“I think you should not move around too much,” Grandfather said.
“I just came here to talk, not for trouble.”
“No, you’re here to bring grief to innocent people. You put me in mind of an egg-sucking dog. There’s no cure for your kind. Where’s your weapon?”
“I’m not carrying one,” Slakely said. He opened the flaps of his coat. His face was tight, the color gone, his pulse jumping visibly in his throat, like a damaged moth. “See? You need to put that thumb buster away.”
“Where’s your throw-down?”
“I don’t carry one. I don’t do that sort of thing.”
“Pull up your pants cuffs.”
Slakely tugged on his trouser leg, his face turned to one side, his forehead and profiled cheek shiny with moisture.
“Unstrap it with your left hand and let it fall to the floor,” Grandfather said.
Slakely leaned over and released the strap on a small holster attached to his right ankle. It contained a .32 revolver. The sight was filed off, the grips wrapped with black tape.
“Step away from it,” Grandfather said.
“Whatever you want. My visit here is according to protocol. There’s no need for—”
“How many times have you planted one of those?”
“I never had to. I never shot anyone. Not as a police officer.”
“I think you’re a liar. Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I pull this trigger, I don’t want to see the look in your eyes. The men I killed all had the same look when they died. They knew their lives and souls were forfeit and there was no way they could change what was about to happen. That’s why I read Scripture. It allows me to forget that look. Then a simpleton like you shows up and taints my spirituality.”
“I apologize.”
“You’ve got another problem. Like most white trash, you’re disrespectful to your betters and proud of your stupidity and ignorance. If you didn’t have the nigras to feel superior to, most of y’all would kill yourselves. I’m done talking. You want to say
anything before I shoot you?”
WE CAME THROUGH the front door seconds before Grandfather probably would have pulled the trigger. I wished Grandfather had killed him. There is no downside to the death of a man like Slakely, except the body is an insult to the earth in which it’s buried.
“Get that gun away from him,” Slakely said.
“What are you doing in our house?” I asked.
“I offered to take him to the bathroom. He pulled a revolver on me. This man belongs in an asylum.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I came here to make your problems go away. I’m not a bad man.”
“Yes, you are,” I replied.
“Tell him to point that gun somewhere else.”
“Grandfather, it’s all right,” I said.
He rested the revolver on his thigh and released the hammer. “This boy strikes me as highly excitable. He doesn’t seem to do well in manly confrontation. I think he should stick to abusing women and cripples and children and such.”