Nobody Said Amen. Tracy Sugarman

important, Mendelsohn?’ Luke’s voice was unrelenting. “Three Commie kids playing hide and seek in the barbarous South? That’s what you think is important enough to write about? You just lookin’ for another black eye?”

      “It’s not a judgment call for me to make, Mr. Claybourne. I’m just a working stiff. If something has happened to those boys—” He hesitated. “Two of these boys are white. People up north will notice that. Some, unfortunately, are considered more equal than others up there. Just like down here. My editor taught me that.” He turned to Willy. “Thank you for this afternoon, Willy. I hope Mr. Claybourne is right, that those three young men are hiding in Havana. It’s a bet I’d like to lose.”

       Chapter Ten

      Sunday already, and still no hint of rain.

      Luke Claybourne sat down heavily on the top step of the porch. The sliver of shade from the roof cut the glare from the fields, but the sodden heat engulfed every corner of his Delta. He squinted at the shimmering silent fields and the implacable sky. It’s never going to rain again. Not a damn cloud. Look at that sky. As unbroken blue as the plantation’s green. Like Delta bookends this rotten summer. Rain! Please, Jesus, rain! Down by the roots it’s caking and that cotton’s getting browner by the minute. Should have listened to Roland Burroughs, that money-sucking bastard. New sprinklers that can wet you down twelve, fifteen rows at a time, Lukie. Lukie! Nobody’d called him Lukie since the old man passed.