Read Online Gone South by Robert R. McCammon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert R. McCammon
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and you got it.”
Dan didn’t have to think very long to make a decision. “All right. I’d be grateful.”
“Just be hungry! Lavinia always makes a whoppin’ supper on Thursday nights anyhow.” Gwinn stood up. “Lemme go on back and call her. Why don’t you rest some and I’ll fetch you when I’m ready to go.”
“Thank you,” Dan said. “I really do appreciate this.” He lay down on the pew as Gwinn walked back to his office. The pew was no mattress, but just being able to relax for a little while was glorious. He closed his eyes, the sweat cooling on his body, and he searched for a few minutes of sleep that might shield him from the image of Emory Blanchard bleeding to death.
In his office, Reverend Gwinn was on the telephone to his wife. She stoically took the news that a white stranger named Dan Farrow was joining them for supper, even though Thursday was always the night their son and daughter-in-law came to visit from Mansfield. But everything would work out fine, Lavinia told her husband, because Terrence had called a few minutes before to let her know he and Amelia wouldn’t be there until after seven. There’d been a raid on a house where drugs were being sold, she told Nathan, and Terrence had some paperwork to do at the jail.
“That’s our boy,” Gwinn said. “Gonna get elected sheriff yet.”
When he hung up, the reverend turned his attention again to the unwritten sermon. A light came on in his brain. Kindness for the wayfarin’ stranger. Yessir, that would do quite nicely!
They always amazed him, the mysterious workings of God did. You never knew when an answer to a problem would come right out of the blue; or, in this case, out of a gray Chevy pickup truck.
He picked up a pen, opened a Bible for reference, and began to write an outline of his message for Sunday morning.
4
The Hand of Clint
“T WO CARDS.”
“I’ll take three.”
“Two for me.”
“One card.”
“Oh, oh! I don’t like the sound of that, gents. Well, dealer’s gonna take three and see what we got.”
The poker game in the back room of Leopold’s Pool Hall, on the rough west end of Caddo Street in Shreveport, had started around two o’clock. It was now five forty-nine, according to the Regulator clock hanging on the cracked sea-green wall. Beneath a gray haze of cigarette and stogie smoke, a quintet of men regarded their cards in silence around the felt-topped table. Out where the pool tables were, balls struck together like a pistol shot, and from the aged Wurlitzer jukebox Cleveland Crochet hollered about Sugar Bee to the wail of a Cajun accordion.
The room was a hotbox. Three of the men were in shirtsleeves, the fourth in a damp T-shirt. The fifth man, however, had never removed the rather bulky jacket of his iridescent, violet-blue sharkskin suit. In respect of the heat, though, he’d loosened the knot of his necktie and unbuttoned the starched collar of his white shirt. A glass of melting ice and pale, cloudy liquid was placed near his right hand. Also within reach was a stack of chips worth three hundred and nineteen dollars. His fortunes had risen and fallen and risen again during the progress of the game, and right now he was on a definite winning jag. He was the man who’d requested one card, so sure was he that he owned a hand no one else could touch.
The dealer, a bald-headed black man named Ambrose, finally cleared his throat. “It’s up to you, Royce.”
“I’m in for five.” Royce, a big-bellied man with a flame-colored beard and a voice like a rodent’s squeak, tossed a red chip on top of the ante.
“I fold.” The next man, whose name was Vincent, laid his cards facedown with an emphatic thump of disgust.
There was a pause. “Come on, Junior,” Ambrose prodded.
“I’m thinkin’.” At age twenty-eight, Junior was the youngest of the players. He had a sallow, heavy-jawed face and unruly reddish-brown hair, sweat gleaming on his cheeks and blotching his T-shirt. He
Dan didn’t have to think very long to make a decision. “All right. I’d be grateful.”
“Just be hungry! Lavinia always makes a whoppin’ supper on Thursday nights anyhow.” Gwinn stood up. “Lemme go on back and call her. Why don’t you rest some and I’ll fetch you when I’m ready to go.”
“Thank you,” Dan said. “I really do appreciate this.” He lay down on the pew as Gwinn walked back to his office. The pew was no mattress, but just being able to relax for a little while was glorious. He closed his eyes, the sweat cooling on his body, and he searched for a few minutes of sleep that might shield him from the image of Emory Blanchard bleeding to death.
In his office, Reverend Gwinn was on the telephone to his wife. She stoically took the news that a white stranger named Dan Farrow was joining them for supper, even though Thursday was always the night their son and daughter-in-law came to visit from Mansfield. But everything would work out fine, Lavinia told her husband, because Terrence had called a few minutes before to let her know he and Amelia wouldn’t be there until after seven. There’d been a raid on a house where drugs were being sold, she told Nathan, and Terrence had some paperwork to do at the jail.
“That’s our boy,” Gwinn said. “Gonna get elected sheriff yet.”
When he hung up, the reverend turned his attention again to the unwritten sermon. A light came on in his brain. Kindness for the wayfarin’ stranger. Yessir, that would do quite nicely!
They always amazed him, the mysterious workings of God did. You never knew when an answer to a problem would come right out of the blue; or, in this case, out of a gray Chevy pickup truck.
He picked up a pen, opened a Bible for reference, and began to write an outline of his message for Sunday morning.
4
The Hand of Clint
“T WO CARDS.”
“I’ll take three.”
“Two for me.”
“One card.”
“Oh, oh! I don’t like the sound of that, gents. Well, dealer’s gonna take three and see what we got.”
The poker game in the back room of Leopold’s Pool Hall, on the rough west end of Caddo Street in Shreveport, had started around two o’clock. It was now five forty-nine, according to the Regulator clock hanging on the cracked sea-green wall. Beneath a gray haze of cigarette and stogie smoke, a quintet of men regarded their cards in silence around the felt-topped table. Out where the pool tables were, balls struck together like a pistol shot, and from the aged Wurlitzer jukebox Cleveland Crochet hollered about Sugar Bee to the wail of a Cajun accordion.
The room was a hotbox. Three of the men were in shirtsleeves, the fourth in a damp T-shirt. The fifth man, however, had never removed the rather bulky jacket of his iridescent, violet-blue sharkskin suit. In respect of the heat, though, he’d loosened the knot of his necktie and unbuttoned the starched collar of his white shirt. A glass of melting ice and pale, cloudy liquid was placed near his right hand. Also within reach was a stack of chips worth three hundred and nineteen dollars. His fortunes had risen and fallen and risen again during the progress of the game, and right now he was on a definite winning jag. He was the man who’d requested one card, so sure was he that he owned a hand no one else could touch.
The dealer, a bald-headed black man named Ambrose, finally cleared his throat. “It’s up to you, Royce.”
“I’m in for five.” Royce, a big-bellied man with a flame-colored beard and a voice like a rodent’s squeak, tossed a red chip on top of the ante.
“I fold.” The next man, whose name was Vincent, laid his cards facedown with an emphatic thump of disgust.
There was a pause. “Come on, Junior,” Ambrose prodded.
“I’m thinkin’.” At age twenty-eight, Junior was the youngest of the players. He had a sallow, heavy-jawed face and unruly reddish-brown hair, sweat gleaming on his cheeks and blotching his T-shirt. He
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