Finally, with a flourish, the warden finished up whatever it was he was writing with a fountain pen, pressed a roller across the pages to dry the ink, then carefully removed the document to a desk drawer and permitted himself to look up.
'Why, Sheriff Leon, how kind of you to join me upon such short notice.'
There was no chance in hell that the sheriff would not obey a summons immediately, but it was the warden's preference to proceed by the old Southern ways of politeness. He was a polite man, as if he believed that politeness, chivalry, the rules of society, were all that separated him and his kind from the niggers.
'Yes, sir, it is my pleasure.'
'Do sit down. Join me in a glass of sherry?'
'Sir, may I be frank?'
'Of course, Sheriff Leon.'
'Sherry would not be to my likin'. My people never had no sherry, and so I never grew a taste for it.'
'I have some fine sour mash bourbon.'
'Sir, that would make this old dog a happy dog indeed.'
'And I'll join you, Leon, if you don't mind.'
'Yes, sir. I'd be proud if you would.'
The ceremony of the drinks, quite elaborate, unfolded, and in a few minutes each man had returned to his respective seat, though now each was armed with two fingers of neat brown fluid. 'That is a fine batch,' said the sheriff, after a taste.
'It is indeed,' said the warden.
'Now, how may I be of assistance?'
'I have read your report over and over, Leon, about the Arkansas lawyer who escaped.'
'Yes, sir.'
'You recommended that the situation be looked into?'
'Yes, sir.' 'In my wisdom, I thought it wise to let sleeping dogs lie.
That is to say, my thought was that as he had not seen our institution he only had a confused picture of what he would have dismissed as '
Southern methods,' unlikely to bestir the world at large. There was furthermore the issue of the fellow involved with him, whom we felt we had to learn more about. Alas, he is no longer with us.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now, Leon, that was my judgment. Leon, it was the wrong judgment. I am not averse to acknowledging my failures. You were right, Leon, I was wrong.'
'Sir, you ain't hardly ever wrong about nothing. You done got this county and your prison set up just fine, and we all the better off fo' it, with good jobs, money in the bank, bread and vittles on the table, and a solid future. You have done things down here that have?'
The warden let Leon lick his boots for several moments, though he didn't much enjoy it. But finally, when the fellow was done groveling, he continued.
'Now, Leon, I will tell you very confidentially that something is astir among the convicts. They are muttering about a deliverance. In their primitive minds, God is gathering the righteous to strike, riding in on a pale horse of retribution. Do you know a thing about it?'
'No, sir. Not a thing.'
'Of course not. I do not believe this has a thing to do with that lawyer. I cannot in my mind work out a chain which would in some way not merely involve him, but more to the point, permit the knowledge of his engagement to return here and boil up my black wards. It doesn't make sense at all, does it?'
'No, sir, it don't. But?'
'Yes?'
'But, well, wouldn't it be safer, just in case??'
'Exactly, Leon. Exactly. You read my mind and you help me correct my misjudgment. We must make certain we are not under threat. We have our responsibilities. I have a great charge which must be protected. We have the doctor to think about, our country, our society. I have some latitude in these matters, and know that if one acts, one must act decisively.'
'I know a fella in N'Awleens who's very clever at gizmos. The gangsters there and throughout the South used him, and though many knew of him, he was never caught, on the simple reason that whatever acts he engineered by their very nature precluded much in the way of investigation. Hell, how do you investigate a hole in the damn ground?'
'How, indeed? The answer is, you don't.'
'I have the contacts. I could arrange a package be delivered up to Arkansas. It would not be sent from Mississippi at all, and would have nothing to do with Mississippi, much less Thebes. It would look like any other package.' 'Hmmm, well thought out.'
'When it is opened by this here lawyer, they won't be nothing left but smoke and bone meal floating in the air, and there'll be a new crater in the middle of Arkansas. This fellow could do that up right good.' 'Yes, I like that,' said the warden. 'That would settle matters nicely, indeed. That would make all of us happy, and I would feel that my responsibilities?Leon, you have no idea the world of weight I carry on my shoulders?would have been well lived up to.'
'I'll do it, warden. You are a great man, and I feel ever so good when I can serve you.'
'There is a great man here, Leon, but it isn't me. I am but a humble servant. The great man is that doctor who works by the river, where he is saving our country.'
Sailors everywhere. Earl did not like sailors. It was nothing personal.
It was just that the Navy was always the daddy to the Marine Corps, and was always lording it over the Corps. That unease of relationship came through especially during the war in the Pacific, where Earl believed that no island was bombed or shelled enough before the Marines had to land on it, no ship got in close enough to get the wounded to safety fast enough, no supplies arrived soon enough, and on and on and on, a whole symphony of grudges.
So Earl did not like Pensacola, for it was full of sailors. They were everywhere, and now and then jets roared overhead or old prop jobs blew by in low formation, for Pensacola was a Navy town, as Navy a town as existed anywhere, and its particular form of the Navy was naval aviation.
So he bit down on his distaste and went about his business, though it was hard, for in the years before the war, there'd been too many occasions when he and his pals and sailors had found the fit in this or that port city bar too tight, and fists had flown. He'd learned as much about fighting there as he had under the mentor ship of the old sergeants who'd coached him when he was fighting for the service in the late thirties in the Pacific fleet.
Earl knew he wouldn't get into any fights because he no longer went into bars. Where he went instead was into a bank, where he deposited a large sum and opened a checking account under the name John R.
Bogash. Then he went to a real estate agency, and there had an earnest conversation with an agent.
He was, the story he made up went, looking for a quiet place where he could park a while with his very sick father, so that that old man's passing could be comfortable in the warmth and sun, rather than in the chill of up North. The father had been in the Navy, and it always cheered him to see the boys in their white uniforms parading down the street; and he liked airplanes, and as he sat on his porch waiting for the end, it would do him good to see the trim Navy aircraft practicing their skills overhead. Did Earl want seaside?
Earl did not want seaside. Too much traffic seaside. People going to the beach and all. Someplace in the country would be nice, possibly with some room, for the dying old man was fond of his dogs, too, and wanted to be with his and watch them roam.
Well, the real estate agent made some calls, and soon enough he located a series of farms that were available. So off they went. This was always wrong, and that was always wrong, as they ranged ever farther northward, almost to the Alabama line, and the agent thought he'd lose his client to a competitor from Brewton, up in '. But Earl eventually took a particular shine to a certain place, which lay at the end of a mile of dirt road, its fields fallow, its barn in need of paint, its general maintenance feeble. The agent was somewhat baffled as to, why Earl made such a big deal about the size of the near field, for he hadn't got the impression much from Earl that that was necessary.
But Earl looked hard at the field, then peered at the location of the place on the map. But it was far and
