Читать книгу Cemetery Road - Greg Iles - Страница 16

THE TOUGHEST ACTING job in the world is behaving normally in the presence of someone with whom you’re having illicit sex. Most people who find themselves in this situation think they can handle it, but the truth is sooner or later people pick up on intimacy. Even if they don’t see it, they feel it. They notice a hitch in the breathing, an altered tone of voice, a difference in the way you deal with space around someone. And, of course, the eyes. Reality abides in the eyes. What keeps most of these situations from exploding is the tendency of the betrayed not to see what their eyes and other senses tell them.

After my surprise interaction with Jet, I have to decide whether she was serious when she asked me to deliver a Sprite to the Prime Shot tent. To do so will mean interacting with her husband, Paul, whom I have known since I was three years old. Also with her father-in-law, Max, who’s one of the most powerful members of the Poker Club. Since Paul might have watched us talking in the refreshment line, the best choice is probably to take Jet the drink.

Prime Shot Premium Hunting Gear was founded by Wyatt Cash, a Bienville native who made some money as a professional baseball player, then parlayed it into a wildly successful company that makes everything from custom camouflage clothing to all-terrain vehicles. Most of the Poker Club members on hand today have gravitated to Cash’s tent, although I see a couple of older members at the Bienville Southern Bank tent, paying court to its octogenarian founder, Claude Buckman.

“Yo, Goose!” Paul Matheson calls as I approach the Prime Shot tent. “Wassup, man?”

At six feet even, Paul is a slightly smaller version of his father. Blond, gregarious, still muscular at forty-seven. There’s no one on earth with whom I have a more complex history.

“Just covering this Chinese fire drill,” I tell him. “Jet passed me in the drink line and asked me to bring her a Sprite.”

“What a gentleman. We got beer in a cooler back here. Scotch if you’re feeling frisky.”

“At eleven A.M.? I’ll pass.”

“Hey, this is a celebration day. All day, all night.”

I hand him the Sprite. “Can you make sure Jet gets this?”

“I’ll take it myself,” Jet says, stepping up from behind me and brushing my cheek with a kiss. God, this woman has nerve.

She moves on through the bodies under the tent, stopping to speak to her paralegal, who’s talking to one of the Prime Shot girls. Paul steps closer to me. “I heard about Buck, man. I’m sorry as hell. I know how close you two were.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“What do you think happened?”

“Don’t know. Guess I’ll wait to hear from the police.”

Paul snorts. “Like you’ve never done once in your life. Come on, man.”

“I really don’t know. Accident seems unlikely. Floating into that snag would be a stretch. That’s a wide river.”

“Yeah.” Paul lowers his voice. “You think somebody stuck him out there? Wasted him, then tried to hand the cops an accident on a platter?”

“Buck wasn’t going to win a popularity contest during this past week.”

“No shit. I sure hope it was an accident.”

“He didn’t die where they found his truck,” I say, watching Paul from the corner of my eye. “Somebody staged that.”

This intrigues him. “You have proof of that?”

“Call it intuition. But your buddy Beau Holland sure seems on edge about the whole thing.”

“Fuck Beau Holland,” he says with venom. “He ain’t my buddy.”

“Did you say you want to have sex with Beau Holland?” asks a deeper male voice.

Max Matheson claps his son on the back, then laughs heartily. “Hey, Goose, how’s it hanging?”

I nod but say nothing. Back when he coached us as boys, Max would ask this to trigger responses like “Long and loose and full of juice.”

“Heard about Buck,” he says, then takes a pull from what looks like Scotch on the rocks. “Bad luck.”

“Maybe.”

Max’s eyes linger on mine long enough for him to read my emotions. He’s always had that gift, the predator’s lightning perception. “That river can kill you quick. You know that better than anybody.”

“Jesus, Pop,” Paul says. “Shut the fuck up, why don’t you?”

Max clucks his tongue. “All right. Guess I’ll leave you girls to it.”

As he slides away, Wyatt Cash walks up wearing navy chinos and a Prime Shot polo beneath an olive blazer. With his 1970s mustache and bulging muscles, he still looks like a baseball player. The girls in the Prime Shot shirts are watching him with something like reverence. I’m guessing they’ve all ridden on either his jet or his helicopter. Cash hands me a sweating Heineken and smiles.

“Welcome to my humble abode, sir.”

Most people under this tent would prefer me anywhere but here, but Cash is being polite. “Thanks, Wyatt.”

He pats Paul on the shoulder, then moves off in Jet’s direction. As I follow him with my eyes, I see Jet’s left hand wrapped around one of the poles supporting the tent. Not her whole hand, actually. Only three fingers. Three P.M.

Her flagrant flouting of danger makes me dizzy.

When I look back at Paul, he’s watching me with his usual lazy alertness. We stare at each other for several seconds without speaking. It amazes me how deeply I can bury the sin of sleeping with his wife while we’re together. In this moment he’s the guy I played ball with for years, the buddy who saved my life in Iraq. Who am I to him right now?

“Listen,” he says, so softly I have to strain to understand him. “What do you think about that guy?” He nods in Jet’s direction.

“Who? Wyatt?”

“No, dumbass. The paralegal. Josh whoever.”

“Josh Germany? In what capacity?”

Paul raises his eyebrows like, Come on, man. “Him and Jet.”

The rush of adrenaline that flushes through me after these words makes it hard to hold my composure. “You’re kidding, right? The kid’s like, what, twenty-five?”

“Exactly.”

To mask my gut reaction, I look down the tent at Josh Germany. He’s a good-looking guy, blond and fit, but still a boy—not remotely the kind of man that interests Jet. Witness myself, exhibit A. “Dude, there’s no way. What made you ask that?”

Paul doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed upon his wife.

Wyatt Cash leans over Germany’s shoulder and says something brief, and Jet laughs with obvious enjoyment. “I’d suspect Wyatt before that kid,” I add.

“No way,” says Paul. “It’s a rule.”

“A rule?”

“Poker Club rule. Other members’ women are off-limits. Period.”

“You’re not an official member, are you?”

Paul considers this. “That’s true. But Wyatt knows how bad I’d fuck him up if he crossed that line. The kid, on the other hand, may not realize the risk.”

I need an infusion of morphine. At no time in the three months since I’ve been sleeping with Jet has Paul even hinted at suspicion of infidelity—not to her or to me. In relative terms, this is an earthquake. Then it hits me: Is this why she squeezed my wrist and asked for a meeting at three o’clock?

“For real,” Paul says. “If somebody killed Buck, who do you think it was?”

Thankful for the 180-degree turn, I decide to throw out some bait. “Some people have suggested the Poker Club killed him.”

Paul’s face tells me he doesn’t believe this. “Doesn’t make sense, Goose. Murder creates problems. They’d have bought Buck off, not killed him.”

He’s right. Bribery would be the logical move. And maybe they tried that. “There’s one problem with that theory.”

“You gonna tell me Buck couldn’t be bought?”

I nod.

Paul gives me a tight smile. “I may not be an official Poker Club member, but I’ve learned one thing by being around those guys: everybody has a price.”

“You sound like Arthur Pine.” Pine, a former county attorney, is the Poker Club member who works every angle of every sleazy deal without hindrance of moral scruples.

“Yeah?” says Paul. “What did that vain old prick say?”

“‘We’re all whores, we’re just haggling over the price.’”

Paul shakes his head. “That sounds like Arthur, all right. King of the Whores.”

A shriek of feedback hits the tents, causing everyone to cover their ears. After it fades, Paul says, “Guess they’re about to start this gong show. You gonna hang in the tent with us?”

“Nah. I’m going to move back and try to see the big picture.”

Paul gives me his sarcastic smile. “Good luck with that. And about that other thing … not a word to Jet.”

I look down the tent at the woman still carrying my seed from yesterday. “No problem, man.”

I FIND A GOOD viewing perch atop a flatbed trailer parked well back from the tents. From here I can observe the main players without seeming too interested. After my exchange with Paul, my mind is flooded with thoughts of Jet and our constant dilemma, which exerts emotional pressure every hour of the day. Only by learning to compartmentalize all she represents have I been able to function in this town. But rather than get caught in an infinite loop of what-ifs—which won’t be resolved until our afternoon meeting—I decide to focus on the men most likely to have ordered Buck’s murder.

The eternally feuding county supervisors and city aldermen have broken precedent to come together for this show. Thirteen gold shovels wait in a stand before the Azure Dragon tent, which matches the number of city and county representatives, plus the mayor. But the real power in Bienville doesn’t reside in its supervisors and aldermen, or even in the mayor. The elected officials in this town are hired hands. They’re the ones standing in the sun in their best suits and dresses, but the ruddy-faced men who control them are under the tents, drinking from crystal highball glasses and watching with the disinterested calm of gamblers who already know the outcome of every race. I’ve spoken to a few already. But to truly understand those men, and the power that they wield, one must understand the unique history of the town where I was born.

Bienville, Mississippi, began as a French fort built by young Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, one year after he founded Natchez and one year before he founded New Orleans. Still a year shy of his twenty-fourth birthday, Governor Bienville initially named the fort Langlois after his housekeeper, who had overseen the French “casquette girls”—twenty-three poor virgins removed from convents and orphanages and shipped to Fort Mobile to keep the soldiers there from taking Native American mistresses. Each casquette girl brought all her belongings in a single trunk or “casket,” and while no one knows their ultimate fates, their arrival succeeded in preventing large-scale sexual exploitation of the Indian women at Mobile. Farther north, however, French soldiers did take Indian mistresses, which triggered the Natchez Indian Revolt in 1729 and the terrible French reprisals that followed. Four years later, Sieur de Bienville—by then back in France—was asked to return to La Louisiane and hunt down the Natchez survivors who had taken refuge among the Chickasaw. During this effort, Bienville rebuilt Fort Langlois, which had fallen into disrepair, and used it as a base from which to attack his enemies.

By the time Bienville sailed back to France, both Indians and whites in the area had taken to calling the fort after its founder. Fort Bienville and its surrounding town grew steadily, and in 1763 it came by treaty under British rule, as did Natchez to the south. Bienville proper began to grow along the pristine bluff above the Mississippi River, and generous land grants by King George created large inland plantations, which produced tobacco and indigo. After sixteen years of British rule, Spain took control of the town, but Charles IV held it only as long as King George. In 1795, Bienville was ceded to the United States, where it became the far edge of the American West. This cosmopolitan history left Bienville perfectly positioned to exploit the cotton gin, which had been developed in 1793.

As the new century clattered to life like a great steam engine, Bienville joined a cotton boom that brought spectacular wealth to the Lower Mississippi Valley, all on the backs of African slaves, who had proved easier to control than enslaved Indians, who knew the land better than their putative masters and had homes to run to when they managed to escape. The moonlight-and-magnolia dream of the Anglophile whites—and the nightmare of the black Africans—lasted only sixty years. By 1863, Ulysses Grant and an army of seventy thousand Yankees were camped four miles outside Bienville, aiming to conquer Vicksburg, forty miles to the north. Bienville waited in schizophrenic expectation, its anxious planters hoping to surrender, its workingmen and planters’ sons ready to fight to the last man.

Bienville’s Civil War history usually fills a bloody chapter in books on the Vicksburg campaign. All that matters now is that on June 7, 1863, General Grant decided that, despite fierce Confederate resistance that had originated there, Bienville—like Port Gibson to the east—would not burn. Grant’s decision ensured the survival of more than fifty antebellum homes, many mansions that would draw enough tourists during the Great Depression to bring the city back from the dead. The history of the years that followed was as troubled as that in the rest of the South, and it ensured that by the 1960s a crisis would come. Bienville weathered those racial troubles better than most of its neighbors, but the deepest issues were never fully addressed, setting the stage for a reckoning that by 2018 still has not come.

The reason it has not bears a name: the Bienville Poker Club.

When I was a boy, I sometimes heard references to a “poker club,” most often when I was visiting Paul Matheson’s house. Back then, I thought the term referred to a weekly card game Paul’s dad played in sometimes. At that age, I couldn’t have imagined its true nature or function, and my father certainly never talked about it. Dad had to have known about it, of course, for the Bienville Poker Club was founded seventy years before he was born and had exerted profound influence over this area ever since. But though my father published many scathing editorials about Bienville politics, he never once wrote about the Poker Club as a political force. To this day, I’m not sure why.

Thanks to the Poker Club, while the other Mississippi River towns withered during the final quarter of the twentieth century, Bienville continued to grow. Up in the Delta, there are drug dealers living in the mansions of former cotton planters. In Natchez, forty miles downstream, commercial real estate values have been eroding for two decades. But in Bienville business is on the march. Quite a few observers have speculated about the reasons for this. Some tout the foresight of Bienville’s leaders. Others point to economic diversification. One particularly naïve journalist wrote a piece about Bienville’s “uniquely congenial” race relations and cribbed from Atlanta’s old pitch as being “the city too busy to hate.”

All that is bullshit.

The Bienville Poker Club was founded shortly after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. The original members—most of whom were ancestors of the twelve present members—created the shadow organization to defend themselves against the depredations of the “carpetbaggers” who swarmed south like boll weevils to plunder what remained of the Confederacy. Since the Yankees saw Southern gentlemen as habitual gamblers who loved wasting time indulging in whiskey and cigars away from their family homes, nightly poker games provided credible cover for more subversive activities. While men in other towns formed parties of night riders that would soon become the Ku Klux Klan, the pragmatic businessmen of Bienville employed more Machiavellian methods of resistance. Rather than fight under an ideological banner of violence, they worked relentlessly to keep their hands on every lever of power still within reach. They collaborated with the Yankees when necessary, but betrayed them when they could. They employed cardsharps, whores, and criminals to control the carpetbaggers and Negro politicians of the new inverted world, and by the Compromise of 1877—which mandated the removal of the federal troops that enforced Reconstruction laws—the Poker Club had most of the town’s institutions firmly in its hands.

It is testament to the vision of those men that 153 years later, I stand in the shadow of a bluff that still supports their mansions, witnessing their descendants consummating what the Wall Street Journal dubbed the “Mississippi Miracle.” Down in front of the Azure Dragon tent, the governor of Mississippi has introduced a Chinese man in a tailored suit. He takes the microphone with Bienville’s mayor at his side, a local sidekick grinning like an organ-grinder’s monkey. The company man has a Chinese accent, but his vocabulary is better than the mayor’s. When the mayor leans out and calls the aldermen and supervisors forward to the line of shovels to play out their charade for the cameras, I shift my gaze to the Prime Shot tent, where most current members of the Bienville Poker Club stand watching, expressions of mild amusement on their faces.

The 2018 iteration of the Poker Club isn’t nearly so rich as the original group prior to the Civil War, when they ranked only behind New York, Philadelphia, and Natchez in banked millions. But the war gutted those fortunes, and that kind of damage takes a long time to make up. Today’s club controls something north of a billion dollars among the twelve members. That’s a long way from New York rich, but in this corner of Mississippi, it’s enough to mold the shape of life for all.

Blake Donnelly, the oilman, is worth more than $200 million. Claude Buckman, the banker, is in the same league. Donnelly’s in his mid-seventies, though, and Buckman’s over eighty. Max Matheson made his fortune in timber, and together he and Paul run a huge lumber mill north of town, plus the Matheson Wood Treatment plant near the sandbar to the south. They also manage hundreds of thousands of acres of timber all over the state. I’m not sure how much Wyatt Cash is worth. I do know he owns one river island outright, which he operates as an exclusive hunting camp—one frequented by NFL players and college coaches, most from the SEC.

Beau Holland, the asshole I met down on the road with Tommy Russo, is the hungry jackal among the lions of the club. From what Jet tells me, Holland has used inside information to exploit every aspect of the new paper mill, bridge, and interstate. Until last year, Beau had a junior partner named Dave Cowart working for him as a contractor. Cowart built most of Belle Rose and Beau Chene, the two residential developments at the eastern edge of the county. But last year, Jet went after Cowart with a lawsuit alleging rigged bidding on a project partly funded by federal dollars. As a result, Cowart and one alderman ended up doing time in federal prison. This did not endear Jet to the remaining club members, but since she’s Max Matheson’s daughter-in-law, there was little they could do except bitch on the golf course.

The other members span the professions. Tommy Russo has his casino. Arthur Pine handles the legal paper. Warren Lacey is a plastic surgeon and nursing home king whom Jet nearly sent to jail over bribery of state officials. (Dr. Lacey ended up with a suspended sentence and a one-year suspension of his medical license. He’d happily inject Jet with a lethal drug cocktail if he could.) Then there’s U.S. senator Avery Sumner, the former circuit judge whom the Poker Club somehow got appointed to the seat recently vacated by the senior senator from Mississippi for health reasons. Sumner flew in for today’s event on a CitationJet owned by Wyatt Cash’s company. The jet’s livery features a large circular view through a riflescope, with buck antlers centered in the reticle. The other three members of the club I know little about, but they surely fulfill their function of greasing the wheels of commerce while pocketing whatever they can skim from every transaction or building project.

What must those men feel as they watch the local elected officials—nine whites and four blacks—lift the gold shovels from the stand and spade them into the pre-softened earth? The aldermen and supervisors are mugging for the cameras now, trying to look like Leland Stanford at the golden spike ceremony in 1869. A paper mill is no transcontinental railroad, but any project that brings a new interstate to a county containing only thirty-six thousand people comes pretty close to salvation.

When the photographers stop snapping pictures, the ceremony is over. The crowd disperses quickly, and crews miraculously appear to break down the tents. As the governor’s motorcade roars up Port Road, Jet and Paul give each other a quick connubial hug, then separate to find their respective vehicles. Was that hug for show? I wonder. Max and Paul walk side by side to a couple of Ford F-250s, while a few yards to their right, Beau Holland climbs into a vintage Porsche 911.

I half expect Jet to text me, but she doesn’t. She and Josh Germany climb into her Volvo SUV—Jet behind the wheel—and pull onto Port Road, heading toward the bluff without even a glance in my direction. Suddenly Paul’s suspicion doesn’t seem so absurd. As I follow the Volvo with my eyes, I notice something I missed when I arrived: a small fleet of earthmoving equipment parked in the shadow of the bluff, under a line of cottonwood trees. As Jet’s XC60 vanishes at the top of the bluff, black smoke puffs from a couple of smokestacks, and then the low grinding of heavy Caterpillar engines rolls toward me. I had no idea they intended to start work so soon. In fact, I’m pretty sure they didn’t. Nobody made any mention of it today.

They’re going to wipe out all traces of Buck’s digging, I realize. And maybe of Buck himself. Suddenly I’m as sure as I’ve ever been of anything that Buck was murdered here last night.

A chill races over my skin as the big yellow monsters crawl out of the shadows. I’m not sure what I can do to stop them or even slow them down. As I ponder this question, I hear a much higher sound, rapidly increasing in amplitude. It’s the hornet buzz of a drone, the same buzz I heard this morning. Looking up, I see the familiar silhouette of a DJI quad-rotor flying what appears to be a precise grid pattern over the paper mill site.

I want to cheer out loud. Denny Allman didn’t wait for the appointed time to meet me here. He came straight to the site and got down to business as soon as the crowd broke up. For a few seconds I worry that the equipment operators will get suspicious and call someone about the drone, but in all likelihood they can’t even hear the damned thing above the roar of their big diesel motors. Even if they do, they’ll assume that Beau Holland or some other Poker Club member—or even the Chinese—is using the drone for a commercial purpose related to the site. As I glance over at the Flex, trying to decide what to do next, my iPhone pings.

Piloting from the woods, reads Denny’s message. Can you pick me up on top of bluff in 20 mins?

Will do, I reply.

Any place need special attention?

Look for disturbed earth. This is our only chance before those graders and dozers tear it up. I remember Buck telling me that he unearthed the largest Poverty Point fragment near one of the foundation piers of the old electroplating plant. Don’t fly too low, I advise Denny, but get good coverage of the footprint of the old plant. The foundation especially. Understand?

10-4, comes the reply.

C u in 20 mins, I type, walking rapidly to the Flex.

I don’t need to hang out here on the flats, drawing attention. Where to go? Beyond the twenty-foot-high levee that protects the industrial park from the Mississippi River should be a thirty-foot slope to the water. That would put me out of sight of the equipment drivers. They might know I’m there, but out of sight is usually out of mind.

From the moment I saw Buck’s shattered skull through Denny’s drone camera, I’ve had a sense of disparate threads coming together, of a hidden pattern revealing itself. A town like Bienville is like the river it was founded on, filled with deep and conflicting currents. Most times, the only way to detect such a current is by seeing something unexpected shoot to the surface. Buck’s corpse might be that surprise. There is another way, of course, but it’s usually fatal.

Fall in and get sucked under.