Outside, going to the car, Robert said, 'The man's a fool.'
'He believed you,' Dennis said.
'It's what I'm saying, the man's a fool.' Getting in the car Robert said, 'Even if it's true what I told him.'
They were out of Southern Living Village, on the highway, before Dennis said, 'What do you mean, if it was true?'
'You heard the story-did you believe it?'
'No.'
'But that don't mean it isn't true, does it?' 'Wait a minute. Was that your great-grandfather hanging from the bridge?'
Robert said, 'Was that
'Was there?'
'Take your pick.'
They passed Tunica over there off the highway, heading toward the hotels.
'You came here,' Dennis said, 'knowing about the reenactment.'
'Yes, I did.'
'Planning to take part in it. And studied up on the Civil War.'
'I already had. I did look up Brice's Cross Roads.'
'Learned enough to sound like an expert.'
'The key to being a good salesman.'
'What're you selling?'
'Myself, man, myself.'
'You never mentioned the reenactment before.'
'You never asked was I interested.'
'What's a farb?'
'Man that isn't hardcore about it. Wears a T-shirt under his polyester uniform, his own shoes, won't cook or eat sowbelly, has candy bars in his knapsack. His haversack if he's Confederate.'
'How do you know all that?'
'I read.'
'The picture of the lynching-'
'Man, what is it you want me to tell you?'
'You only used it to set Kirkbride up.'
'That don't mean it ain't real.'
Dennis paused, but then went ahead. 'Already knowing you wanted to get into the reenactment with him.'
'You helped me, didn't you? Telling the man he had to dye his beard? You jumped right in.'
Dennis paused again. He said, 'I guess you're not through with him.'
Robert said, 'Listen, Dennis?' and turned his head to look at him. 'I have to meet some people, so I won't be at your show tonight. I'd like to, but I can't. Okay?'
Some people.
'Sure, I understand.'
'You want, I could meet you later on. You can tell me how it went.'
Dennis said, 'Come by Vernice's for a toddy. Did I tell you she likes to talk? You might learn something can help you.'
There was a silence, both of them gazing straight ahead at the highway. Now Robert turned his head again to look at Dennis.
'Trying to figure out what I'm up to, huh?'
'It isn't any of my business.'
'But you dying to know.'
8
CHARLIE HOKE SAID, 'I have to go to Memphis to pick this guy up? I'm not a goddamn limo driver.'
They were in Billy Darwin 's outer office. His assistant, Carla, handed Charlie a square of cardboard with MR. MULARONI lettered on it in black Magic Marker. She said, 'Hold this up as they come off the flight from Detroit, Germano Mularoni and his wife.'
'Who is he, anyway?'
'Money,' Carla said. 'Big-time.'
Charlie had Carla down as the neatest, niftiestlooking dark-haired woman he had ever seen, not even thirty years old.
'You letter this yourself?'
Carla raised her smart brown eyes to look over the top of her glasses at him. She said, 'Be careful, Charlie.'
At the gate a heavyset guy in his fifties, his face behind a dark, neatly trimmed beard and sunglasses, made eye contact and nodded, once, and Charlie said, 'Mr. Mularoni, I'm Charlie Hoke, lemme take that for you,' reaching for the black carry-on bag. Mr. Mularoni jerked his thumb over his shoulder and kept walking. So Charlie said to the attractive woman in sunglasses behind him, 'Lemme help you there,' and was handed a bag that must've had bricks in it. He told Mrs. Mularoni, walking along with her now, he wasn't the limo driver, actually he was the Tishomingo Lodge's celebrity host. The good-looking maybe thirty-fiveyear-old woman, dark hair, long legs, as slim as a model in a linen coat that reached almost to the floor, said, 'That's nice.'
She lit a cigarette in the terminal, waiting for their luggage, and no one told her to put it out.
Charlie got them and their luggage, four full-size bags, into the black stretch and rode up front with the driver, Carlyle, Charlie half-turned in his seat so he could look at the couple way in the back.
'So, you're from the Motor City, huh?'
They were looking out the tinted windows on opposite sides through their sunglasses at the south end of Memphis.
'You have casinos up there I understand.'
The wife looked up this time, no expression to speak of on her face. She didn't say anything back.
'If you happened to attend that World Series up there in '84 you might've seen me pitch. I was with the Detroit Tigers at the time, finishing up my eighteen years in organized baseball.'
This time Mr. Mularoni looked up. He said, 'Charlie, leave us the fuck alone, okay?'
Charlie turned to Carlyle the driver and said, 'I think he remembers me. In that Series with the Padres I pitched two and a third innings of the fifth game. Went in and struck out the side. Hit a batter on a nothing-and-two count, so you know it wasn't intentional…'
Late afternoon, Dennis was in his bedroom taking a nap, lying on the chenille spread in a pair of shorts, no shirt. Vernice came in in her black pongee bathrobe and her white legs, the dive-caller script in her hands. She said, 'Oh, were you sleeping?' Then a change of tone, looking for sympathy with, 'I can't learn all this by tonight. I've never been like onstage before.' Then getting a pouty look, this big girl. 'I don't think I can do it.'
'You read it, Vernice. Just the places that're marked.'
She said, 'I don't know…' and sat down on the edge of the bed.
Dennis said, 'Let's see,' drew up his knees and swung around to get next to her. He opened the script. 'See, only where it's marked. The script is really for a team, three or four divers. It's the only way you can do the comic stuff. One guy, there's too much time between dives. You know? I need you to fill in. Otherwise I don't know. Get a band?'
Vernice said she wished she could help him and crossed her legs Jesus, coming out of that black material. Hell… he put his hand on her purewhite thigh, plump but not too, turned his face to hers waiting for him and said,
