“Okay, at the Radford exit off Interstate 81 there is a place called Spanky’s. I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there.”
“How will I recognize you?” he asks, and I almost drop my phone. Recognition is a far greater issue than he’ll ever realize. I have subjected myself to surgery that radically altered my face. I shave my head every other day and my beard once a week. I have starved off twenty pounds. I wear fake tortoiseshell glasses with round red frames, along with black T-shirts, fake Armani sport coats, and canvas sandals one would find only in Miami or L.A. I have a different name. I have a different voice and delivery.
And this entire charade has been carefully put together not to mislead the people who want to follow me or kill me but to conceal my real identity from you, Mr. Nathan Cooley.
I say, “I’m six feet tall, black, thin, a slick head, and I’ll be wearing a white straw hat, Panama style.”
“You’re black?” he blurts.
“Yep. Is that a problem?”
“No. See you tomorrow.”
I return to the table where Vanessa is waiting anxiously. I say softly, “It’s Cooley. We’re meeting tomorrow.”
She smiles and says, “Go for it.” We finish dinner and reluctantly say good-bye. We kiss outside the restaurant and act like a couple of teenagers. I think about her all the way to Roanoke.
I arrive fifteen minutes early and park so that I can watch the vehicles as they turn in to the Spanky’s lot. The first thing I’ll see is his car, or truck, and this will reveal a lot. Six months ago he was in prison, where he had served a little over five years. He has no father, an alcoholic mother, and no education past the tenth grade, so his choice of vehicle will be interesting. As we talk, my plans are to make a mental note of everything I can possibly see-clothing, jewelry, watch, cell phone.
The traffic picks up as the lunch crowd rolls in. At 12:03, a sparkling-new silver Chevrolet Silverado half-ton pickup arrives, and I suspect it’s Nathan Cooley. It is, and he parks on the other side of the lot. He glances around nervously as he walks to the front entrance.
It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, and he appears to have changed little. Same weight, same blond shaggy hair, though he once shaved his head in prison. He looks twice at the Florida tags on my car, then goes inside. I take a deep breath, put the Panama hat on my head, and walk to the door. Be cool, you idiot, I mumble to myself as my bowels flip. This will take a steady hand and nerves of steel.
We meet inside the front foyer and exchange pleasantries. I remove the hat as we follow the hostess to a booth in the rear. Across the table, we face each other and talk about the weather. For a moment, I’m almost overwhelmed by my ruse. Nathan is talking to a stranger, while I’m talking to a kid I once knew quite well. He doesn’t seem at all suspicious: no staring at my eyes or nose; no squinting, or raised eyebrows, or distant glances as he listens to my voice. And, thankfully, no “You kinda remind me of a guy I once knew.” Nothing, so far.
I tell the waitress I really want a beer, a tall draft, and Nathan hesitates before saying, “The same.” The success of this long-shot mission could well depend on alcohol. Nathan was raised in a culture of hard drinking and meth addiction. Then he spent five years in prison, clean and sober. I’m assuming he’s back to his old habits now that he’s out. The fact that he owns his own bar is a good indication.
For a hillbilly who was never taught how to dress, he looks okay. Washed jeans, a Coors Light golf shirt some salesman left at the bar, and combat boots. There is no jewelry and no watch, but he does have an incredibly ugly prison tattoo inside his left forearm. In short, Nathan is not flashing around money with his appearance.
The beer arrives and we tap glasses. “Tell me about this film,” he says.
Out of habit, I nod, pause, tell myself to speak slowly, clearly, and as deeply as possible. “I’ve been making documentaries for ten years now, and this is the most exciting project I’ve seen.”
“Look, Mr. Baldwin, what is a documentary film exactly? I watch some movies and all, but I don’t think I’ve seen too many documentaries.”
“Sure. They’re typically small, independently produced films that you don’t see in the big movie houses. They’re not commercial. They’re about real people, real problems, real issues, no big movie stars and all that. Really good stuff. The best win awards at film festivals and get some attention, but they’re never going to make a lot of money. My company specializes in films that deal with the abuse of power, primarily by the federal government, but also by big corporations.” I take a sip, tell myself to go slow. “Most are about an hour long. This one might run for ninety minutes, but we’ll decide that later.”
The waitress is back. I order a chicken sandwich, and Nathan wants a basket of wings.
“How’d you get into the bar business?” I ask.
He takes a gulp, smiles, says, “A friend. The guy who owned the bar was going under, not from the bar, but from other properties. Recession got him, I think. So he was trying to unload Bombay’s. He was looking for some fool to take the deed and assume the debts, and I said what the hell. I’m only thirty, no job, no prospects, why not take a chance? So far, though, I’m making money. It’s kinda fun. Lots of college girls hanging around.”
“You’re not married?”
“No. Don’t know how much you know about me, Mr. Baldwin, but I just finished a five-year prison sentence. Thanks to the federal government, I ain’t had too many dates recently; just now getting back in the game. Know what I mean?”
“Sure. The prison time arose out of the same incident in which your brother was killed, right?”
“You got it. I pled guilty and went away for five. My cousin is still in prison, Big Sandy over in Kentucky, a bad place. Most of my cousins are either locked up or dead. That’s one reason I moved to Radford, Mr. Baldwin, to get away from the drug business.”
“I see. Please call me Reed. My father is Mr. Baldwin.”
“Okay. And I’m Nathan, or Nate.” We tap glasses again as if we’re suddenly much closer. In prison we called him Nattie.
“Tell me about your film company,” he says. I anticipated this, but it is still shaky ground.
I take a gulp and swallow slowly. “Skelter is a new company based in Miami, just me and two partners, plus a staff. For years I worked for a bigger production company in L.A., an outfit called Cove Creek Films, you may have heard of it.” He has not. He just glanced at the rear end of a shapely young waitress. “Anyway, Cove Creek has won a ton of awards and made decent money in this business, but last year it blew up. Big fight over creative control and which projects to do next. We’re still in the middle of some nasty litigation that looks like it will drag on for years. There’s an injunction in federal court in L.A. that prohibits me from even talking about Cove Creek or the lawsuit, pretty crazy, huh?” To my relief, Nathan is rapidly losing interest in my film company and its problems.
“Why are you based in Miami?”
“I went there a few years ago working on a film about bogus government defense contractors and fell in love with the place. I live on South Beach. Ever been there?”
“No.” Except for the trips arranged by the U.S. Marshals Service, Nathan has never ventured more than two hundred miles from Willow Gap.
“It’s a happening place. Beautiful beaches, gorgeous girls, wild nightlife. I got a divorce four years ago and I’m enjoying the single life again. I spend about half the year there. The other half, I’m on the road filming.”
“How do you film a documentary?” he asks, then knocks back some beer.
“It’s far different from a feature film. It’s usually just me and a cameraman, maybe a technician or two. The story is the important part, not the scenery or the actor’s face.”
“And you want to film me?”
“Absolutely. You, maybe your mother, maybe other members of the family. I want to go to the place where your brother was killed. What I’m after here, Nathan, is the truth. I’m onto something, something that could really be big. If I can prove the DEA systematically knocks off drug dealers, that they murder them in cold blood, then we might be able to bust these sumbitches. My nephew was breaking bad, getting deeper into the crack trade, but he was not a hard-core dealer. Stupid, yes, but not dangerous. He was seventeen and unarmed, and he was shot three times from point-blank range. A stolen pistol was left at the scene, and the DEA claims it belonged to him. They’re a bunch of liars.”
Nathan’s face slowly contorts into anger and he looks as if he wants to spit.
I press on: “The film will be the story of three, maybe four of these murders. I’m not sure if my nephew’s will
