”A boat, you say?”
”I assume so, sir. I have a man checking to see if there's a berth in Sonnenberg's name.”
“There probably is,” Peck mused. “And boats have radio
equipment. Although I can't think why he'd ensconce him
self in anything so minimally mobile. On the other hand,
Sonnenberg is nothing if not perverse. Send a man, Douglas.
Have a second man prepared to place an immediate trace on a telephone call it appears I'm to receive here. With the rest,
seal off this house and let us begin pulling it apart.”
In a small lunchroom in Greeley, Colorado, two thousand
miles west, Moon Huggins looked up in distaste at the black
man slowly stirring coffee at the far end of the counter.
Moon knew this was one of those smart-ass niggers the sec
ond he had laid eyes on him. A three-hundred-dollar suit he
probably paid for by selling his wife's black ass or peddlin'
drugs to decent white folks. Even a vest, for Christ's sake.
Walkin' in here and askin' for coffee and a sweet roll like he
had all the right in the world, ploppin' down that briefcase on the next stool just like it was his. Ain't even drinking.
Took one sip and he just sits there stirrin', happy as a hog
because he got a white man waitin' on him.
Things just ain't the same no more. At least not here in
Greeley. But it ain't changed all so damned much down in
Tupelo. Not that I could ever go back there, likely. Picture
him walkin' into a white man's place in Tupelo with his big flat nose in the air sayin', “Good morning, my man. Coffee
and a pecan roll, if you please.” Shee-it. Sumbitch probably
never had a pair of shoes until some Jew commie got hold of
him and filled his burr head with liquid shit. Speakin' of
which...
“Hey, Ira?”
A heavyset man wearing laced boots and a red hunting jacket looked up from a newspaper. He was dressed too
warmly, even for an early Colorado autumn. But hunting
clothes told people he was a mountain man and summer
clothes didn't. Ira hated summer. He didn't much like nig
gers either.
”Yo, Moon,” he answered.
“You hear the one about the nigger who had diarrhea?”
Ira chuckled to himself. A third white man, a salesman
according to the sample case at the base of his stool, glanced
sorrowfully at the black man and lowered his head.
“Can't say I have, Moon.” He closed his newspaper and
pushed it aside. “What about the nigger who had diarrhea?”
“He thought he was meltin'.” Moon Huggins slapped a
palm down on the counter and guffawed. Ira chuckled again
and winked his encouragement.
The salesman bit his lip. He reached into his pocket for a
bill, which he waved toward Moon. Moon was glad to see
that. If that ham and egg salesman was to leave, maybe him
and Ira could have some fun with the nigger, providin' of
course he wasn't smart enough to get his black ass out of
here. Which it appears he ain't. Look at him. Just sittin' there
with one of them superior eye smiles, too dumb to know what's in our heads to do to him if we get half an excuse.
What's that he's doin'? Rubbin' up and down the sides of his
cup with a handkerchief as if his damned snot rag was
cleaner than my cup.
“Somethin’ the matter with that cup, boy?”
“It's just fine, sir. Thank you.” The black man lifted the
cup to his lips and sipped, still holding it with his handker
chief. ”I had the impression you'd rather not have me touch
any of your fine china.” Next he dampened his cloth in the
coffee and began buffing away smudges on the counter it
self. Ira stood up from his table, his eyes shifting between
Moon and the black man. Moon's good humor had faded.
“Are you tryin' to be smart with me, boy?” He reached
under his cash register and pulled out an old bung starter he
kept there for troublemakers. Moon rested it on the counter
a few feet from the black man.
“Not at all, sir. In any case, I'll be leaving shortly.” The
black man turned on his stool and flipped open the briefcase that had been sitting there. His politeness irritated Moon all the more.
“Don't go settlin' in here with that.” Moon gestured
toward the briefcase. “It ain't no readin' room. You want to
read, you can haul ass down to Denver, where they got one
of them black studies places with books all about where nig
gers come from and how one of them figured new ways to
use peanuts. Hey, Ira. Don't that tell you somethin'? White
folks can send TV cameras to outer space, but all the niggers
are good for is figurin' out that if you mash down peanuts
real good you got peanut butter. You ought to go look it up, nigger. You won't be so ignorant.”
“Thank you just the same, Mr. Boley, but I've been
there.”
The color drained from Moon Huggins's face. “What was
that, boy? What did you call me?”
”I called you Mr. Boley. You're Raymond Boley from Tu
pelo, Mississippi.” Howard Twilley slid a hand over the open
briefcase and then returned it, no longer empty, to the edge of the counter. Moon Huggins stared down across the length of a large-caliber pistol. Fitted to its muzzle was a dull black
cylinder six inches long and as wide as a half-dollar.
“What the hell?” Moon's voice rose several notes. He
pressed backward, crowding a stack of dishes. Ira took a
step, snatching up a catsup bottle by its neck. A patient side
long stare by Twilley caused him to think better of it. Ira put
back the bottle.
“Mr. Boley,” he said softly, “would you step out from be
hind that counter, please? Thank you. Just move toward
those washroom doors if you will.” He waved the foot-long
weapon toward the hunter. “You first, Ira. Get on in there, please. The ladies' room.”
“Is
...
is this a holdup?” It was the salesman.
“No sir,” Twilley answered. “You and your property are
perfectly safe. But I have to ask you to follow Ira there for
just a little while.” The salesman slid from his stool and
backed toward the door Twilley indicated, glancing at his
sample case only when Twilley looked away. Ira hesitated.
Then, with a snort of contempt, he turned his back on the
gun and fell in slowly behind the salesman. Twilley stepped
to the front door, which he swung shut and bolted, drawing
a grimy curtain over the glass and turning a plastic Dr. Pep
per sign to the side that read
closed.
Boley entered the ladies' room last. With a guiding touch
from Twilley, he took his place next to Ira against the far
wall. There was no window. Twilley motioned to the sales
man and directed him to a stool in front of a cracked and
peeling mirror.
“Sit here?” the man asked, a deep shudder in his voice.
“If you don't mind, sir.” Twilley turned toward the hunter. “Ira,” he asked, “did you know Mr. Boley down in Tupelo by
chance?”
”I got nothin' to say to you.”
“Don't you mean, 'I got nothin' to say to you, nigger’?”
“You know what you are.”
The pistol spat once and Ira's right leg whipped back
ward. It struck with such force that his boot smashed a hole in the plaster wall. A spray of blood traced a crescent on the
plaster and on the white tile floor. Boley's eyes went wide
and the salesman yelped as Ira crashed to the floor. Twilley
stretched a calming hand toward the salesman but kept his eyes on Ira.
“Do you recall my question, Ira?”
Ira nodded but seemed unable to speak through his tight
ened jaw. Twilley pointed the pistol toward his other leg.
“Don't!” he gasped. “No, I didn't
...
I never been to Tu
pelo.”
“You became acquainted for the first time here in Greeley?”
“Yeah
...
No
...
We met near here. On an elk hunt.”
“And your friendship blossomed, based on a mutual dis
taste for us niggers?”
”Wha. ..?”
“I'm asking whether you're both white supremacists of
any sort.”
“Well
...
No
...
Yeah
...
It ain't. . .” Ira was close to retching from the pain and shock of his wound. “It ain't per
sonal . . . We just. . .” He dropped his head, unable to deny his beliefs in front of his friend and even less able to articu
late an expression of his philosophy that an armed black
man might find acceptable.
”I guess it won't surprise you too much, Ira, to learn that
this man is in fact Raymond Boley, Ray-Ray to his friends. Or that Ray-Ray was a Klan member.” Twilley waved his
pistol toward the transfixed restaurant owner. “Mr. Boley? Ray-Ray? Would you care to tell him the rest?”
Huggins-Boley could only twitch his head to one side.
“Mr. Boley is a modest man. The fact is, he's one good
old boy who really knows how to handle us niggers. He per
sonally castrated a fifteen-year-old black child.” The last
word was a hiss when Howard spoke it. But for that, his tone
and manner remained icily polite. “Among his many other heroics, Mr. Boley also took part in the shotgun murders of
an elderly couple who sought to file criminal charges against
him. Quite a man, wasn't he, Ira? I bet it's hard to imagine
that this quaking coward was that same avenging knight of
the South.”
Twilley turned toward the salesman, who was also trem
bling. The salesman thought he saw a wave of sympathy,
even kindness, cross the black man's face. Then it was gone.
“Mr. Boley,” he said, approaching the terrified counter
man, “did you hear the one about the Klansman who had di
arrhea?” His face was now within inches of Boley's. The
pistol was somewhere below. Absurdly, the Klansman tried
to smile. Twilley smiled with him.
The gun spat again. Quieter this time. Boley felt his body lifting to his toes. A curious look of relief came into his eyes
as his brain argued that because the sound of the shot was
different, and since the pain was not great, perhaps he had
not been shot. Perhaps it was only a knee that smashed
into him. Boley stood for a long moment flattened high on the wall before his legs began to melt beneath him. He felt
the wetness on his legs, and his fingers reached to dis
cover its source as he slid down the wall. And then he
knew. Boley crumpled over, his mouth sucking air like a
landed fish.
“You have to wait for the punch line, Mr. Boley,” said the
black man, stepping back. “You remember. About the
Klansman who had diarrhea.”
Boley made a choking sound.
“It was because some nigger shot off his balls, Mr.
Boley.”
The gun spat twice more. Before he fainted, Ray-Ray Boley watched both his kneecaps explode through his
trousers.
The salesman too looked as though he would fall. Twilley stepped over Boley and placed a steadying hand on his
shoulder.
“Sir, it's the truth you won't be harmed,” he told him. “Do you think you can get hold of yourself for a few min
utes?”
The salesman jerked his head.
“My name is Ben. Ben Coffey.” The black man's manner was now relaxed and friendly. “Would you mind telling me
your name?”
”T-Tom. It's Tom Peebles.”
“Do you know these two, Tom?”
“No. I'm . .. I'm from Boulder. I just wanted breakfast.”
“Traveling salesman, huh? What do you sell, Tom?”
Peebles's lips moved, but he seemed reluctant to speak.
“No matter, Tom. Just making conversation.” The black
man looked at his watch and jerked his head to indicate that
the subject was changing. “Tom, I'd like you to make a
phone call for me.”