beyond a brain stem and a set of nasty bits,” she said.
“So you two have been talking, what—books?”
“Yes,” said Mac with a touch of genuine indignation. “Literature and shit.”
“I see,” I said, hoping I was projecting a faint amusement. I felt my smile vanish as I added, “I’d like to talk about the ‘and shit.’”
MacDonald breathed. Nikki breathed. I didn’t.
Mac was about to speak, but Nikki broke the silence. “Jig’s up, Mac.”
“You. Nikki. You’re the reason Nikki was…”
Nikki’s face said, for the first time in days, she still felt the pain.
“Yes,” MacDonald said. “My fault. Best I can figure was, this guy wanted to hurt me by hurting someone…close to me. Figure he’d seen us out somewhere, some restaurant—”
“We like Chinese,” Nikki chimed in.
“New Nam King?” I asked.
“Ain’t the best place, but it’s…”
“Handy,” she said, looking at him, turning back to me. “You know—for conversation…”
“And shit,” I said.
“There isn’t any of that, Jack,” said Mac. “Not that it’d be
your
business.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and it occurred: It wasn’t my business.
“So who hit you?” I asked Nikki.
Mac filled it in. “We don’t know. Got a half-assed description—”
“I gave you a
very
good description,” Nikki intruded.
“Description, is all,” Mac added, touching the back of Nikki’s hand.
“Has to do with this whole ‘commission’ crap, doesn’t it,” I said. It wasn’t a question, and MacDonald’s silence said it needn’t have been.
“We don’t know who it was,” Mac said, and Nikki shrugged.
The next move was mine. “I think I do.”
I stuck to my word. Can’t lie to a lady. Barbara Jean McCorkle had asked for my discretion, and I honoured that.
Somehow, MacDonald knew better than to ask.
21.
31 July, dusk
Collierville
I’d been following Clayton McCorkle steadily for three days now. A time or two to his real estate office, a few more times to the Crescent Club. Twice way along Summer Avenue—once to what turned out to be some stand-around cocktail thing at Rhodes College. The other time, I lost him not far from the Paris Cinema, where he turned off on a side street and I missed him, dumb enough to be in the wrong lane. But I knew who lived on that street.
I kept squeezing MacDonald for whatever I could. I didn’t believe it all, and it was clear he was holding back. But still, he was far more forthcoming than usual. The ‘commission,’ of course, was bogus. Or half so. It was all off the books. “Personal,” MacDonald said, between him and Mayor Wharton. Seems Wharton wasn’t sure who he could count on, but he trusted Mac.
Someone
, Wharton knew, was dirty. Wharton had known Mac’s family from back when, and that still counts for a lot in Memphis. Why Mac had said anything at all to
me
, given all this hush-hush, about his ‘commission,’ his ‘task force,’ was a mystery I’d get to later. Right now, I was sitting on Clayton McCorkle and His Eminence, drinking tepid Styrofoam coffee in the car, outside a Collierville restaurant I couldn’t afford to walk into, let alone dine at.
When they came out, it was His Eminence I decided to follow. I wasn’t sure, but I thought McCorkle glanced my way not once, but twice.
22.
04 August, just after sunset
Collierville
There are things you don’t forget from infantry training. Whenever else you might sleep, it’s a hundred per cent stand-to for a half hour before and after dawn, a half hour before and after sunset. The sky’s still bright, but the ground is dark. It’s hard to pick out movement on the ground. Prime time for planned attack, prime time for ambush.
I’d got over a low stretch of wall surrounding the McCorkle residence, though not without a rip in the thigh of a pair of pants too good to rip. Damn things never tear on a seam, always someplace you’ll see the repair. Lynette had never believed in repairing
“So you two have been talking, what—books?”
“Yes,” said Mac with a touch of genuine indignation. “Literature and shit.”
“I see,” I said, hoping I was projecting a faint amusement. I felt my smile vanish as I added, “I’d like to talk about the ‘and shit.’”
MacDonald breathed. Nikki breathed. I didn’t.
Mac was about to speak, but Nikki broke the silence. “Jig’s up, Mac.”
“You. Nikki. You’re the reason Nikki was…”
Nikki’s face said, for the first time in days, she still felt the pain.
“Yes,” MacDonald said. “My fault. Best I can figure was, this guy wanted to hurt me by hurting someone…close to me. Figure he’d seen us out somewhere, some restaurant—”
“We like Chinese,” Nikki chimed in.
“New Nam King?” I asked.
“Ain’t the best place, but it’s…”
“Handy,” she said, looking at him, turning back to me. “You know—for conversation…”
“And shit,” I said.
“There isn’t any of that, Jack,” said Mac. “Not that it’d be
your
business.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and it occurred: It wasn’t my business.
“So who hit you?” I asked Nikki.
Mac filled it in. “We don’t know. Got a half-assed description—”
“I gave you a
very
good description,” Nikki intruded.
“Description, is all,” Mac added, touching the back of Nikki’s hand.
“Has to do with this whole ‘commission’ crap, doesn’t it,” I said. It wasn’t a question, and MacDonald’s silence said it needn’t have been.
“We don’t know who it was,” Mac said, and Nikki shrugged.
The next move was mine. “I think I do.”
I stuck to my word. Can’t lie to a lady. Barbara Jean McCorkle had asked for my discretion, and I honoured that.
Somehow, MacDonald knew better than to ask.
21.
31 July, dusk
Collierville
I’d been following Clayton McCorkle steadily for three days now. A time or two to his real estate office, a few more times to the Crescent Club. Twice way along Summer Avenue—once to what turned out to be some stand-around cocktail thing at Rhodes College. The other time, I lost him not far from the Paris Cinema, where he turned off on a side street and I missed him, dumb enough to be in the wrong lane. But I knew who lived on that street.
I kept squeezing MacDonald for whatever I could. I didn’t believe it all, and it was clear he was holding back. But still, he was far more forthcoming than usual. The ‘commission,’ of course, was bogus. Or half so. It was all off the books. “Personal,” MacDonald said, between him and Mayor Wharton. Seems Wharton wasn’t sure who he could count on, but he trusted Mac.
Someone
, Wharton knew, was dirty. Wharton had known Mac’s family from back when, and that still counts for a lot in Memphis. Why Mac had said anything at all to
me
, given all this hush-hush, about his ‘commission,’ his ‘task force,’ was a mystery I’d get to later. Right now, I was sitting on Clayton McCorkle and His Eminence, drinking tepid Styrofoam coffee in the car, outside a Collierville restaurant I couldn’t afford to walk into, let alone dine at.
When they came out, it was His Eminence I decided to follow. I wasn’t sure, but I thought McCorkle glanced my way not once, but twice.
22.
04 August, just after sunset
Collierville
There are things you don’t forget from infantry training. Whenever else you might sleep, it’s a hundred per cent stand-to for a half hour before and after dawn, a half hour before and after sunset. The sky’s still bright, but the ground is dark. It’s hard to pick out movement on the ground. Prime time for planned attack, prime time for ambush.
I’d got over a low stretch of wall surrounding the McCorkle residence, though not without a rip in the thigh of a pair of pants too good to rip. Damn things never tear on a seam, always someplace you’ll see the repair. Lynette had never believed in repairing
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