Robert sipped his whiskey, put the glass down, and his pleasant expression was back.

"Yeah, for Brice's Cross Roads I'm gonna be in Forrest's Escort. I heard you soldier with Mr. Kirkbride in these reenactments. That's gonna put us close in the field, huh? The field of battle. Listen, I like to show you something, prove my Southron heritage. Also show me and you have a tie to the past."

Charlie said, "I'm going Yankee this time."

As Robert reached for his briefcase and made room for it on his lap.

"I think Don Mattingly was the only Yankee I struck out during my career in organized ball."

Robert was snapping the briefcase open, raising the lid.

"But there weren't that many Yankees faced me, that I can recall."

Robert said, "Where is it?" His head bent to look in the case.

They watched him take out a file folder and lay it on the table.

They watched him take out a handful of maps and lay them on the table.

They watched him take out a pistol, a blue-steel automatic, and lay it on the file folder on the table, Robert's head still bent over the case.

Charlie saw Arlen not moving a muscle staring at the pistol now; Dennis watching the show, Dennis calm about it, not appearing anxious or surprised.

Robert said, "Here it is," and Charlie watched him bring out a photograph that looked like an old one-turning brown-people on a bridge-and watched him reach to place the photo in the middle of the table, next to the Early Times.

Robert said, "Arlen, you know who that is?"

Arlen hesitated. He leaned over the table for a moment, sat back again and said to Robert, "It looks like a nigger hanging from a bridge."

"Lynched," Robert said.

Arlen nodded. "What it looks like."

"That's my great-grandfather," Robert said. He paused to look at the photo, upside down to him on the table. "And you know who that gentleman is wearing the suit of clothes? To the right, up on the bridge?" Robert's head raised. "That's your greatgrandfather, Arlen."

Charlie caught Robert's eyes move to glance at Dennis, Dennis still cool, no expression on his face to speak of, both of them waiting as Arlen reached for the photo and brought it to him.

He said, "That ain't Bobba."

"I believe you talking about your grandfather," Robert said. "This is your great-grandfather, not your Bobba."

Arlen kept shaking his head.

"Lawrence Novis," Robert said, "foreman at the Mayflower plantation, Tippah County." He said to Dennis, "Isn't that right?"

"According to county records," Dennis said.

Charlie looked from Dennis back to Robert, Robert saying, "Born in Holly Springs, Marshall County, I believe 1874."

" '73," Dennis said.

Arlen, still shaking his head, said, "Uh-unh, that ain't him. Goddamn it, I was a boy I knew him."

Robert said, "Listen, Arlen? Listen to me. I didn't mean to upset you. I thought maybe you already knew your great-granddaddy lynched that man in the picture, my own great-granddaddy, rest his soul. And cut his dick off. Can you imagine a man doing that to another man-even one you gonna lynch? Listen to me, Arlen. Lemme have the photo back before you mess it up."

Dennis took it out of Arlen's hands and passed it to Robert, Robert saying, "I wasn't gonna show you this. Then I found out we'd be soldiering together at the Tunica Muster and I thought to myself, Lookit how our heritage is tied together, going back to our ancestors. Yeah, I'm gonna show him the historical fact of it."

Arlen pushed up from the table to stand there in his starched shirt, took hold of his hat to reset it down on his eyes and said, "I'm gonna tell you this for the last goddamn time. That is not my fuckin grampa." He stared hard at Robert saying it, gave Dennis a look, then Charlie. Said to him, "You know what the deal is," and walked out of the kitchen.

"He still thinks I was talking about Bobba," Robert said. "I told him no, it's your greatgrandfather… asshole. The man doesn't listen, does he? Got the brain of a chicken and believes whatever's in his head."

Robert sat there a moment, then jumped up and was in a hurry now, something on his mind. He laid his case on the chair and ran out of the kitchen.

Dennis and Charlie looked at each other.

Charlie picked up the Early Times and poured himself a good one. He said, "You know where he's going?"

"I imagine to tell Arlen something."

"Like what?"

Dennis shook his head. "I don't know."

"He's a talker, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but it's always a good story."

"You believe that's his grandpa was lynched?"

"His great-grandpa."

"I'm as bad as Arlen. And that's his kin up on the bridge?"

"According to Robert."

"You sounded like you knew about it."

"Not much."

Charlie let it go. He looked at the pistol lying on the table and wanted to heft it, but decided he'd better not. He said to Dennis, "Why's he carry a gun?"

"He heard there's a lot of crime here."

"In Tunica? And he's from De-troit?"

"I imagine he packs there, too."

"You know what kind it is?"

"A PPK, the one James Bond had."

"I thought it looked familiar."

There was a silence, not long, a few moments, and Dennis said, "Last night Arlen was gonna kill me. Tonight he's sitting here at the table."

"It's gonna pass," Charlie said.

"I think I should tell John Rau. Get it over with.

It's on my mind all the time, knowing it's what I should do. Shit, I probably could go to jail for not saying anything."

"You heard him," Charlie said. "We made a deal."

"Keep quiet or get shot. That's some deal."

"Nobody," Charlie said, "gives a shit about Floyd. I'm telling you, it's gonna pass over."

They both looked up as Robert came in the kitchen. Dennis said, "What'd you forget to tell him?"

"That I won't say nothing about his shooting Floyd," Robert said. "You all aren't gonna say nothing, are you? I advise you, be better if you didn't."

Dennis said, "It's all I think about."

Robert shook his head. "Let nature take its course."

ONE OF THE WHORES AT JUNEBUG'S-two in the afternoon, the place empty-walked up to John Rau at the bar having a Coca-Cola and said, "Hi, I'm Traci. You want to see my trailer?"

"I bet it's nice," John Rau said, "but I'm waiting to see the proprietor. The bartender's gone to check."

"Junebug left," Traci said. "You want, we could party till he gets back. I don't have an appointment till three."

John Rau said, "Traci, I'm with the state highway patrol."

And she said, "Oh, was I going too fast?"

John Rau smiled at her, a cute girl in her little halter top and shorts, and that was a cute thing to say, was she going too fast. Flirting with a police officer. This place, it didn't surprise him. He'd been told they had live sex acts on the stage there in front of everybody-probably this cute girl and another one, or some farm boy with a big wang. Lock the door and hang a sign out, Closed, with all the cars and pickups in the lot and along the road. Junebug's had that skunky smell of beer and stale smoke, but did more business at night than any of the casino bars. The bartender, an old guy in an undershirt hanging from frail shoulders, was coming back along the bar getting ready to tell him no, Junebug wasn't here, didn't know where he went or when he was coming back or where he lived or whatever else had anything to do with him.

John Rau brought his ID case from the inside pocket of his navy-blue suitcoat and showed Traci he was with the Criminal Investigation Bureau. He said, "I don't hand out tickets and I'm not one to party, so…" He flipped the case closed as the bartender approached shaking his head.

John Rau nodded, accepting it, as Traci was telling him she collected ashtrays, had ashtrays from all the casinos, from places in Memphis, Jackson, Slidell, New Orleans-"let's see"-Biloxi, Pascagoula, Mobile… She said, "Okay then," and he watched her wander off, not going anywhere. Not more than eighteen years old. She'd go in the ladies' room and smoke a rock and one day she wouldn't be here.