is to find out where that sumvabitch lives. Am I right?”
“Well . . .”
“An’ I’ll tell you why you want that.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause he was drivin’ his big old Mercedes and he thunk t’himself, Why, here’s a black man—only he was thinking the N-word—driving a little shit Jap car and I can cut him off ’cause he don’t mean shit to me and he don’t got the balls to complain to nobody ’bout it.” A faint laugh. “And you don’t want no tag number for State Farm Insurance or the po-leece. Fuck. You wanna find him and you wanna beat the shiny crap outta him.”
So, end of story. Well, it was a nice try. LeFevre was about to put the money away and return to his car—before the man called some real-life Rod Steigers—when the attendant shook his head and said, “God bless you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That frosts me, what he done. Truly does.”
“I’m sorry?” LeFevre repeated.
“I mean, I got friends’re black. Couple of ’em. And we have a good time together and one of ’em’s wife cooks for me and my girlfriend nearly every week.”
“Well, is that right?”
“Fuck, yeah, that’s right.” The twenties were suddenly in the man’s stained fingers. “I say, more power to you. Find him and wail on him all you want. I know that sumvabitch.”
“The man in the Mercedes?”
“Yeah.”
“Dr. Hanson, right?”
“I don’t know his name. But I seen him off and on for a spell. He comes and goes. Never stops here—probably thinks my gas ain’t good enough—but I seen him. Pisses me off royal, people like him. Moving everybody down the mountain.”
“What do you mean, ‘moving down the mountain’?” Sidney Poitier asked politely, smiling now and giving the man plenty of thinking room.
“See, what happened was, when folk settled here they moved to the top of the Ridge. Naturally, where else? That’s the best part. But they couldn’t keep the land, most of ’em. Money troubles, you know. Taxes. So they kept selling to the government for the park or to rich folks wanted a weekend place, and families kept moving down the mountain. Now, most everybody’s in the valley—most of the honest folk, I mean. Pretty soon there won’t be no mountains left ’cept for the rich pricks and the government. ’S what my dad says. Makes sense to me.”
“Where’s his place?”
The skinny young man nodded toward one narrow road.
“That’s the way he goes but I don’t know where exactly his house is. Only place I know of up there’s the hospital. Been for sale for years. He probably bought it and’s gonna put a big fancy house on the land.”
“What hospital?”
“Loony bin. Closed a while ago.”
“How far is it?”
“Five miles, give’r take. At the end of Palmer Road yonder.” He pointed. “Now, you ain’t going to kill him, are you? I’d have some problems with that.”
“No. I really do just want to talk.”
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” The man squinted then offered his bad-tooth grin again. “You know, you remind me of that actor.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. He’s a good one. Don’t exactly look like him but you sorta hold yourself the same. What’s his name? What’s his name?”
LeFevre, grinning himself, answered his question.
The man blinked and shook his head. “Who the hell’s Sidney Poitier?”
LeFevre said, “Maybe he was before your time.”
“What’s that guy’s name? I can picture him . . . Kicked the shit out of some ninjas in this movie with Sean Connery. Wait! Snipes . . . Wesley Snipes. That’s it. That man can act.”
LeFevre walked to the edge of the tarmac. The smell of gasoline mixed with the scent of spring growth and clayish earth. Palmer Road vanished into a dark shaft of pine and hemlock, winding up into the mountains.
The young attendant stuffed a strand of slick hairup under his hat. “You stay away from that hospital. I wouldn’t go there for any money. Hear stories about it. People sometimes get
“Well . . .”
“An’ I’ll tell you why you want that.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause he was drivin’ his big old Mercedes and he thunk t’himself, Why, here’s a black man—only he was thinking the N-word—driving a little shit Jap car and I can cut him off ’cause he don’t mean shit to me and he don’t got the balls to complain to nobody ’bout it.” A faint laugh. “And you don’t want no tag number for State Farm Insurance or the po-leece. Fuck. You wanna find him and you wanna beat the shiny crap outta him.”
So, end of story. Well, it was a nice try. LeFevre was about to put the money away and return to his car—before the man called some real-life Rod Steigers—when the attendant shook his head and said, “God bless you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That frosts me, what he done. Truly does.”
“I’m sorry?” LeFevre repeated.
“I mean, I got friends’re black. Couple of ’em. And we have a good time together and one of ’em’s wife cooks for me and my girlfriend nearly every week.”
“Well, is that right?”
“Fuck, yeah, that’s right.” The twenties were suddenly in the man’s stained fingers. “I say, more power to you. Find him and wail on him all you want. I know that sumvabitch.”
“The man in the Mercedes?”
“Yeah.”
“Dr. Hanson, right?”
“I don’t know his name. But I seen him off and on for a spell. He comes and goes. Never stops here—probably thinks my gas ain’t good enough—but I seen him. Pisses me off royal, people like him. Moving everybody down the mountain.”
“What do you mean, ‘moving down the mountain’?” Sidney Poitier asked politely, smiling now and giving the man plenty of thinking room.
“See, what happened was, when folk settled here they moved to the top of the Ridge. Naturally, where else? That’s the best part. But they couldn’t keep the land, most of ’em. Money troubles, you know. Taxes. So they kept selling to the government for the park or to rich folks wanted a weekend place, and families kept moving down the mountain. Now, most everybody’s in the valley—most of the honest folk, I mean. Pretty soon there won’t be no mountains left ’cept for the rich pricks and the government. ’S what my dad says. Makes sense to me.”
“Where’s his place?”
The skinny young man nodded toward one narrow road.
“That’s the way he goes but I don’t know where exactly his house is. Only place I know of up there’s the hospital. Been for sale for years. He probably bought it and’s gonna put a big fancy house on the land.”
“What hospital?”
“Loony bin. Closed a while ago.”
“How far is it?”
“Five miles, give’r take. At the end of Palmer Road yonder.” He pointed. “Now, you ain’t going to kill him, are you? I’d have some problems with that.”
“No. I really do just want to talk.”
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” The man squinted then offered his bad-tooth grin again. “You know, you remind me of that actor.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. He’s a good one. Don’t exactly look like him but you sorta hold yourself the same. What’s his name? What’s his name?”
LeFevre, grinning himself, answered his question.
The man blinked and shook his head. “Who the hell’s Sidney Poitier?”
LeFevre said, “Maybe he was before your time.”
“What’s that guy’s name? I can picture him . . . Kicked the shit out of some ninjas in this movie with Sean Connery. Wait! Snipes . . . Wesley Snipes. That’s it. That man can act.”
LeFevre walked to the edge of the tarmac. The smell of gasoline mixed with the scent of spring growth and clayish earth. Palmer Road vanished into a dark shaft of pine and hemlock, winding up into the mountains.
The young attendant stuffed a strand of slick hairup under his hat. “You stay away from that hospital. I wouldn’t go there for any money. Hear stories about it. People sometimes get
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