They got in Gordo’s Altima, just like Roy’s but newer and smelling of booze. Lee drove, Roy sat in the passenger seat. He heard empty beer cans rattling in the back as they turned onto Virginia, headed for the highway.
“Hope we don’t get stopped,” he said.
“I never do.”
But Roy didn’t know why. Once they were up on the connector, Lee drove fast, weaving in and out of the passing lane, hitting eighty-five, ninety, more. The funny thing was it didn’t feel like going fast. It felt just right, smooth, effortless, safe. Lee’s hands-not big, but strong looking and finely shaped-held the wheel in proper ten-to- two position, relaxed; his eyes gazed straight ahead in that steady way of his, without concern. Roy even wondered if he was thinking of something else. They blew past a Corvette, hit ninety-five.
“You’ve done some driving,” Roy said.
“A little.”
“I meant the competitive kind.”
Lee nodded, or made a slight motion that might have been a nod. “The guys are pretty jacked about you,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“What with this connection. It’s like you’re history, walking and talking.”
“Because I have the same name as this great-great whatever he was?”
“That,” said Lee, “and the fact that he was in the regiment, and”-Lee shot him a quick glance; Roy’s foot stomped a brake that wasn’t there-“you look the part.”
Roy remembered what Gordo had said, but also remembered the touch of Lee’s hand again, felt a little uncomfortable. Lee’s eyes were back on the road.
“What did you think of the bio?” he said.
“Bio?”
“I thought Jesse put together a bio.”
“I haven’t had a chance to read it yet,” Roy said, not even sure where it was.
“Did you get my message about black powder shooting?”
“I haven’t had much time lately.”
“Work.”
“Yeah.”
“Poor Gordo.”
Twenty, the perimeter, Bankhead: record time. As they crossed the river, Roy had an idea. “What about Earl?”
“What about him?” said Lee, suddenly decelerating. A few seconds later they cruised lawfully past a patrol car hidden by trees at the side of the road. Roy checked to see whether Gordo had installed a radar detector; he had not.
“I hear he’s got a lot of things going. Maybe there’d be a job for Gordo.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Lee said. “Or business in general.” He sped up without a glance back in the mirror. Traffic was lighter now, the night darker. The needle touched one hundred. “There was heavy skirmishing right around here,” Lee said.
“You’re talking about the Civil War?”
Lee smiled; a quick flash lit by the dashboard gauges. “Is that a surprise?” he said. One of his hands left the wheel, made a broad arc. “Sherman razed all of this, down to the ground.”
Roy looked out, saw the suburbs.
“Too bad he can’t come back and do it again,” Lee said, “now when it might do some good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just take a look,” Lee said. “Couldn’t be a better demonstration of what we lost.”
“You really think of it as we?”
Lee turned up the road to the camp, slowed down. “The very fact you can ask that shows how total the conquest was.”
“How so?”
“They’ve occupied your mind.”
Roy laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You make it sound like one of those alien possession movies.”
“That’s a good way of putting it.”
They pulled into the parking lot. The headlights swept over the empty pavement, shone on the lone vehicle, a motorcycle leaning on its stand near the beginning of the path. Lee stopped beside it.
“When I say occupied your mind, I’m not talking about your soul. That’s a different issue.”
“Are you a college professor, something like that?” Roy said.
“No.”
“What do you do?”
“This,” Lee said. “The regiment.”
“I didn’t know it was a paying job.”
“It’s not.” Lee turned to him, shifting easily, even gracefully, on the seat. “This mind and soul dichotomy-I’ve done some thinking about it, in reference to Gordo.”
“Yeah?” Roy hadn’t dwelled much on either aspect of Gordo, not in any analytical way.
“It’s the cause of all the problems he’s having. He can’t succeed at that place of yours-what’s it called?”
“Globax.”
“There we go,” said Lee. “A Yankee thing. They’ve imposed their way of life on us, even fooled us into believing it’s our way of life too. That’s the mental part. But we can never do it properly, never really compete, never be happy. That’s the soul part.”
“The soul part?”
“Unconquered, unoccupied, waiting.”
“So we’re like the Bosnians?” said Roy, not buying it. Why would he? Seventy-two seven, before bonuses! If that wasn’t competing, what was?
Lee didn’t laugh at his little joke, didn’t smile. “It’s much worse than that. They’re just Bosnians. Look who we were.”
“Slave owners,” Roy said.
Lee went still for a second or two. Then he reached out, touched the back of Roy’s hand, lightly, briefly, almost not at all. “You have to get that out of your mind,” he said. Then he got out of the car, mounted the bike, roared away, leaning low around the corner.
No helmet.
Roy opened the door to his house, smelled something sizzling. He went into the living room. Gordo was where he’d left him, but not alone. A big, long-haired man was bent over him, going through his pockets. Adrenaline shot through Roy’s body. Maybe the big man felt it too. He wheeled around: Sonny Junior.
Big smile. “Hi, Roy.” He held up Gordo’s wallet. “Just IDing this dude in case he’s some kind of perp.”
“He’s not a perp, Sonny. How did you get in?”
“Happened to have a key that fit. Lucky thing, what with the way this guy’s responding. What’s with him?”
“He’s a Confederate reenactor.”
“Got the blind drunk part down pretty good,” Sonny Junior said, dropping the wallet on Gordo’s chest. He came forward, gave Roy one of his arm-wrestling handshakes, pulled him into an embrace. “Cousin,” he said. “Son of a bitch.”
“How’s my father?”
“Right. We should eat pretty quick. I saw you were having steak tonight so I threw them on the stove. Case you were hungry when you got home, you know?” Sonny Junior went into the kitchen, Roy following. Sonny Junior had the three steaks frying in a pan, the Creole sauce bubbling around them. He drew a knife from his pocket, cut a piece off one of the steaks, speared it, popped it in his mouth.
