"Like what?"
"This ain't no ordinary grift." He fanned his hand at the air, as though sweeping away cobweb. "I never had trouble handling the action. You draw lines, you explain the rules, guys don't listen, they keep coming at you, you unzip their package. But that ain't gonna work on this one." He blotted the perspiration off his face with the back of his forearm.
"Sorry. You're not making much sense, Swede."
"I don't got illusions about how guys like me end up. But Cisco and Megan ain't like me. I was sleeping in the Dismas House in St. Louis after I finished my first bit. They came and got me. They see somebody jammed up, people getting pushed around, they make those people's problem their problem. They get that from their old man. That's why these local cocksuckers nailed him to a wall."
"You're going have to watch your language around my home, partner," I said.
His hand shot out and knotted my shirt in a ball.
"You're like every cop I ever knew. You don't listen. I can't stop what's going on."
I grabbed his wrist and thrust it away from me. He opened and closed his hands impotently.
"I hate guys like you," he said.
"Oh?"
"You go to church with your family, but you got no idea what life is like for two-thirds of the human race."
"I'm going inside now, Swede. Don't come around here anymore."
"What'd I do, use bad language again?"
"You cut up Anthony Pollock. I can't prove it, and it didn't happen in our jurisdiction, but you're an iceman."
"If I did it in a uniform, you'd be introducing me at the Kiwanis Club. I hear you adopted your kid and treated her real good. That's a righteous deed, man. But the rest of your routine is comedy. A guy with your brains ought to be above it."
He walked down the slope to the dirt road and his parked car. When he was out of the shade he stopped and turned around. His granny glasses were like ground diamonds in the sunlight.
"How many people did it take to crucify Megan and Cisco's old man and cover it up for almost forty years? I'm an iceman? Watch out one of your neighbors don't tack you up with a nail gun," he yelled up the slope while two fishermen unhitching a boat trailer stared at him openmouthed.
I RAKED AND BURNED leaves that afternoon and tried not to think about Swede Boxleiter. But in his impaired way he had put his thumb on a truth about human behavior that eludes people who are considered normal. I remembered a story of years ago about a fourteen-year-old boy from Chicago who was visiting relatives in a small Mississippi town not far from the Pearl River. One afternoon he whistled at a white woman on the street. Nothing was said to him, but that night two Klansmen kidnapped him from the home of his relatives, shot and killed him, and wrapped his body in a net of bricks and wire and sank it in the river.
Everyone in town knew who had done it. Two local lawyers, respectable men not associated with the Klan, volunteered to defend the killers. The jury took twenty minutes to set them free. The foreman said the verdict took that long because the jury had stopped deliberations to send out for soda pop.
It's a story out of another era, one marked by shame and collective fear, but its point is not about racial injustice but instead the fate of those who bear Cain's mark.
A year after the boy's death a reporter from a national magazine visited the town by the Pearl River to learn the fate of the killers. At first they had been avoided, passed by on the street, treated at grocery or hardware counters as though they had no first or last names, then their businesses failed—one owned a filling station, the other a fertilizer yard—and their debts were called. Both men left town, and when asked their whereabouts old neighbors would only shake their heads as though the killers were part of a vague and decaying memory.
The town that had been complicit in the murder ostracized those who had committed it. But no one had been ostracized in St. Mary Parish. Why? What was the difference in the accounts of the black teenager's murder and Jack Flynn's, both of which seemed collective in nature?
Answer: The killers in Mississippi were white trash and economically dispensable.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON I FOUND Archer Terrebonne on his side patio, disassembling a spinning reel on a glass table top. He wore slippers and white slacks and a purple shirt that was embroidered with his initials on the pocket. Overhead, two palm trees with trunks that were as gray and smooth as elephant hide creaked against a hard-blue sky. Terrebonne glanced up at me, then resumed his concentration, but not in an unpleasant way.
"Sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I suspect you're quite busy during the week," I said.
"It's no bother. Pull up a chair. I wanted to thank you for the help you gave my daughter."
You didn't do wide end runs around Archer Terrebonne.
"It's wonderful to see her fresh and bright in the morning, unharried by all the difficulties she's had, all the nights in hospitals and calls from policemen," he said.
"I have a problem, Mr. Terrebonne. A man named Harpo Scruggs is running all over our turf and we can't get a net over him."
"Scruggs? Oh yes, quite a character. I thought he was dead."