display window there was a variety of hand-lettered signs bearing quotations from the Bible, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Displayed along with a few dozen books were photographs of George Washington, Adolf Hitler, and a southern governor with presidential aspirations. A bumper sticker exhorted the reader to support his local police.
Murdock studied the display with interest, then sauntered inside. A bell rang when he opened the door. Seconds later the proprietor emerged from the back. He wore a plaid cotton shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled past his elbows. A tattoo on one forearm read “My Mother & My Country.” My Gawd, Murdock thought.
He said, “How do. Just passing by and I saw your window, reckoned I might stop in for a spell.”
“Glad for the company,” the man said.
Murdock sized him up. A tough old boy just a little gone to fat he decided, too much beer going down the gullet and making the gut hang out but a hard old boy for all of that.
“Don’t see many places like this up here,” he said. “All them so-called liberals, you walk a long ways to see real folks.”
The man smiled, but his eyes were wary. “Everybody thinks his own way,” he said. “Free country and all.”
Hills, Murdock thought. Probably a down-home boy, but then it was hard to pin a voice too closely nowadays. You’d hear them talk about the same in parts of Ohio, even Indiana.
“There’s free and there’s free,” he said. “Down home they taught us between crime in the streets and thinking as you please.”
“You sure do talk southrun,” the man said.
“Tennessee. Hamblen County.”
“Hell, I know where that’s at.” The hill accent was more pronounced now, the wariness gone from the eyes. “Rutledge? No, that’s a county over, now. Morristown?”
“That’s the county seat, all right. Now who’d ever figure someone this far north ever heard of Morristown, or Hamblen County either? Where I was, closest town was Russellville, and that was eight bad miles from us.”
“Why, my folks aren’t a hundred miles from there. Clay County? In Kentucky, just straight north and a piece west? Town of Gooserock, not that anybody ever heard of it that wasn’t born in it.”
“Don’t know the town, but I sure know Clay County. Damn, I been in Clay County.” He hesitated a polite moment, then extended his hand. “Hooker’s my name. They call me Ben.”
“John Ray Jenkins. Ben, you know Clay County, then you know what Clay County’s rightly famous for. Now you hang on.”
He went into the back room, came out again with a half-pint bottle about two-thirds full of white mule. They each had two drinks. Jenkins dropped the empty bottle into a trash basket.
“Some summer,” Murdock said. “Hot already and hotter coming on, and you just know what’s gone to happen when the heat of the sun gets to working on those nappy heads.”
“Hell, you don’t even want to talk that way in these parts,” Jenkins said. He hawked, spat. “Okay for a nigger to break windows and shoot up the town and all, but a white man ain’t supposed to take no notice of it or he’s discriminating against his colored brethren.”
“Hear you had a bad summer last year.”
“Bad! Yeah, you just might call it that.”
Murdock studied the floor. “Had us a bunch of good old boys down home knew how to stick together. It’s a white man’s country. What am I telling you, hell, Gay County and Hamblen County, you know what I mean.”
“Hell, yes.”
“Here, though. You don’t even know who you can talk to, what with everybody who ain’t a Nee-gro is some kind of Jew foreigner. Wouldn’t of opened up to you without I sort of got the message from the window. You want to know something? Here I’m living not two blocks from them and never knowing when a riot’s fit to bust out, and I can’t go to a store and buy myself a gun. Call that a free country?”
“A free people has got a right to bear
Murdock studied the display with interest, then sauntered inside. A bell rang when he opened the door. Seconds later the proprietor emerged from the back. He wore a plaid cotton shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled past his elbows. A tattoo on one forearm read “My Mother & My Country.” My Gawd, Murdock thought.
He said, “How do. Just passing by and I saw your window, reckoned I might stop in for a spell.”
“Glad for the company,” the man said.
Murdock sized him up. A tough old boy just a little gone to fat he decided, too much beer going down the gullet and making the gut hang out but a hard old boy for all of that.
“Don’t see many places like this up here,” he said. “All them so-called liberals, you walk a long ways to see real folks.”
The man smiled, but his eyes were wary. “Everybody thinks his own way,” he said. “Free country and all.”
Hills, Murdock thought. Probably a down-home boy, but then it was hard to pin a voice too closely nowadays. You’d hear them talk about the same in parts of Ohio, even Indiana.
“There’s free and there’s free,” he said. “Down home they taught us between crime in the streets and thinking as you please.”
“You sure do talk southrun,” the man said.
“Tennessee. Hamblen County.”
“Hell, I know where that’s at.” The hill accent was more pronounced now, the wariness gone from the eyes. “Rutledge? No, that’s a county over, now. Morristown?”
“That’s the county seat, all right. Now who’d ever figure someone this far north ever heard of Morristown, or Hamblen County either? Where I was, closest town was Russellville, and that was eight bad miles from us.”
“Why, my folks aren’t a hundred miles from there. Clay County? In Kentucky, just straight north and a piece west? Town of Gooserock, not that anybody ever heard of it that wasn’t born in it.”
“Don’t know the town, but I sure know Clay County. Damn, I been in Clay County.” He hesitated a polite moment, then extended his hand. “Hooker’s my name. They call me Ben.”
“John Ray Jenkins. Ben, you know Clay County, then you know what Clay County’s rightly famous for. Now you hang on.”
He went into the back room, came out again with a half-pint bottle about two-thirds full of white mule. They each had two drinks. Jenkins dropped the empty bottle into a trash basket.
“Some summer,” Murdock said. “Hot already and hotter coming on, and you just know what’s gone to happen when the heat of the sun gets to working on those nappy heads.”
“Hell, you don’t even want to talk that way in these parts,” Jenkins said. He hawked, spat. “Okay for a nigger to break windows and shoot up the town and all, but a white man ain’t supposed to take no notice of it or he’s discriminating against his colored brethren.”
“Hear you had a bad summer last year.”
“Bad! Yeah, you just might call it that.”
Murdock studied the floor. “Had us a bunch of good old boys down home knew how to stick together. It’s a white man’s country. What am I telling you, hell, Gay County and Hamblen County, you know what I mean.”
“Hell, yes.”
“Here, though. You don’t even know who you can talk to, what with everybody who ain’t a Nee-gro is some kind of Jew foreigner. Wouldn’t of opened up to you without I sort of got the message from the window. You want to know something? Here I’m living not two blocks from them and never knowing when a riot’s fit to bust out, and I can’t go to a store and buy myself a gun. Call that a free country?”
“A free people has got a right to bear
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