The Quiet Game (19 page)

“God almighty!” Dad exults. “I thought we were going over!”

“That gun is history,” I say quietly. “Let's go to the house.”

I pick up the pole, plunge it to the muddy bottom, and work the bow back
around until it points to the dirt road where we parked Dad's pickup. High above us, a hawk circles over unseen prey. As it sails through the falling dusk, Dad says: “Could it have been the feds who warned Ray off the Payton case?”

Despite the heat, I feel a shiver deep in my chest. Willie Pinder's remarks are playing in my head. “What makes you ask that?”

“I remember a picture from somewhere. It showed Marston and J. Edgar Hoover together. Both of them glaring into the camera like junior G-men. Marston always claimed to be a personal friend of Hoover's. That's not fashionable now, of course. But thirty years ago it was quite a coup.”

I had thought I might be able to keep my father on the periphery of this case, but that's simply not practical. The fact is, I need his help. “Dad, the guy who sent me that list of FBI agents is Bureau himself. He told me a couple of disturbing things.”

“Like?”

“This morning Austin Mackey requested the FBI file on Del Payton, and he was turned down. The Payton file was sealed by J. Edgar Hoover in 1968 on grounds of national security.”

His eyes narrow in disbelief.
“What?”

“Now you tell me Marston was a personal friend of Hoover's. I've already determined that Presley probably lied about the bomb that blew up Payton's car. The FBI had to know that. I don't know how it all adds up, but as district attorney, Marston had to be right in the middle of all this.”

He looks toward the shore, as though trying to spot his truck against the darkness of the trees. When he answers, his voice is so soft it seems to drift out of the lap of water against the bow.

“Leo Marston put our family through hell for a year and a half. The stress damn near killed me, and it changed your mother forever.”

I say nothing, wondering if he's talking to me or himself.

“The things he's done to other people . . . compromised them, bullied them. You don't know half of what he's done. I'm not a vindictive man. But to make that bastard pay for some of that . . . God, that would be justice.”

He is taking himself where I wanted to take him all along.

“We'd have to find a way to protect Annie and Peggy,” he says. “Around the clock.”

“We can do that.”

He looks back at me. “You're not in Houston anymore. You have no authority here. You can't investigate secretly. Half the town already knows what you're doing.”

“The more people who know, the safer we'll be.”

“Marston can apply pressure from angles you never dreamed of. But physical safety is the first priority. I know a couple of good men. Cops. Patients of mine.”

“Do you really think you can trust them? Cops, I mean. Ray Presley was a cop.”

Dad chuckles softly in the shadows. “They're both black. What do you think?”

Caitlin Masters has the corner booth in Biscuits & Blues. She smiles and waves when she sees me walking through the tables. I speak to a couple of people I know, but there's no applause tonight. The restaurant is packed with diners absorbed in their own affairs.

“I'm sorry,” Caitlin says, pointing at a shrimp cocktail before her. “I was starved. I couldn't wait. Have one.”

“No, thanks,” I reply, sitting down opposite her. She's wearing a white button-down oxford shirt and emerald drop earrings that bring out the color in her eyes. Each time I see her, I'm shocked by the way those green eyes are almost wrong for her face. The fine black hair and porcelain skin seem to call for something else. Yet the final result is a remarkable beauty.

The young waitress who asked me to sign
False Witness
the other day hurries over and asks if she can get me something to drink.

“Jenny, right?”

She blushes and nods.

“What happened to my waiter?” Caitlin asks.

“I switched tables with him. I'll take much better care of you guys.”

Caitlin gives her a sidelong glance. “I'll bet you will.”

“Jenny, I'd love a Corona with a lime.”

“On the way.” She disappears like a dark-complected elf.

“Jenny has the hots for you.”

“A little starstruck, maybe. She's probably got a novel in progress upstairs.”

“I don't think that's it. She watches you in a strange way.” Caitlin drinks from a sweating martini glass. “Trust me. I have lethal instincts.”

“You're not drinking gimlets tonight?”

“They're out of Rose's lime. So, how'd you spend this lovely day?”

“I'll tell you later. First, you owe me an explanation.”

She gives me a wry look. “Why did I make such a big thing of Del Payton?”

“Yes.”

“It's simple, really. My father.”

“The one you grew up without?”

“That's him. When he took over the chain from
his
father, it was five dailies, all in Virginia. In twelve years he built that into thirty-four papers across the Southeast.”

“I'm impressed.”

She raises a cynical eyebrow. “Do you know how he did that? He went into small cities that had only one or two newspapers. If there were two, he'd buy the dominant one, then institute John Masters's Commandments, the cardinal one being, ‘Don't piss off the advertisers.' He printed every detail of little league games, weddings, society parties, high school graduations—everything but controversy. It didn't make for very informative newspapers, but it kicked profits into the stratosphere.”

“Is it a public company now?”

Caitlin makes a fist and thrusts it toward the ceiling with mock fervor. “Never! Family-owned, down the line. Starting to get the picture?”

“You want to shake up Daddy's world.”

“Yes. But not for some Freudian reason. Hard news is going unreported in every town where we have a newspaper. I'm instituting a new policy. At
one
paper, anyway.” She takes another swallow of her martini, and her eyes flash with conviction. “From now on, hard news leads.”

“The Payton murder wasn't news until you made it news.”

“So, sue me. My gut tells me it's a big story, and I'm going with it.”

“Good for you. It is a big story.”

She freezes with a shrimp in midair.

I take my Corona from Jenny the waitress before she can set it down. “How would you like an exclusive on the solution?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“There's one condition. You print absolutely nothing until I give you the okay.”

“You know who killed him?”

“Maybe. But even if I do, proving it could be difficult.”

She pops the shrimp into her mouth and chews for a few moments. “I don't get it. If you don't want me to print anything, why bring me in at all?”

“Because I need your help.”

“For what?”

“Research that I don't have the time or resources to do.”

“What do you need to know?”

“You haven't agreed to my condition yet.”

She mulls it over some more. “Why should I muzzle my paper to help you? How do I know you'll solve the case any faster than I could?”

“Do you have a copy of the original police file?”

“No. But I'm working on a request for his FBI file under the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Don't bother. You won't get it. J. Edgar Hoover sealed the Payton file in 1968 for reasons of national security.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I smelled a Pulitzer the minute you told me about this case. Okay, deal. Tell me what you want, I'll get it. Fast. But I want in on everything.”

“Fair enough,” I say, wondering if I mean it. A half hour ago Cilla called from Houston. After spending hours tracing the names on Peter Lutjens's list, and finding most retired or dead, she lucked into a fan of mine. He hadn't worked the Payton murder, but he remembered it. More important, he numbered Special Agent Dwight Stone, the field agent Althea Payton recalled so fondly, among his old friends. Stone is retired and living outside Crested Butte, Colorado. Cilla called him and found him friendly enough until she mentioned Del Payton, at which time Stone bluntly stated that he would not discuss the Payton case with me or anyone. I intend to test his resolution very soon.

“So, what do you want to know?” Caitlin asks.

“I need everything you can get on Leo Marston. You know who he is?”

“Sure. A big-time attorney everybody calls Judge because he served on the state supreme court. I tried to get a comment from him for my Payton story, but I couldn't get through. His secretary's a cast-iron bitch.”

“You should meet his wife.”

“The woman who baptized you at the cocktail party?”

“That's her.”

“No, thanks. Why Marston?”

“You don't need to know that yet.”

She doesn't like this response. “Who else?”

I'd like a detailed bio of Ray Presley, but Caitlin can't access the kind of information I need on him. “Just start with Marston. Companies he owns, whole or in part. Personal and political connections. His tax returns if you can get them.”

Jenny reappears at our table, her dark eyes watching me with a disconcerting intensity. “Have you decided?”

“I'm not really hungry,” I confess, handing her my unopened menu. “I had to eat before I came. My daughter helped cook.”

“How old is she?”

“Four.”

“That's a fun age.”

“Are they working on my ribs back there?” Caitlin asks.

“They'll be out in a minute.” Jenny gives her a curt smile and heads back to her station.

“You owe me an answer too, remember?” says Caitlin. “You're the most liberal person I've met here, as far as race goes. You're a fascist on the death penalty, of course, but we'll skip that for now. How did you wind up so different from other people here?”

“It's simple, really. My father.”

She puts her last shrimp in her mouth and chews slowly, her green eyes luminescent in the soft light. “Let's hear it.”

“This never sees print. It's no big deal, but it's personal. That's something we need to get straight right now. If we're going to work together, some things
never
see print.”

“No problem. It's in the vault.”

“I remember three defining moments with my father when I was growing up. The first had to do with race. Most kids I grew up around used the word ‘nigger' the same way they used ‘apple' or ‘Chevrolet.' So did their parents and grandparents before them. One night, at home, I used it the same way. My father got out of his chair, turned off the television, and came and sat beside me. He said, ‘Son, I grew up working in a creosote plant right alongside colored people. And they're just like you and me. No better, no worse. We don't say that word in this house.' Then he turned the TV back on. And I stopped saying nigger.

“A couple of years later, the thing to be was a hippie, and I tried my best. Grew my hair down my back, smoked grass, the whole bit. I heard hippies on TV saying the ‘pigs' this, the ‘pigs' that. The cops, you know? So, one day, riding in the car, I said something about the pigs. My father pulled onto the shoulder, turned around, and said, ‘Son, if we had to go three days in this country without police, it wouldn't be a place you'd want to live. We don't use that word.' And I never used it again.”

Caitlin's eyes shine with fascination. “And the third moment?”

“I was fifteen, and I'd been sleeping with this older girl from the public school who went off to junior college. I stole the family car a couple of times to go see her. In the kitchen one night my mother told me I couldn't do that anymore. In my hormone-intoxicated state, I said, ‘Mom, why are you being such a bitch about this?' ”

“Oh, my God.”

“My dad clocked me. This man of reason who had never lifted a finger to me slapped me an open-handed blow that damn near blacked me out. I was spiritually stunned. But it was the right blow at the right moment. The only one I ever needed. It drew the line for me.”

Caitlin nods slowly, a smile on her lips. “Thank you for telling me that. You're lucky to have a father like that.”

I wonder what she'd say if she knew that an hour ago my wonderful father and I sank a murder weapon in a swamp.

Her barbecued ribs finally arrive, and we run through a half dozen other subjects while she eats. Journalism, my law career, publishing. She grew up with money but worked hard to make her own mark. She did internships with the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
, traveled extensively overseas, and worked a year for the
Los Angeles Times
. When she asks obliquely about the Hanratty execution, I change the subject.

“Where do you live? I don't picture you in an apartment.”

She smiles and wipes her mouth with a napkin, knowing I'm evading her question. “I pretty much live at the paper. But I did buy a house on Washington Street.”

“Roughing it, huh?” Washington Street is old Natchez; most of the town houses there sell for over three hundred thousand dollars.

“I need my space,” she says frankly. “You should come see it. It was completely restored just before I bought it.”

A wave of warmth passes over my face. Is she hinting that I should go to her house after dinner? I've been out of circulation for years, and she's only twenty-eight. In the realm of dating, she is the expert, not me.

“Do you need to get home?” she asks. “I'll bet Annie's waiting up for you.”

That is what she's suggesting. I look at my watch to conceal the fact that I'm blushing. “Annie's falling asleep about now. I'm okay for a bit.”

“Well . . . would you like to see it? We could have some tea and talk. Or we could just take a ride. You could show me the real Natchez.”

In the dark?
But the automatic rejections I've practiced since Sarah's death don't come to me. “A ride might be fun.”

My answer surprises her. More than that, it makes her happy. With a smile of anticipation she signals Jenny over, asks for two go-cups, and passes her a company credit card. Jenny meets us at the front door with the ticket, and while Caitlin signs it, I say hello to a couple of people at the bar. It's strange to be back in a place where I know someone every place I go.

Stepping from the air-conditioned restaurant to the street is like putting on a mildewed coat in the jungle. October in Mississippi. In Crested Butte they're skiing right now.

“We could take my Miata,” Caitlin says, “but I don't advise it. I thought a convertible would be perfect for the South, but it's too damn hot down here to use it.”

“My car's right down there.”

I lead her across the street, then turn right on the sidewalk, heading toward the small parking lot where I left Dad's BMW. A country dance bar is going
strong on this side, and knots of people line the sidewalk for the length of the block. The club draws mainly from the Louisiana farmland across the river, hard-shell Baptist country that birthed Jimmy Swaggart and Jerry Lee Lewis. Caitlin and I weave carefully through boots and hats and clouds of cigarette smoke.

As we near the parking lot, I see four men who look a little rougher than the rest, passing around a bottle of Jack Daniel's. They're wearing oil-stained denim and caps instead of hats. Roughnecks who drove straight from the oil field to the bar, most likely. Lean, hard-muscled, burned brick red by the sun, they wear thin mustaches and suck dips of snuff while they drink. As Caitlin and I approach, one points at me.

“You oughta keep your goddamn mouth shut about the niggers in this town, Cage.”

The use of my name surprises me, but I have no intention of stopping to discuss the issue. Feeling Caitlin slow down, I squeeze her arm and keep walking.

“You're fucking up the chemical plant deal,” says another.

Now that we're closer, I recognize the man who spoke first. His name is Spurling. A year older than I, he attended the White Citizens' Council school on the north side of town. Spurling has the sullen expression of a man for whom life holds few happy surprises. He will fight me on the slightest provocation, and probably on none. These guys have never gotten past the emotional age of fifteen. They brawl over disputed calls at little league games, beat up homosexuals for fun, and shoot each other over marital infidelities.

“Keep walking,”
I whisper to Caitlin, and we pass them with only a brush on the shoulder.

“I'm talking to you, cocksucker,” Spurling calls after me.

“That was the newspaper chick,” says a slurred voice. “That stuck-up Yankee bitch.”

Caitlin stops and turns. “Why don't you dickless Neanderthals find a gun to play with? Maybe you'll do the world a favor and shoot each other.”