after all.”
“I’ll find out shortly.”
Webb headed west in his black F-150, passing first through the three-block section of stately Victorians where the great-grandchildren of Pine Haven’s gentry were still occupying the family homes, built when cotton and flue-cured tobacco made a few local men rich. Most of the folks in the big houses were church ladies or shut-ins or renters living four poor white families crammed together. Then came four blocks of tiny brick two-bedrooms mixed in with a scattering of double-wides, the homes of Pine Haven’s plumbers, handymen, and the folks who commuted to Fayetteville or Goldsboro or Cape Fear.
Shortly after that Webb bumped across a gully where the old train tracks were ripped up decades ago, the asphalt ended, and the dirt road began and he passed into the shantytown where a few hundred coloreds lived in a pine shacks, most of them with busted-down front porches and taped-up windows, no bushes or grass in their yards, their communal trash pit burning constantly near the road. Since before Webb was born the area was known as Belmont Heights, though the land was as low-lying and featureless as the rest of Winston County.
As he drove Webb looked out at the brokeback houses, the ancient cars rusting in dirt driveways. At the ruined furniture in the weeds and ruptured refrigerators and stoves lying on their sides in the front yards. Disgraceful how they lived like junkyard dogs, but every time Laurie and her lady friends got it in their minds to do some community beautification and run some bulldozers through the miserable slum, all the preservationist fanatics got out their bullhorns and whipped up an army of crabbed-up arthritic lady friends and put a stop to it. So nothing ever happened. The dead refrigerators continued to rust and the squalor would just keep on being squalid for another generation.
Up ahead he saw a man he’d been meaning to speak to sitting on an overturned washtub. Webb pulled over, honked twice, and Ladarius Washington lifted his head and flicked away his cigarette butt.
One more honk and Ladarius stretched himself and sauntered over to the truck, leaned in the passenger window. Webb and Ladarius had once been classmates in elementary school and on through the county high school, and they’d played on teams together, riding the team bus, banging heads and blocking each other’s jump shots. They’d been friendly enough back then, but eventually the social order kicked in and now it was just a wave howdy when Webb passed by. Sometimes Ladarius nodded back.
“Something open up at the farm?”
“Not a thing, Ladarius. Not a damn thing. Got all my slots filled.”
“With Mexicans.”
“Your people work the slaughterhouse. There’s always jobs coming open there. What’s wrong, you too good for butchering hogs?”
“Too bloody for me, too much screaming,” Ladarius said. “Rather work with the living.”
“Well, there you go. You can’t complain about not having work if there’s work around and you don’t have the stomach for it.”
Ladarius watched a flock of ravens pass overhead.
When they’d disappeared, Ladarius motioned at the sky.
“Air’s stinking again. Must be shit-spraying season.”
“Got to put it somewhere.”
“All the power and influence you got, Webb, you can’t get the wind to blow the other direction?”
Webb smiled politely.
“Just shipped out a few thousand hogs,” he said. “Another batch to the abattoir. I’m thinking I’ll spray their leftovers later on this afternoon. So, fair warning, old friend, better hold your nose for a while, you hear.”
“What you want with me?”
“Just say hello. Shoot the shit.”
Ladarius was silent, waiting.
“Oh, and I heard a rumor some white fella might be hiding out here in one of these shacks. Might be bullet wounds in him. You hear that same rumor?”
Ladarius seemed about to say something, then shook his head.
“What is it, Ladarius? You can talk to
“I’ll find out shortly.”
Webb headed west in his black F-150, passing first through the three-block section of stately Victorians where the great-grandchildren of Pine Haven’s gentry were still occupying the family homes, built when cotton and flue-cured tobacco made a few local men rich. Most of the folks in the big houses were church ladies or shut-ins or renters living four poor white families crammed together. Then came four blocks of tiny brick two-bedrooms mixed in with a scattering of double-wides, the homes of Pine Haven’s plumbers, handymen, and the folks who commuted to Fayetteville or Goldsboro or Cape Fear.
Shortly after that Webb bumped across a gully where the old train tracks were ripped up decades ago, the asphalt ended, and the dirt road began and he passed into the shantytown where a few hundred coloreds lived in a pine shacks, most of them with busted-down front porches and taped-up windows, no bushes or grass in their yards, their communal trash pit burning constantly near the road. Since before Webb was born the area was known as Belmont Heights, though the land was as low-lying and featureless as the rest of Winston County.
As he drove Webb looked out at the brokeback houses, the ancient cars rusting in dirt driveways. At the ruined furniture in the weeds and ruptured refrigerators and stoves lying on their sides in the front yards. Disgraceful how they lived like junkyard dogs, but every time Laurie and her lady friends got it in their minds to do some community beautification and run some bulldozers through the miserable slum, all the preservationist fanatics got out their bullhorns and whipped up an army of crabbed-up arthritic lady friends and put a stop to it. So nothing ever happened. The dead refrigerators continued to rust and the squalor would just keep on being squalid for another generation.
Up ahead he saw a man he’d been meaning to speak to sitting on an overturned washtub. Webb pulled over, honked twice, and Ladarius Washington lifted his head and flicked away his cigarette butt.
One more honk and Ladarius stretched himself and sauntered over to the truck, leaned in the passenger window. Webb and Ladarius had once been classmates in elementary school and on through the county high school, and they’d played on teams together, riding the team bus, banging heads and blocking each other’s jump shots. They’d been friendly enough back then, but eventually the social order kicked in and now it was just a wave howdy when Webb passed by. Sometimes Ladarius nodded back.
“Something open up at the farm?”
“Not a thing, Ladarius. Not a damn thing. Got all my slots filled.”
“With Mexicans.”
“Your people work the slaughterhouse. There’s always jobs coming open there. What’s wrong, you too good for butchering hogs?”
“Too bloody for me, too much screaming,” Ladarius said. “Rather work with the living.”
“Well, there you go. You can’t complain about not having work if there’s work around and you don’t have the stomach for it.”
Ladarius watched a flock of ravens pass overhead.
When they’d disappeared, Ladarius motioned at the sky.
“Air’s stinking again. Must be shit-spraying season.”
“Got to put it somewhere.”
“All the power and influence you got, Webb, you can’t get the wind to blow the other direction?”
Webb smiled politely.
“Just shipped out a few thousand hogs,” he said. “Another batch to the abattoir. I’m thinking I’ll spray their leftovers later on this afternoon. So, fair warning, old friend, better hold your nose for a while, you hear.”
“What you want with me?”
“Just say hello. Shoot the shit.”
Ladarius was silent, waiting.
“Oh, and I heard a rumor some white fella might be hiding out here in one of these shacks. Might be bullet wounds in him. You hear that same rumor?”
Ladarius seemed about to say something, then shook his head.
“What is it, Ladarius? You can talk to
Similar Books
