When the man was free, he turned and bolted from the tree like a loose cat. Just as he was about out of sight, jumping a warped run of barbed wire on cedar posts, Benefield leveled a.44 and fired off a hard, booming shot punctuated with a rebel yell.
The shot missed, and Benefield laughed, the pine needles smoked and burned out into a perfect blackened circle. “That boy shit his drawers. Did you smell it? Did you smell it?”
THE NEXT MORNING, ARCH FERRELL AND SI GARRETT waited outside the short driveway leading to a little brick house in Cullman. Si Garrett leaned back in the driver’s seat, having given his man the morning off, and Arch slept one off in the back of the Oldsmobile, just coming awake. Garrett listened to the first morning news out of Montgomery, nothing but more and more reports about the killing of Patterson and his funeral and John’s announcement he was taking his slain father’s slot, and, as Arch sat up, he watched a man emerge from the simple white house with a mug of coffee. The man walked down the drive, careful not to spill the contents, and Garrett opened his door.
He handed Garrett the coffee.
Garrett turned down the radio.
“Mr. Folsom said to set up an appointment for later.”
“We already tried that.”
The man squatted, craned his neck toward the house, only one light on showing some movement behind a curtain. “He said he can’t miss his walk. You know how he is about that walk. And after that, he’s due in Montgomery.”
“We just need a second of his time.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrett,” the man said, looking into the backseat at Arch with a wry smile, the cocky sonofabitch, and turning to walk away. “Enjoy the coffee.”
Garrett cut the radio back on, watching the house with the single light on, tapping the steering wheel. More news about the killing and an interview with John Patterson coming on, piercing Arch’s head. Garrett turned it up after a commercial for Dobbs Buick in Alex City and ads for Vienna sausages and Bama jellies.
Garrett tuned the radio to a hillbilly station playing an Ernest Tubb number called “Walkin’ the Floor Over You.”
From the backseat, Arch stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair was scattered wild, rat nose twitching and big ears pricked, as he ran a hand over an unshaven face, opened his eyes, and then closed them. He breathed in and coughed and opened the side door and vomited into a drainage ditch.
After some snorting and gagging, he sat up again and asked Garrett if he had some chewing gum. Garrett handed back some Black Jack gum, and the song changed and this time it was Alabama’s own Hank Williams – that’s the way the announcer said it – and Hank sang “Move It On Over.”
Arch started to sweat in his wrinkled dress shirt. He looked to Garrett, playing with the brim of his white Stetson that matched his suit, and then up at the simple brick house of the governor-elect, James E. Folsom, alias Big Jim.
“You ever think radio waves can get mixed up in your head?” Garrett asked him. “Sometimes I hear songs and I think they’re written just for me.”
Arch plucked a few more sticks of gum in his mouth. “I feel like death warmed over. Last thing I remember is that catfish house outside Opelika.”
“I wanted you to sleep it off. Get your mind off the worry. Worry will eat a man’s soul.”
“Think Big Jim will see us?”
Garrett didn’t answer.
“Si?”
“I’m not moving an inch till he does,” he said. “He owes us.”
Moments later, the door opened and out walked the big six-foot-eight, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound sonofabitch in khaki pants, plaid shirt, walking boots, and with a walking cane. Before Garrett could reach the door handle, Big Jim was striding down the road, reminding Arch of storybooks about Paul Bunyan, and Garrett cranked the car and followed loosely, just nosing along, and pretty soon they were beside the governor-elect.
“’Morning, Big Jim.”
Big Jim looked fresh, his hair slicked back, square jaw out, blue eyes clear and directed ahead on the narrow country road lined with oak and pecan trees. Cicadas started to click and whir high up in the trees.
“I thought Drinkard told y’all to find me later.”
“He did.”
“Well.”
“Can’t wait, Jim.”
The walking continued, Garrett moving alongside him in the Olds, Arch leaning between the front seats, feeling like a kid at a picture show. Garrett kept moving, the car idling and him smiling, trying to keep it affable and slow.
“We got real problems.”
“I’ll say.”
“They want me back in Birmingham next week,” he said. “They want me to testify on those votes before the grand jury.”
“Don’t see how that concerns me. I don’t take office till next year.”
“Just figured you could make some calls.”
Big Jim looked at Garrett and then over at Arch, who gave a self-conscious smile and a half-assed wave. The strides lengthened, but Garrett continued. Sonofabitch.
“You helped us out with Patterson,” he said. “You talked to him for us.”
“And where did that get us?” he said. “He was going to testify against you boys on Monday anyway. But I guess y’all know that already. Did you really think you could add seven hundred goddamn votes with no one noticing?”
“We’re only accused of six hundred,” Garrett said and leaned back in the driver’s seat, steering with two fingers, a boy on a country road following an insulted girl.
“Arch and the boys in Phenix City came through for you on this election,” he said. “You know that money gave you a big boost.”
“It did,” Big Jim said, eyes still staring straight ahead, not even winded, walking with the stick up in his hand like a drum major.
“I just need you to call the dogs back.”
“It’s too late, Si.”
“It’s not too late. Goddamn Governor Persons is going to try to make this his big political send-off because he doesn’t care what bridges he burns. He’s gonna leave you a pile of flaming dog shit for you to clean up when you take office.”
“Too late,” Big Jim said. “I’m making an announcement later today that I’m supporting the Patterson boy.”
Si Garrett threw on his brakes and the big, clunky Olds skidded to a stop. He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Big Jim Folsom stopped and peered down at the much smaller man.
“You… you… this is going to break me. You know that? Do you understand what you are doing to my head?”
“You’re a sick man, Si. Get some help. But Phenix City is over. The sooner we all understand that, the better.”
“But throwing in with John Patterson. How could you do that? He’s not qualified or well-bred. He doesn’t have the qualifications.”
“Of someone like who? You, Si?”
Garrett stood on the side of the road, hands on his hips and shaking his head. He stayed there for several minutes, as Arch watched the sun rise high over a big, endless pasture bordered by a broken cedar fence and
