Jasmine's pants.' He looked around, expecting confirmation. Nobody met his gaze. 'So, you think those boys're civilian or military?' Mandeville cocked his head toward the front door.
'Civilian. Look at the haircuts,' the police chief said, his voice rolling deep like distant thunder. 'And the suits; sure ain't military tailoring. You can hardly spot the pieces they carryin'.'
'The one on the left followed me to John's,' Mandeville said.
'T'other one was cooped in his car out front a my house when Pete arrived,' Myers said.
'Our tax dollars at work,' the police chief rumbled.
'Yeah, yeah, but you're missing what's going down and it's all that Stone boy's fault,' Quincy persisted.
Myers rolled his eyes. The other men concentrated on their sour mash, rattling the remains of the ice and the bourbon.
Quincy tried again. 'No, listen to me. It-'
'Oh, yeah, Quince, you must certainly be right,' Myers said sarcastically. 'That rich ole white boy who lives in the middle of mo' jelly roll and poontang than you ever wet-dreamed about flew umpteen thousand miles just to get yo' niece in bed.' Myers drained his bourbon, then leaned toward Quincy. 'Boy, for a damned professor, you can be awfully fugging dumb.'
Mandeville stifled a laugh. Quincy glared at him.
'Quincy, Dr. Stone's all right, never mind his grandaddy. He came out here because your sister-God rest her soul-asked him to.'
'I know that, John, but I don't trust white people, that boy especially. Look at the blood running through his veins. No way he can get away from that.' Quincy paused. 'I just won't ever get over my daddy and all the years he worked for the Judge and looked after that boy. And ain'no way to forget Daddy Al sittin' around telling us, 'I ain'no ordinary niggah. I's lawyuh Stone's chauffeur.'' Quincy looked at John expectantly. 'Can you forget?'
Quincy looked around the table. 'Well, can you forget? Uh-uh. No, suh! White folks just trouble, and we always caught in the shit swirlin' round 'em.' He looked around the room and stopped when his gaze fell on another white face in the audience. 'And you been spending so much time on the crackers by the door, you ain'even mentioned the white boy over there.' Quincy cocked his head. 'Why's he got the pick of the spots? And look at Lena! She's pouring him the same good bourbon we got.' Myers closed his eyes and shook his head, then opened his lids halfway and spoke. 'Quincy, you got a real thing here and we'd all like you to keep those opinions to yourself. It ain't helping a thing. We all got our issues. But we have us here a problem we got to work right or your niece'll have a lot more on her mind than some horny white boy.' The police chief and Pete Mandeville nodded then.
'All right,' Quincy Thompson said reluctantly. 'But answer me 'bout the white boy Lena's taking such good care of. I've seen him here befo'.' They all watched as the leathery old singer went over and greeted the man.
'An' lookit! Even Pap's got to go over and lick the man's boots.'
'Cut it out, Quincy!' Pete Mandeville's voice carried a leather-stropped edge.
'That's Steve La Vere. If it weren't for him, the rich record companies would've robbed ole
Robert Johnson's heirs blind. Man's spent a lot of his money to keep blues alive. The real stuff, not prissified tourist crap.'
'Now don't you be knocking B. B. King again,' the police chief said. 'He's an Itta
Bena boy.'
'Awright.' Myers waved his hands. 'Can we be done with this?' Mandeville and the police chief nodded. Quincy Thompson glared at them all in turn, slumped in his seat, and crossed his arms in front of him.
'Okay, Quincy. So tell us about this phone call,' Myers said.
'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' Quincy said reluctantly, then sat up. 'That's why I went out to the old sharecropper shack. Shanker called me, said I might know where Jasmine would be. I had no idea when I arrived she'd be there in the white boy's bed in her underwear-' 'Let it go, Quincy?' the police chief boomed.
'Uh-huh. Well, they're supposed to meet at Judge Stone's old cotton gin at three in the morning.' He inclined his head toward the back of the room. Everybody at the table knew the old shuttered gin in a weed-covered lot about two hundred yards northwest of them.
'Didn't Pap used to work there back in the bad old days?' Myers asked. The police chief nodded.'Most everybody worked for the Judge back then. I know my papa did.' He paused for a moment. 'The Holy Rollers got a tent set up across the street, little bit this way from it. They've had a revival there this time of the year for as long as I can remember.'
'Why they meeting?' Mandeville asked. 'With Shanker,'
Quincy shook his head.
'I got an idea or two,' Myers said. 'Most I picked up from looking into the
Talmadge case-and some I learned a lot from Vanessa. I'll tell you what I know and maybe we can figure out what to do.'
CHAPTER 67
Beneath the fluorescent glare in the Greenwood courthouse offices commandeered by Homeland Security, David Brown sucked another Marlboro down to his fingertips as the encrypted wireless phone rang.
'Brown.'
'We got something.'
'Go on.'
'The tap on Tyrone Freedman's ISP shows a lot of activity; it's encrypted and running through proxy servers outside our jurisdiction,'
'Isn't that illegal?'
'No, sir. Not yet.'
'Well, we squeeze those bastards on Capitol Hill and make it illegal.' Brown grabbed his Marlboro box. It was empty. He ran his finger hopefully inside the box.
Nothing. 'Shit.'
'Sir?'
'Nothing.' Brown threw the box toward the wastebasket and missed. The red-and-white flip-top landed on the floor near two other empties. 'So, if we can't figure out this guy's net traffic, what the fuck good is it?'
'It's coming from his trailer.'
'So?'
'Freedman's at the hospital.'
'Bring his black ass to me.' Brown smiled.
'Sir! And something else.'
'Speak.'
'We have a make, model, and license plate for the dead blonde's new rental car.' 'APB everything.'
'Sir!'
CHAPTER 68
By midnight, the full moon had slipped to the horizon as Jasmine brought us into Itta Bena along a one-lane dirt road. She turned the headlights out as soon as we left Highway 7 and navigated by the now-fading moonlight. We navigated an overgrown section where blackberry vines clawed at us. Then she stopped. Ahead lay a patched asphalt road lined with modest houses.
'Where in the world are we?' I asked.
'A little north of the gin.'
I rolled my window down. The scent of night blooms and summer flowers rolled in with the moist, cool air. 'Let's make a circle to look for bad guys, then find a parking spot.'
