“You auditioning for Fox News?” Kaiser asks, still expressionless.
Snake laughs. “They could use me, that’s for sure. See, I figure the niggers have had civil rights—for real, not just by law—for about three decades now. And they’re probably worse off as a group than they were during slave times. It’s plain as day, man, but nobody wants to talk about it. Every city with a high concentration of blacks has the worst statistics in the country on crime, education, unwed mothers, infant mortality. And don’t give me that poverty bullshit, because no other ethnic group has disintegrated like that.”
Kaiser rolls his eyes.
“You think I’m wrong?” Snake asks. “Last weekend, black gangs in Chicago and Detroit killed more niggers than the whole Ku Klux Klan killed between 1960 and 1970. Last weekend. Most of ’em can’t read any better than a white fourth grader. They won’t work half as hard as a Mexican—not even at drug dealing—and the black family pretty much ceased to exist when the black church women who kept them together started dying off.”
“I see. And you think they were better off as slaves?”
“Well, sure. Hell, son, the black male just ain’t equipped to handle freedom. It discombobulates him. Look at Africa. Once the European powers pulled out, the whole place went to hell. The black revolutionaries became everything they claimed they hated. The only country on the whole continent worth a spit is South Africa, and that’s because it was the whitest the longest. You sure don’t hear American jigs yelling, ‘Back to Africa,’ anymore, do you? No, sir. Before long, starvation and AIDS will empty that whole damned landmass, and somebody with real genetic potential can start over.”
“You’re a walking artifact, Snake.”
“Hey, you asked. And don’t kid yourself: half the people north of the Mason-Dixon line have asked themselves what their ancestors were thinking when they fought a civil war to free the slaves. See, back then, the niggers were all down here. But once they started moving north, those Yankees started singing a different tune.”
“Speaking of a different tune,” Kaiser says, “why don’t you tell me why your brother Frank didn’t take that second Mannlicher-Carcano with him to Dealey Plaza back in ’63?”
This question hits Snake like a blindside punch. He works his mouth around for a few seconds, absorbing the possible implications of the question. Then, instead of answering, he turns to the one-way mirror and looks right into my eyes. “How you doing, Mayor? Yeah, I saw you earlier, when Sheriff Fatass was choking me. Your daddy’s in a world of shit, ain’t he? Spent his whole life helping coons, and now he’s going to jail for killing one. Don’t seem fair, does it? In jail for doing the world a goddamn favor.”
As I feel my blood pressure rise, I can’t help but admire Kaiser for remaining so cool before Snake Knox.
“My files tell me you’re a Holy Roller, Snake,” Kaiser says, trying to bring Knox’s attention back to him. “Like your old man.”
Snake slowly looks back at the FBI agent, his eyes flat and cold again. “Well, I don’t know. I’ve prayed mighty hard on occasion. One night, about ten thousand Chinese communists in quilted pajamas came pouring over the wire in my sector, and my squad had exactly five hundred bullets between us. That night I prayed like a man trying to polish coal into diamond with his asshole.”
Snake glances in my direction again. “You can ask your daddy about that, Mayor—if you ever see him again. Dr. Cage knows all about that kind of religion.”
Snake is speaking of my father in the present tense. But is he doing it unconsciously or not? Whatever the case, Kaiser doesn’t take the bait.
“You want to tell me about the night you crucified old Elam?” Kaiser asks in a neutral tone. “How does it feel to kill your own father?”
Snake’s face slowly ratchets around to Kaiser again, like a sniper returning his aim to his primary target. “Who you been talking to, boy? It don’t pay to listen to liars.”
“I don’t. That’s why I’m not asking you about killing Martin Luther King. I know that’s whiskey talk. But I know you killed Elam, Snake. You and Frank both. Oh, you killed a lot more than that, I know. But you must have felt something when you killed your own father, even if he did molest you. Unlike when Frank killed Kennedy. I’m betting that killing a president—that president—was one of the high points of Frank’s life.”
To my surprise, Snake is smiling again, as though at some private joke. “You obviously found those rifles in Brody’s basement, huh? You ought to sell ’em on eBay. I always wanted to.”
“I could use the money,” Kaiser admits, “but selling evidence is illegal. I know one of those rifles is real, Snake. Just like the Carcano Brody kept upstairs. I know Frank was supposed to use that to lay part of the blame on Eladio Cruz, the Cuban student from New Orleans, but he decided not to take the risk.”
For the first time doubt flickers in Snake’s eyes, and Kaiser cannot mask his satisfaction. “How does it feel, Snake?” he asks. “That fear? Been a while since you felt that?”
“I’m a crop duster, son. You can’t make it in my business if you’re the nervous type. So you just wear yourself out. You’ve got till my lawyer gets here, and not a second longer.” Knox’s expression slowly morphs from a good-ol’-boy smile to a cobralike spreading of the lips, and there’s only death in his eyes. “But if you ain’t scared, you’ve misunderstood the situation. Them pretty girls you and the mayor sleep with at night? You ought to stick closer to ’em. Because I know some boys who’d love to spend a few hours in that company. And they’d never be the same afterwards.”