“Hell’s bells!” cries a gravelly female voice behind me. “If it ain’t the Houston representative of the N-Double-A-See-P.”
Dread fills me as I turn, certain that I’m about to endure a public dressing-down for my comments in the paper. The speaker is Maude Marston. Leo’s wife is obviously drunk, as she has been for as long as I can remember. In response to the judge’s amorous adventures, Maude developed a sort of battleship manner, charging through her daily social round with prow thrust forward and guns primed for combat. Anyone who whispers malicious comments within her hearing risks a withering broadside salvo or, worse, depth charges dropped with stealth and unerring aim, that detonate days or weeks later, leaving the offender shattered and forever outside the inner social circle. I hate to guess what she has in store for me.
“Whassa matter, hotshot?” she drawls. “Cat got your tongue?”
I force myself to smile. “Good evening, Maude. It’s nice to see you.”
She stares with blank rage, as though the synapses behind her eyes have stopped firing. Maude was once a great beauty, but her two daughters are the only remaining testament to that fact. Her hair should be gray, but it has been bleached and hennaed and sprayed so often that it has acquired a sort of lacquered-armor look. The cumulative effect of that hair, the gin-glazed eyes, combative stance, and scowling avian face stretched taut by various plastic surgeries is enough to send any but the most stalwart running for the exits.
She pokes a grossly bejeweled finger into my chest. “I’m talking to you.”
“You’re drunk,” I say quietly.
She blanches, then pokes me again, harder.
“That’s assault.”
“You gonna have me arrested, hotshot?”
Over Maude’s shoulder I see Caitlin watching from the hall, her eyes flickering with curiosity. “No. I’m going to ask your husband to take you home.”
A harsh cackle bursts from Maude’s lips, and she wobbles on her feet. “You appointed yourself special protector of the nigras in this town or what?”
Sam Jacobs reaches between us and takes hold of my forearm. “Got the drinks! Let’s roll! Great to see you, Maude!”
As Sam pulls me away, Maude speaks softly but with a venom that makes me pause. “You ruined my daughter’s life, you bastard.”
Then she throws her drink in my face.
A collective gasp goes up from the nearby guests. The drink is mostly ice. It’s Maude’s words that have stunned me. I have no idea what she’s talking about. It has to be Livy, but that makes no sense at all. Before I can gather my thoughts for a question, Lucy Perry appears and gentles Maude away from the bar the way a trainer gentles a wild mare.
“Let’s blow this joint before somebody gets killed,” Sam whispers.
As we depart, Caitlin leans toward me. “I can’t wait to hear the story behind that.”
Perfect.
Sam Jacobs drives a royal blue Hummer, the civilian version of the military Humvee. He claims it’s the only way to travel in the oil fields. I cling to the window frame as the huge vehicle rumbles like a tank down State Street.
“Talk about a babe magnet!” he says, trying to hold his drink steady with his left hand. “More women come on to me in this thing than when I had my Mercedes.”
I nod absently. Maude Marston has popped the cork on a dark vintage of memory.
“Did you give Caitlin Masters a tour of the garden?” Sam asks, giving me a bemused smile. “You two had that couple look when you came in.”
“Did you hear what Maude said before she threw the drink in my face?”
“About ruining her daughter’s life?”
“Yes. She had to be talking about Olivia, right?”
“Had to be.”
“When did Livy’s life get ruined? Isn’t she still married to that sports lawyer in Atlanta?”
“Definitely fartin’ through silk, on the money side.”
I laugh, wondering whether the Jewish crowd in Manhattan would believe the Southern accent coming from Sam Jacobs’s mouth.
“However,” Sam adds, cutting his eyes at me. “My wife’s sister was in Atlanta last month for some kind of Tri-Delt alumni ball, and Livy showed up without her husband.”
“So?”
“The gossip of the party was trouble in paradise.”
“Not exactly a reliable source. Do they have any kids?”
“Don’t think so.” He glances at me again. “It would be pretty strange, the two of you being available at the same time. It’s like fate. Maybe history’s reversing itself.”
Not wanting to continue in this line, I stick my head out of the window as the Hummer roars up the bypass toward my parents’ neighborhood. The wind is warm and wet in my hair. The downtown bars and riverboat casino will still be going great guns, but this part of town looks like Mayberry, R.F.D.
“Have you seen anybody?” Sam asks. “You know … since Sarah died?”
I pull my head back inside and look him in the eye. “Lunch with Caitlin Masters tomorrow is my first date since the funeral. If you call that a date.”
“Shit. I know it’s tough, Penn. I joke about fooling around, but if I ever lost Jenny, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
I take his cup from his hand and gulp a sweat-inducing shot of Laphroaig.
“That’s the ticket,” he says, slapping me on the knee.
The Hummer jerks as Sam hits the brakes, then lets off slowly. “Would you fucking look at this?”
“What?”
“A cop. Looks like a sheriff’s deputy.”
I turn slowly. A sheriff’s department cruiser just like the one that tailed me from Shad Johnson’s headquarters has settled in twenty yards behind the Hummer. The sight throws me back to the shooting, glass exploding inches from my face.
“Sam, what do you know about Ray Presley?”
“Ray Presley? He’s sick, I heard. Bad sick.”
“What’s he been up to the last few years?”
“Same thing he was always up to. Being a sleazy coonass who’ll do anything for money.”
“Presley’s no coonass. He’s from Smith County. Who did he work for?”
“Old Natchez people, mostly.” Sam’s eyes keep flicking to the rearview mirror. “He did some things for a driller I know. Strong-arm stuff. I think Marston kept him on his payroll as a security consultant, if you believe that.” Sam accelerates, as if daring the deputy to pull him over. “You know what? I’ll bet the BASF deal is what set Maude off on you.”
“What does Maude Marston care about a chemical plant? She has more money than God.”
“But does she have enough? That chemical plant means more to the Marstons than anybody. Short