?No bet,? Berryman said. ?I think you?re exactly right.?
?Seems I?m
right,? Uncle Smith said, ?when I don?t want to be.?
Berryman paid his check, then walked outside with a big smile on his face. For the moment he felt pretty level, not even any butterflies after the meal. He looked down on the turnpike and saw that it was extra busy with cars going into Nashville for the parade. He rubbed his knuckles hard against his short hair, and wondered for a minute if Oona was going to meet him.
10:30 A.M.
Horn?s security got insecure on the morning of the Fourth, and young Santo Massimino later had to take adult responsibility for the mix-ups.
Nashville?s wise-old-owl police chief covered his scarred flanks early in the day. Chief Carl Henry fully understood the possibilities for misadventure.
He appeared to Massimino out of the Halloween marching lines of Shriners and the Best People on Earth, and he attempted to rectify the problem of both too many chiefs and too many Indians. The scene was Dudley Field football stadium.
The old chief?s mouth was open so wide a bat could have flown out of it. He was vexed, but also helpless.
?Suh. Suh, are you Mister Mass-a-mino?? he asked between nose-blowing trumpets and cymbals.
Massimino smiled and nodded without actually looking at Henry. He was planting fresh roses in the lapels of all the VIPs with seats on the speaker?s dais, and he was in a dandy mood. There was good reason for this: with the mere paper promise of ?celebrities? and ?fireworks,? he?d jammed a southern college football stadium for a black politician. (At least the stadium looked full. What most people didn?t notice was that a good quarter of the seats had been cleverly masked with billboard-sized banners. But as Massimino would say,
Henry laid kind hands on the young man?s bush jacket. ?The mayor axt me to talk with you,? he said. ?Well, actually, he didn?t. But I?m going to.?
The chief raised one heavy arm and pointed his wedding ring finger toward neat rows of card-table chairs sticking out of the stadium infield. ?What do you think? Those are state troopers over there, aren?t they??
Massimino, who never laughed, laughed.
He held on to the liver-spotted hand of an elderly dignitary as he answered. ?No disrespect meant,? he said. ?But I?ll take the responsibility for having the governor call in state police.?
?I see,? Henry nodded. ?You?ll take the responsibility. That?s good.?
?The
problem today is going to be
Massimino grinned. ?I wanted your men to make sure Jimmie Horn doesn?t get trampled by well-wishers.?
The old congressman stood looking on with his solitary rose.
Henry winked at him. He cleared his throat, took a breath. ?Boy?s some kind of bullshitter,? he rasped.
?Well,? he turned to Massimino, ?I guess we?ll have to live with the arrangement for today. You know,? he spoke to both Massimino and the old man, ?I don?t want anybody shooting up his ass either.?
?That?s fine,? Massimino said. ?That?s the idea.?
The old man smelled his rose.
Chief Henry cleared his throat again. He backed off a step and tapped his walkie-talkie. ?You keep in touch, Santo.?
Henry then gazed off into the buzzing grandstands like a Roman general at the Colosseum. Today, he was a loser for some ungodly reason or another. ?Those state boys give out speeding tickets right well,? he chatted idly. ?But I wouldn?t depend on?m for too much more.?
The old man VIP coughed out a laugh at that remark. ?I wouldn?t depend on?m,? he tugged Massimino?s sleeve, ?findin? they?ah zippers to pee.?
Joe Cubbah talked to himself as he paced the ranks of folding metal chairs.
Cubbah was melting. He had sweat stains halfway down to his Sam Browne, and his kinky black curls were dripping on the shoulder patches of Martin Weesner?s uniform. They didn?t have fucking inhuman weather like this in Philadelphia, he mumbled. Some asshole had told him it was a hundred and fifteen degrees down on the field. The temperature dropped ten to fifteen degrees just walking in the shade of the speaker?s platform.
He nudged a redheaded boy sipping Ripple wine in the open, and the youngster obediently tucked away his bottle. He even said he was sorry.
?Man, don?t ever say you?re sorry,? Cubbah advised. ?Just be more careful. Be more careful, see.?
Keeping an eye out for Thomas Berryman, he continued to circle in closer to the speaker?s dais. He enjoyed the way the country crowds parted for his uniform. He thought he understood why mountain boys leave home to become sheriffs.
Inside the locker room marked VISITORS, Jimmie Horn was sitting by himself at the far end of a long golden bench. The bench ran along in front of golden lockers, all of them filled with golden shirts and helmets.
As is the standard procedure in the Southeastern Football Conference, the locker room floor was covered with wall-to-wall carpeting.
Twenty or more men and women were standing around the room but none of them were talking. It was like a
