place where people make narcotics. Why?'
'My mother said to stay away from some men that's in
the neighborhood.'
'Oh?'
He looked out the window at a dog tied on a rope in
the bed of a pickup. He chewed on the corner of his thumbnail. The
light had gone out of his eyes.
'You shouldn't tie a dog in the back of a truck. If
he falls out, he'll get drug to death. He won't have no chance at all,'
he said.
'Who are these men, Pete?'
'People my daddy knew once.' His face was empty, his
gaze still focused outside the window. 'My mother made up that story
about him getting killed in the army. He just gone off one day and
never come home.'
'Maybe you shouldn't study on it.'
'It don't bother me. If people don't want you, they
ain't worth fretting on. That's the way I see it.'
Then he grinned again, as though the world's
capacity to injure had no power over him.
Jack Vanzandt lived in a large
white-columned home
built of old brick and Spanish ironwork salvaged from a plantation in
Louisiana. The lawn comprised eight acres and sloped upward from the
street through shade trees to the wide, breezy front porch of the
house, the four-car garage with servants quarters on top, two clay
tennis courts, a screened-in pool stippled with sunlight, a stucco
guest cottage, a satellite television dish that was the size of a barn
door.
His first wife had died in a traffic accident on a
bridge over the Pecos River gorge. The second wife, Emma, came from
Shreveport, where her mother and father had run a fundamentalist
church, then had become moderately wealthy by starting up a mail-order
wedding cake business. Emma's approach to civic and charitable work
seemed to be governed by the same entrepreneurial spirit. She ran on
high-octane energies that made her eyes flash and her hands move
abruptly when she became impatient with the way someone else did his
work, until she simply took over it. Like her husband, Jack, she was
always polite, and her high cheekbones and long Indian-black hair were
lovely to look at. But you always felt you wanted her as a friend,
never as an adversary.
'How are you, Billy Bob?' she said, rising from her
work in a rose bed, pulling off a cotton glove and extending her hand.
'Sorry to bother y'all on a Sunday, Emma,' I said.
'We always love to see you. Did you bring your
tennis racquet?'
'No, I'm afraid I have to chop cotton today. Is Jack
around?'
'You're going to take his picture?' she said, her
eyes dropping to the Polaroid camera in my hand.
'Not really,' I said, and smiled.
Jack came out on the front porch, a frosted highball
glass wrapped with a napkin and a rubber band in his hand.
'Can you handle a gin and tonic?' he said.
'I just need a minute or two, then I'll be gone,' I
said.
He watched my face, then said, 'Walk out here with
me and I'll show you part of an Indian work mound Emma dug up.'
We strolled through the trees toward a white gazebo.
Pine needles and rose petals had been scattered on the grass by a
windstorm during the night.
'My PI had to do some checking on Darl's record,' I
said. I kept my eyes straight ahead on the piled dirt and sacks of
pasteurized fertilizer and potted hydrangeas by the edge of a freshly
spaded flower bed.
Jack cleared his throat slightly. 'Why's that?' he
said.
'You don't want to find out later the other side is
waiting for you with a baseball bat. Darl has four arrests involving
violence of some kind… Am I correct, he beat up a waitress in
a bar?'
Jack squatted by the mound of black dirt and picked
up some pottery shards and rubbed them clean between his fingers. There
was a thin, round place in the center of his gold hair.
'He shouldn't have been there. But she wasn't a
waitress. She was a prostitute, and she and her pimp tried to roll him
when they thought he was passed out,' he said.
'I'd like to take a Polaroid of Darl.'
'I'm a little unclear as to where this is going.'
'The kid who might take you for seven figures should
at least be able to
'My mother said to stay away from some men that's in
the neighborhood.'
'Oh?'
He looked out the window at a dog tied on a rope in
the bed of a pickup. He chewed on the corner of his thumbnail. The
light had gone out of his eyes.
'You shouldn't tie a dog in the back of a truck. If
he falls out, he'll get drug to death. He won't have no chance at all,'
he said.
'Who are these men, Pete?'
'People my daddy knew once.' His face was empty, his
gaze still focused outside the window. 'My mother made up that story
about him getting killed in the army. He just gone off one day and
never come home.'
'Maybe you shouldn't study on it.'
'It don't bother me. If people don't want you, they
ain't worth fretting on. That's the way I see it.'
Then he grinned again, as though the world's
capacity to injure had no power over him.
Jack Vanzandt lived in a large
white-columned home
built of old brick and Spanish ironwork salvaged from a plantation in
Louisiana. The lawn comprised eight acres and sloped upward from the
street through shade trees to the wide, breezy front porch of the
house, the four-car garage with servants quarters on top, two clay
tennis courts, a screened-in pool stippled with sunlight, a stucco
guest cottage, a satellite television dish that was the size of a barn
door.
His first wife had died in a traffic accident on a
bridge over the Pecos River gorge. The second wife, Emma, came from
Shreveport, where her mother and father had run a fundamentalist
church, then had become moderately wealthy by starting up a mail-order
wedding cake business. Emma's approach to civic and charitable work
seemed to be governed by the same entrepreneurial spirit. She ran on
high-octane energies that made her eyes flash and her hands move
abruptly when she became impatient with the way someone else did his
work, until she simply took over it. Like her husband, Jack, she was
always polite, and her high cheekbones and long Indian-black hair were
lovely to look at. But you always felt you wanted her as a friend,
never as an adversary.
'How are you, Billy Bob?' she said, rising from her
work in a rose bed, pulling off a cotton glove and extending her hand.
'Sorry to bother y'all on a Sunday, Emma,' I said.
'We always love to see you. Did you bring your
tennis racquet?'
'No, I'm afraid I have to chop cotton today. Is Jack
around?'
'You're going to take his picture?' she said, her
eyes dropping to the Polaroid camera in my hand.
'Not really,' I said, and smiled.
Jack came out on the front porch, a frosted highball
glass wrapped with a napkin and a rubber band in his hand.
'Can you handle a gin and tonic?' he said.
'I just need a minute or two, then I'll be gone,' I
said.
He watched my face, then said, 'Walk out here with
me and I'll show you part of an Indian work mound Emma dug up.'
We strolled through the trees toward a white gazebo.
Pine needles and rose petals had been scattered on the grass by a
windstorm during the night.
'My PI had to do some checking on Darl's record,' I
said. I kept my eyes straight ahead on the piled dirt and sacks of
pasteurized fertilizer and potted hydrangeas by the edge of a freshly
spaded flower bed.
Jack cleared his throat slightly. 'Why's that?' he
said.
'You don't want to find out later the other side is
waiting for you with a baseball bat. Darl has four arrests involving
violence of some kind… Am I correct, he beat up a waitress in
a bar?'
Jack squatted by the mound of black dirt and picked
up some pottery shards and rubbed them clean between his fingers. There
was a thin, round place in the center of his gold hair.
'He shouldn't have been there. But she wasn't a
waitress. She was a prostitute, and she and her pimp tried to roll him
when they thought he was passed out,' he said.
'I'd like to take a Polaroid of Darl.'
'I'm a little unclear as to where this is going.'
'The kid who might take you for seven figures should
at least be able to
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