Savannah was full of statues, many celebrating the city’s heritage, which went back to 3500 BCE , when the Biblo lived there. Oglethorpe’s arrival in 1732 marked the birth of modern Savannah. Brixton respected the city’s history but didn’t have any particular interest in it. For him it was an alien land in which he’d ended up through circumstances. No, he decided as he sat on the bench and thought about it, he’d ended up in Savannah because he’d decided to come there, and he was still there because he’d decided not to leave. He didn’t believe in fate. You made your own fate.
As this train of thought occupied him, he realized that he was becoming depressed. The shrill female voices inside, coupled with loud males’, oiled by the free-flowing booze, grated on him. He lit a second cigarette. He knew he should go back inside and join Flo but dreaded it, actually dreaded it. They never should have come. He should have declined St. Pierre’s invitation, made an excuse—his face was excuse enough—and spent the evening with Flo at some quiet restaurant, or in one of their apartments.
He was sinking deeper into this morose state when the doors opened and St. Pierre came through.
“Bad form, Bobby, leaving that lovely lady alone in there with a bunch of men on the hunt.”
“I was just about to come in,” Brixton said, snuffing out the cigarette on the bricks at his feet and adding it to the first butt, which he held in his hand. “You need an ashtray out here.”
“The ground is fine, my friend.”
“You travel in impressive circles, Wayne,” Brixton said as he stood and maneuvered against a pain in his back.
“Ah was surprised when Warren said he’d stop by tonight,” St. Pierre said. “You can imagine how busy he is with his real estate interests and having a daughter in the White House.”
“Yeah. I’m sure he’s a busy guy.”
“Come on in, Bobby, and meet some of my other friends. Most of ’em are pretty nice once you get to know them.”
Brixton forced some life into his voice. “Okay,” he said, “but no more ‘Bobby.’”
St. Pierre delivered a fake punch to Brixton’s abdomen. “You’ve got my word, Robert, and a southern gentleman’s word is his bond.”
Brixton and Flo stayed another hour. St. Pierre introduced them to a handful of others at the party, a few from Savannah’s artsy crowd whom Brixton considered too precious for his taste, and some of the host’s wealthy neighbors who reacted to Brixton’s battered face by cutting short their conversations. When it was time to leave, St. Pierre walked them to where they waited for the car parker to fetch Brixton’s Subaru.
“Thanks for inviting us, Wayne,” Flo said.
“It was my pleasure.” He looked at Brixton and frowned. “Looks to me, Robert, that you could use a vacation, considerin’ everything that’s been happening to you lately. You know, go lie on a beach someplace, drink some fancy rum drinks, and relax.”
“I might do that, Wayne.”
“Wonderful seeing both of you. Stay out of trouble, Robert. There’s no case worth gettin’ beat up over.”
PART
TWO
CHAPTER 11
On most summer days, Washington, D.C., is as miserably hot and humid as Savannah. But on this day it was as though a large dome had been placed over the city built on a swamp and someone had switched on a gigantic air-conditioning unit. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees and the humidity was low. The sky was cobalt blue—like a fall sky—and the brisk breeze from the northwest was invigorating.
A perfect day for sightseeing.
The tour guide of a double-decker, open-top sightseeing bus parked in front of Union Station stood by the door and greeted passengers who’d paid for a tour of the city, including a man in his late thirties with a pencil mustache, who used a thin walking stick with a gnarled head. Aside from his cane, Emile Silva looked like any other tourist—chino pants, white sneakers, and a white
As this train of thought occupied him, he realized that he was becoming depressed. The shrill female voices inside, coupled with loud males’, oiled by the free-flowing booze, grated on him. He lit a second cigarette. He knew he should go back inside and join Flo but dreaded it, actually dreaded it. They never should have come. He should have declined St. Pierre’s invitation, made an excuse—his face was excuse enough—and spent the evening with Flo at some quiet restaurant, or in one of their apartments.
He was sinking deeper into this morose state when the doors opened and St. Pierre came through.
“Bad form, Bobby, leaving that lovely lady alone in there with a bunch of men on the hunt.”
“I was just about to come in,” Brixton said, snuffing out the cigarette on the bricks at his feet and adding it to the first butt, which he held in his hand. “You need an ashtray out here.”
“The ground is fine, my friend.”
“You travel in impressive circles, Wayne,” Brixton said as he stood and maneuvered against a pain in his back.
“Ah was surprised when Warren said he’d stop by tonight,” St. Pierre said. “You can imagine how busy he is with his real estate interests and having a daughter in the White House.”
“Yeah. I’m sure he’s a busy guy.”
“Come on in, Bobby, and meet some of my other friends. Most of ’em are pretty nice once you get to know them.”
Brixton forced some life into his voice. “Okay,” he said, “but no more ‘Bobby.’”
St. Pierre delivered a fake punch to Brixton’s abdomen. “You’ve got my word, Robert, and a southern gentleman’s word is his bond.”
Brixton and Flo stayed another hour. St. Pierre introduced them to a handful of others at the party, a few from Savannah’s artsy crowd whom Brixton considered too precious for his taste, and some of the host’s wealthy neighbors who reacted to Brixton’s battered face by cutting short their conversations. When it was time to leave, St. Pierre walked them to where they waited for the car parker to fetch Brixton’s Subaru.
“Thanks for inviting us, Wayne,” Flo said.
“It was my pleasure.” He looked at Brixton and frowned. “Looks to me, Robert, that you could use a vacation, considerin’ everything that’s been happening to you lately. You know, go lie on a beach someplace, drink some fancy rum drinks, and relax.”
“I might do that, Wayne.”
“Wonderful seeing both of you. Stay out of trouble, Robert. There’s no case worth gettin’ beat up over.”
PART
TWO
CHAPTER 11
On most summer days, Washington, D.C., is as miserably hot and humid as Savannah. But on this day it was as though a large dome had been placed over the city built on a swamp and someone had switched on a gigantic air-conditioning unit. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees and the humidity was low. The sky was cobalt blue—like a fall sky—and the brisk breeze from the northwest was invigorating.
A perfect day for sightseeing.
The tour guide of a double-decker, open-top sightseeing bus parked in front of Union Station stood by the door and greeted passengers who’d paid for a tour of the city, including a man in his late thirties with a pencil mustache, who used a thin walking stick with a gnarled head. Aside from his cane, Emile Silva looked like any other tourist—chino pants, white sneakers, and a white
Similar Books
