouse had seen Pooky die. Henry cleared his throat. “I have an FBI report that details a meeting with a different Klan informant. When this man was blind drunk, he told an FBI agent that Pooky Wilson had been crucified at a big cypress tree out in the Lusahatcha Swamp, called the Bone Tree.”
The old man’s eyes flashed, then went dull again.
“This informant mentioned the names of two men who were there,” Henry went on, “but the names were redacted in my copy—blacked out with a Magic Marker. Were you at the Bone Tree that night, Mr. Morehouse?”
Morehouse laughed with derision. “Bone Tree? If you believe that old nigger tale, they ought to put you in a rubber room down in Mandeville.”
To mask his anger and disappointment Henry looked down at his notebook. “Albert Norris took four days to die from his burns.” Four days of unrelenting agony, you son of a bitch. “Leland Robb, the doctor who treated him, told the FBI that Norris stated more than once that he’d known his attackers, but he refused to reveal their identities. Even his best friend couldn’t get the names out of him.”
“Albert wasn’t no fool,” Morehouse said softly. “Did you talk to Dr. Robb?”
“Dr. Robb died in a midair collision in 1969, when I was in college, along with three other people.”
Morehouse smiled strangely, almost coyly again. “Kinda convenient, huh? Doc Robb dying like that? You know who was flying the plane that hit him, don’t you?”
“Yes. Snake Knox.” Henry had long harbored suspicions about this air crash, but he wasn’t going to waste this interview on them. “Let’s stick with the burning of the store for now. Albert told Dr. Robb that there were four men involved: three inside and one out, beyond the porch. My understanding is that when Frank Knox formed the Double Eagles, there were four charter members: Frank himself, his brother Snake, Sonny Thornfield, and you. And this was less than a month after the attack on Norris’s store. Was it you four who burned Albert out?”
Morehouse returned Henry’s accusing stare with surprising calm. “I told you, Henry, I liked Albert.”
“You probably liked Jerry Dugan, too. You grew up with him. But that didn’t stop you guys from killing him.”
Fury flashed from the hazy eyes like lightning from a cloudy sky. “Watch yourself, boy.”
Henry didn’t let his gaze waver. “Why was Albert Norris targeted?”
The old man looked as though he meant to keep stonewalling, but then in a weary voice he said, “You can’t be that dumb, Henry. Take your pick. Albert was bootlegging, running numbers on the side … he even used that gospel radio show of his to set up adultery and miscegenation. What the hell did he think was gonna happen to him?”
“So the Eagles were behind his murder.”
Morehouse looked over at the dying fire and said, “Why don’t you go outside and get another log for the fire?”
“Why don’t you answer my question?”
The old man gave him the stink-eye again, but Henry wasn’t going to be deflected. He’d lost too many friends to this man and his kind. “How about we cut the bullshit, Glenn? I know what really happened to Albert Norris, and I know why. In the summer of sixty-four, Pooky Wilson was screwing a white girl named Katy Royal. Her father was Brody Royal, one of the richest men in the parish. Royal killed Pooky to stop the affair and make a point, and he used the Double Eagles to do it. Pooky Wilson was the intended victim all along. Albert just got in the way. He was killed for trying to protect that boy.”
Morehouse’s eyes had gone wide.
“I told you I knew the truth,” Henry said with a rush of triumph. “All I need is confirmation.”
Morehouse slowly recovered himself, but he looked a lot less smug than he had before. “Listen to me, Henry. I’m going to tell you this because my mama always liked yours. The stories you’ve written up to now have irritated some people, but most people can tolerate a little irritation. But—if you start messin’ with Brody Royal, you won’t live long. In fact, you might just beat me to the grave, and that’s saying something.”