caseworker at the Department of Human Services; time to time I’d see her in the municipal building when she’d come to testify about a welfare violation or child custody trouble. In her early twenties, she had the kind of remarkable good looks that will turn your head on the sidewalk, women and children's too. Bubba Percy put it differently, stopping to whisper, “Shit, now that's fucking brown sugar! That's the best excuse for miscegenation I ever saw. Hey! Cut it out!” I gave his wrist another sharp twist before I dropped it. “That was a compliment , Mangum!”
“Yeah. Here's another one. Your mama must be the first woman in history to give birth after getting fucked up the ass by a hyena.”
He was unfazed by the vilest insult I could come up with.
“Something bugging you? Something happen out here tonight?
Come on, what's the story!” “Jesus!” I kept walking.
The thin white man by the fire was Brookside's assistant campaign manager, Jack Molina, a communications professor at Haver University and a founding editor of With Liberty and Justice. The considerably older and broader white man next to him, smoking in the rain, his nubbly Russian hat on sideways, his dirtycamel-hair overcoat gaping at the buttons, was the one who had sent me the message: Isaac Rosethorn—for just a month now, George Hall's lawyer; for a whole lot of years, a friend of mine. He was maybe Hillston's only native-born Jew, probably its only native-born legal genius, and undoubtedly one of its most perverse citizens. He said, “Thirty-five minutes?”
I said, “Road's icy. Hi, Isaac. Evening, folks, how y’all doing? Coop, Dr. Molina. Jordan, nice to see you.” Jordan made a place for me.
Rosethorn gave up on his wet cigarette and asked, “Could you trace that truck? There was a second one. Both pickups, big Confederate flags flapping out the windows. We only got the plates on the last one.”
I said, “Raleigh's already traced it. A Willis Tate.” “Ahhh? Tate? The synagogue?”
Bubba Percy grabbed me. “Didn’t I tell you!”
“Bubba, damnit, will you stop stomping on my toes? Y’all know Bubba Percy of the Star , clubfooted hound of the free press?” While I talked, Coop Hall and I kept our eyes on each other; if looks could freeze, you could have snapped my arms off like icicles on a drain sprout. Behind us, the dozen young vigilants pressed nervously in a semicircle near him. I nodded at them. “Any word from Warden Carpenter?”
A few of them shook their heads and a young man said, “No. Nothing.”
I said, “I’m sorry.”
Coop Hall stepped around Percy; his face was a lot younger than his eyes. Hatless, he seemed indifferent to the weather; his close-cropped beard and hair glistened with rain. He shook his head at me slowly, scanned his eyes down the ruffled tuxedo shirt. “You don’t belong here.”
Jordan said, “Coop, please.”
He pulled away from her with a twitch of his arm. “What are you supposed to be, Mangum, fuckin’ police protection? We don’t need it. Why don’t you go do something for my brother? Why don’t you go figure out how—”
Rosethorn said, “Cooper!”
I said, “Isaac called me, okay? Listen, I know how you feel—”
Coop said, “Ha.” It wasn’t a laugh.
I nodded at him. “I meant, how you feel about me. Okay? I’m just trying to do my job…about these pickup trucks, didn’t the county sheriff send somebody over here with y’all?”
Isaac dismissed the sheriff with a swipe at the air. “He had two bozos drive by every now and again, but naturally they haven’t been back since before our visitors showed up.”
“Did these guys stop? Anybody see any weapons?”
Jack Molina wanted to take charge, but Coop cut him off, his breath steaming out in the cold. “Okay. They came twice, they didn’t stop, they threw a glass bottle—”
“Did you recognize anybody, anybody from that bunch that tangled with you back at the Trinity Church
“Yeah. Here's another one. Your mama must be the first woman in history to give birth after getting fucked up the ass by a hyena.”
He was unfazed by the vilest insult I could come up with.
“Something bugging you? Something happen out here tonight?
Come on, what's the story!” “Jesus!” I kept walking.
The thin white man by the fire was Brookside's assistant campaign manager, Jack Molina, a communications professor at Haver University and a founding editor of With Liberty and Justice. The considerably older and broader white man next to him, smoking in the rain, his nubbly Russian hat on sideways, his dirtycamel-hair overcoat gaping at the buttons, was the one who had sent me the message: Isaac Rosethorn—for just a month now, George Hall's lawyer; for a whole lot of years, a friend of mine. He was maybe Hillston's only native-born Jew, probably its only native-born legal genius, and undoubtedly one of its most perverse citizens. He said, “Thirty-five minutes?”
I said, “Road's icy. Hi, Isaac. Evening, folks, how y’all doing? Coop, Dr. Molina. Jordan, nice to see you.” Jordan made a place for me.
Rosethorn gave up on his wet cigarette and asked, “Could you trace that truck? There was a second one. Both pickups, big Confederate flags flapping out the windows. We only got the plates on the last one.”
I said, “Raleigh's already traced it. A Willis Tate.” “Ahhh? Tate? The synagogue?”
Bubba Percy grabbed me. “Didn’t I tell you!”
“Bubba, damnit, will you stop stomping on my toes? Y’all know Bubba Percy of the Star , clubfooted hound of the free press?” While I talked, Coop Hall and I kept our eyes on each other; if looks could freeze, you could have snapped my arms off like icicles on a drain sprout. Behind us, the dozen young vigilants pressed nervously in a semicircle near him. I nodded at them. “Any word from Warden Carpenter?”
A few of them shook their heads and a young man said, “No. Nothing.”
I said, “I’m sorry.”
Coop Hall stepped around Percy; his face was a lot younger than his eyes. Hatless, he seemed indifferent to the weather; his close-cropped beard and hair glistened with rain. He shook his head at me slowly, scanned his eyes down the ruffled tuxedo shirt. “You don’t belong here.”
Jordan said, “Coop, please.”
He pulled away from her with a twitch of his arm. “What are you supposed to be, Mangum, fuckin’ police protection? We don’t need it. Why don’t you go do something for my brother? Why don’t you go figure out how—”
Rosethorn said, “Cooper!”
I said, “Isaac called me, okay? Listen, I know how you feel—”
Coop said, “Ha.” It wasn’t a laugh.
I nodded at him. “I meant, how you feel about me. Okay? I’m just trying to do my job…about these pickup trucks, didn’t the county sheriff send somebody over here with y’all?”
Isaac dismissed the sheriff with a swipe at the air. “He had two bozos drive by every now and again, but naturally they haven’t been back since before our visitors showed up.”
“Did these guys stop? Anybody see any weapons?”
Jack Molina wanted to take charge, but Coop cut him off, his breath steaming out in the cold. “Okay. They came twice, they didn’t stop, they threw a glass bottle—”
“Did you recognize anybody, anybody from that bunch that tangled with you back at the Trinity Church
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