“Our own wrecking crew,” Morehouse echoed, savoring the words on his tongue.
“Sounds good to me,” Sonny said. “I never liked hiding my face anyway. When you stand up for what’s right, you do it in the open. That’s the main reason Daddy never joined the Klan. He said with all the robes and rituals, the KKK looked as silly as the pope and his cardinals. Seems like a pitiful damn joke sometimes.”
“It is a joke,” Frank agreed. “But not for us. The FBI’s camped over in the Holiday Inn right now, having a victory party. But we’re gonna shut those bastards up. Hoover, too, long as he keeps dancin’ to Bobby Kennedy’s tune.”
“That Harvard pissant,” Morehouse muttered. “Catholic pissant.”
“We’re not gonna have to worry about raising money or any of that nonsense, either,” Frank said. “Brody Royal’s gonna bankroll our whole operation.”
Sonny whistled. “How’d you set that up?”
“Brody liked the way we handled the Norris thing, and how we didn’t let that Wilson boy get away. Hell, I’ve known Brody since before I was training the cadres down at Morgan City. He paid for the C-4 we’ve been blowing all weekend.”
“I’ll be danged,” Morehouse marveled.
“All we have to do in return is a favor here and there,” Frank added, “when Brody needs one.”
So Royal liked the way we handled the Norris thing, Sonny thought, remembering Albert Norris flaming in the dark, like that guy in the Fantastic Four comic books. And how we didn’t let that Wilson boy get away. Sonny had witnessed horrific brutality on the Pacific Islands during the war—atrocities committed by both sides—but he’d never seen anything like the way Pooky Wilson had died under Snake Knox’s hands.
“I can imagine what kind of favors Brody’ll be needing,” Sonny muttered.
“Nothing we can’t handle,” Frank said, carefully dipping his basting brush in the pungent sauce bowl. “Now, listen up. We’re gonna keep our crew small. Half a dozen good men to start. Only hard-core guys get in. Guys we grew up with.”
“Makes sense,” Sonny reflected. “But how about Jared Leach? He’s from Shreveport, but he’s mean as a stepped-on copperhead. He was a marine. How about making an exception for vets, Frank? Vets only, maybe.”
“Combat vets,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Guys who know about killin’.”
“Killin’ up close,” Sonny agreed. “Jared’s solid as a rock. He was in the ETO, but he saw some shit, now. The Bulge, for one thing.”
“We’ll give him a chance to prove it.”
Sonny nodded, a bracing excitement building in his chest. “Who else you askin’?”
“I’ll let you know. Don’t get antsy. We’re gonna be methodical about this, like cleaning out machine gun nests. You don’t charge in blind like Audie fuckin’ Murphy. You flank ’em one at a time, then pour in the lead and grenades. Hold out your hand, Son.”
Sonny extended his hand gingerly, half expecting to be cut for a blood oath or branded with some secret insignia. But Frank dropped something heavy and cool into his palm. Sonny saw the flash of gold.
“What the hell?” he asked, recognizing the coin. “Is that a twenty-dollar gold piece?”
“That it is,” said Frank. “A Double Eagle.”
Sonny whistled with awe. “Haven’t seen one of these since my granddaddy showed me one.”
“Look at the year it was minted.”
He squinted at the coin. “Nineteen twenty-eight?”
“Can you think of anything special about that year?”
“The year of the big flood?” Morehouse guessed, blinking at the gleaming coin.
Frank snorted with contempt. “The flood was in twenty-seven, lug nut.”
“I was born in twenty-eight,” Sonny said, realizing Frank’s intent.
Frank nodded. “That’s your dog tag now. Everybody in the unit’s gonna carry one. No robes, no masks, no bullshit—just a gold piece. Your gold piece.” He fished in his pocket, then held out a second Double Eagle to Morehouse.
The giant took the gold coin almost greedily, then held it up in the sun and eyed it like a child examining a rare marble. “Nineteen twenty-seven,” he confirmed, grinning. “Damn, that’s neat.”
“They stopped minting these a long time back, didn’t they?” asked Sonny.
“Nineteen thirty-three,” Frank replied.
“So nobody younger than … Bucky Jarrett gets in?”
“That’s right. Except for my little brother. Snake wasn’t born until thirty-four, but we need that crazy son of a bitch. There’s times when crazy is just what the doctor ordered.”
Frank’s younger brother had volunteered for Korea at seventeen, lying about his age to get early enlistment. Snake had been in the thick of the fighting for most of the war, and he’d learned a lot. Sonny had a feeling that whatever Snake was doing down at the Chevy was designed to prove that to them.
“What are we gonna do first?” Morehouse asked.
“I know what we ain’t gonna do,” Sonny muttered. “We ain’t gonna do a lot of gabblin’ and then go home drunk like a bunch of broke-dicks.”
“That’s a stone-cold fact,” Frank said, his voice crackling like a live wire.
“We gonna waste somebody?” Sonny asked.
Frank nodded.
“Who?” asked Morehouse. “How ’bout that biggity nigger who works out at Armstrong, that George Metcalfe? Sonny says he’s gonna be president of the Natchez NAACP.”
Frank shook his head. “We’re not going to waste time killing tire builders and handymen. That’s for the clowns in the white hoods, if they ever get their nerve up.”
“Who, then?” asked Sonny, trying to think like Frank. As soon as he did, a revelation struck him. “Jesus. You’re thinking about wasting white guys. Aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” Frank conceded, his eyes twinkling.
“What?” Morehouse asked.