We’ve had a good day with Nathan. He and I got on well as filmmaker and actor, and at times he and Gwen seemed ready to strip and have a go. Late in the afternoon, she and I find our way to Bombay’s on Main Street in Radford, next to the college campus, and take a table by the dartboard. It’s far too early for the college crowd, though a few rowdies are at the bar enjoying happy-hour discounts. I ask the waitress to inform Nathan Cooley that we are having a drink, and within seconds he appears with a big smile. We invite him to have a seat, which he does, and we start downing beers. Gwen drinks little and manages to sip on a glass of wine while Nathan and I knock back a few pints. Coeds straggle in and the place gets louder. I ask about specials, and there’s an oyster po’boy on the chalkboard. We order two and Nathan disappears to yell at the cook. We have dinner and stay until after dark. Not only are we the only blacks in the bar, but we are also the only patrons over the age of twenty-two. Nathan stops by occasionally to check on us, but he’s a busy man.

CHAPTER 31

At nine the following morning we return to Nathan’s house, and once again he’s in the front yard playing with his dog, waiting. I am assuming he meets us outside because he doesn’t want us inside. I explain that my little Audi is in bad need of service, and it might be best if we could ride over in his pickup. An hour each way will give us two hours alone with Nathan and no distractions. He shrugs and says okay, whatever, and away we go, with Slade and Cody following in their van. I’m in the front seat; Gwen is folded into the backseat of the club cab. She’s wearing jeans today because Nathan couldn’t keep his eyes off her legs yesterday. She will be a bit more aloof, just to keep him guessing.

As we head west toward the mountains, I admire the interior of the truck and explain that I’ve never spent much time in such vehicles. The seats are leather, there is an advanced GPS system, and so on. Nathan is really proud of the truck and chatters on about it.

To change the subject, I bring up his mother and claim to really want to meet her. Nathan says, “Look, Reed, you’re welcome to try, but she doesn’t like what we’re doing. I talked to her last night again, and I explained the whole project, and how important it is, and how much you need her, but I got nowhere.”

“Can’t we at least talk, say hello, you know?” I almost turn and smile at Gwen now that we know Nathan deems the project “important.”

“I doubt it. She’s a tough woman, Reed. Drinks a lot, nasty temper. We’re not on good terms right now.”

Being the pushy investigative journalist, I decide to plow into sensitive matters. “Is it because you’ve gotten away from the family business, that you’re making money with your bar?”

“That’s kind of personal, isn’t it?” Gwen scolds from the rear. Nathan takes a deep breath and glances out the side window. He grips the wheel with both hands and says, “It’s a long story, but Mom has always blamed me for Gene’s death, which is crazy. He was the big brother, the leader of the gang, the head chef in the meth lab, plus he was an addict. I was not. I used the stuff occasionally, but I never got hooked. Gene, he was out of control. This place we’re going to was a run Gene made once a week. Occasionally, I tagged along. I shouldn’t have been there the night we got busted. We had a guy, I won’t use any names, but he was running meth for us on the west side of Bluefield. We didn’t know it, but he got busted, flipped, told the DEA when and where. We walked into a trap, and I swear I could do nothing to help Gene. As I’ve told you, we surrendered and they were taking us in. I heard gunshots, and Gene was dead. I’ve explained this to my mother a hundred times, but she won’t hear it. Gene was her favorite and his death is all my fault.”

“Terrible,” I mumble.

“Did she visit you in prison?” Gwen asks sweetly from behind.

Another long pause. “Twice.” Nothing is said for at least three miles. We’re on the interstate now, headed southwest, listening to Kenny Chesney. Nathan clears his throat and says, “To tell you the truth, I’m trying to get away from my family. My mom, my cousins, a bunch of deadbeat nephews. Word’s out that I own a nice bar and I’m doing okay, so it won’t be long before these clowns start begging for money. I need to get farther away.”

“Where would you go?” I ask with great sympathy.

“Not far. I love the mountains, the hiking and fishing. I’m a hillbilly, Reed, and that’ll never change. Boone, North Carolina, is a nice place. Somewhere like that. Someplace where there are no Cooleys in the phone book.” He laughs at this, a sad little chuckle.

A few minutes later he rocks us with: “You know, I had a buddy in prison kinda reminds me of you. Malcolm Bannister was his name, great guy, black dude from Winchester, Virginia. A lawyer who always said the Feds got him for no reason.”

I listen and nod along as if this is of no consequence whatsoever. I can almost feel Gwen seize up in the rear seat. “What happened to him?” I manage to ask. My mouth has never been drier.

“I think Mal’s still in prison. Couple more years, maybe. I’ve lost track. It’s something, something in the voice, maybe the mannerisms, something, can’t quite put my finger on it, but you remind me of Mal.”

“It’s a big world, Nathan,” I say, in a deeper voice, thoroughly unconcerned. “And remember, to white folks we all look the same.”

He laughs and Gwen manages an awkward laugh too.

While I was mending at Fort Carson, I worked with an expert who videoed me for hours and made a list of habits and mannerisms I had to change. I practiced for hours, but once I landed in Florida, I stopped practicing. Natural moves and habits are hard to break. My mind is frozen and I can’t think of anything to say.

Gwen comes through with: “Nathan, you mentioned some nephews a few minutes ago. How long will this go on, do you think? I mean, it looks like the meth business is becoming generational for a lot of families.”

Nathan frowns and considers this. “I’d say it’s pretty hopeless. There are no jobs except for coal, and so many young men just don’t want to work in the mines anymore. Plus, they start getting high when they’re fifteen, hooked at sixteen. The girls are pregnant at sixteen, kids having kids, babies nobody wants. Once you start screwing, you don’t stop. I don’t see much future around here, not for people like me.”

I’m listening but not hearing; my head is spinning as I wonder how much Nathan knows. How suspicious is he? What have I done to tip him off? I’m still undercover—I’m sure of it—but what’s he thinking?

Bluefield, West Virginia, is a town of eleven thousand located on the extreme southern tip of the state, not far from the Virginia line. We skirt around it on Highway 52 and are soon on winding roads that fall and rise dramatically. Nathan knows the area well, though it’s been years since he was here. We turn onto a county road and fall deeper into a valley. The asphalt ends and we zigzag along gravel and dirt roads until we stop at the edge of a creek. Old willow oaks hang overhead and block the sun. The weeds are knee-high. “Here we are,” he says as he turns off the ignition.

We get out and I tell Slade and Cody to get their gear. We will not be using lighting and I want the smaller, handheld camera. They scramble around, grabbing equipment.

Nathan walks to the edge of the creek and smiles at the bubbling water. “How often did you come here?” I ask.

“Not much. We had several drop points around Bluefield, but this was the main one. Gene had been making runs here for ten years, but not me. The truth was I didn’t work in the business as much as he wanted me to. I could see trouble. I tried to find other jobs, you know. I wanted out. Gene wanted me to get more involved.”