Perfect killer

CHAPTER 66

Without the blare of 5 °Cent flooding out the open windows of a slammed Honda with seventeen-inch rims and a rear-window decal declaring the driver a "Bad Ass," shoppers coming out of the grocery store at the west end of the square in Itta Bena might have caught the strains of an acoustic guitar drifting out the open door of the old dry goods store across the street.

They might have heard the nearly on-key voice of a wrinkled, leathery old man who had once gotten drunk with Mississippi John Hurt, singing about pain and betrayal. But the shoppers didn't hear, and had they been able, they wouldn't probably have cared, such is the nadir to which the blues have sunk in the belly of its creation.

The old dry goods store turned juke joint had no signs, no name, no atmospheric old metal chewing-tobacco signs, or any of the other cultural tattoos sought by affluent white tourists. This place was simply known as Lena's, and as soon as some damned tourist stumbled in by accident, she'd shut it down, find some other place for it, and pass the word among the regulars. Vacant buildings were easy to come by.

But for now, Lena's lay in the shadow of the big water tower, kitty-corner from the police station and fire department, and steps west of a bar where patrons rarely let musical appreciation get in the way of serious drinking.

Tonight, Lena's was hopping. Early arrivals sat in folding chairs jammed around card tables, while the rest crowded around the walls, squatted on the worn wooden floor, and leaned against the big folding banquet tables Lena used as a movable bar. Cigarette smog hung in layers and almost chased away the naphthalene pungency of mothballs, which had once protected the dry goods store's wool fabrics. Oh, Bob shot once and Louis shot too, shot poor Collins, shot him through and through

The old man sang close enough to the right notes to be enjoyable and far enough off-key to be authentic, none of the perfect-pitch and over-orchestrated stuff usually found on CDs that leached out the pain and emotion.

In the far back corner of Lena's, almost to a door marked "Restrooms", which actually led outside, John Myers sat at the end of a small rectangular table with Jasmine's uncle, Quincy Thompson, and Pete Mandeville, a high-yellow deputy who had been present at the murder scene when the Feds had arrived. The very end of the folding table groaned under the meaty elbows of the Itta Bena police chief, a giant man with an oversize, black cowboy hat and skin so tight, shiny, and impenetrably dark it reflected like a mirror.

Wedged into the most uncomfortable spot in the room, shoehorned right into the display window behind where the front door opened, sat two thirtysomething white men with tailored suits, $50 haircuts, and perfectly straight, overly bright teeth. They squirmed uncomfortably and nursed the cheap rye Lena had poured for them. Occasionally, one of them would sip at his glass, then grimace. Lena was not about to pour them the good stuff.

The singer everybody called Pap finished with the angels laying Ol' Collins away, then amid a respectful silence, he made his way masterfully through the final bars, and when he finished, the applause would have drowned the loudest of 5 °Cent's best. When the applause trailed off, Quincy Thompson picked up where he had left off. "I tell you it's all because of that white boy. All his fault for coming here to get in

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."