meeting?”
Molina pushed forward. “They were going too fast. They yelled out stuff like ‘Gas the nigger’—”
“And ‘Fuck the nigger lovers,’” Jordan added, her eyes bright and hard.
Coop winced with impatience. “So what? You think my mind's on filing some more complaints about what a few more chickenshit rednecks spew out of a truck window?!” He pointed at the prison looming over us. “Julian Lewis is in there with the warden right now! And I can’t find out if it's even about my brother or not. So, do you know, Mr. Police Chief?”
“No. I don’t know any more about it than you do.” I looked at Isaac Rosethorn. Hall walked away from us back toward the gate. The other vigilants followed him immediately, and Bubba Percy grabbed Molina, tugging him aside.
Isaac finally budged; he’d just been watching me and Coop. “Here's the bottle they threw. That makes it assault. Ron Rico rum, a pint. Disgusting.” He pulled a bent McDonald's milkshake cup out of his fat coat pocket and handed it to me; it was full of chunks of glass.
“I tell you what's disgusting, Isaac. The thought of you out in this weather drinking a milkshake.” I walked him back to my car and he pulled himself in, lifting his bad right leg with his hand.
Isaac Rosethorn's a fat old bachelor who's never done a thing todeserve still being alive. Living in the South, his family had totally tossed away all the healthy habits of their race. When Isaac wasn’t eating spareribs or fried chicken wings, he was drinking bourbon; when he wasn’t napping on his worn-out couch, he was sucking on unfiltered Chesterfields, holding the smoke down until it puffed out of his wide mouth like steam from a train. I never could decide if his eccentricities were natural, or if he’d put them together out of all the books he must have read to get away from being a poor, fat, brainy Jewish boy in the South, when none of that was popular. But he’d eat lasagna for breakfast and cereal for supper; he’d wear a ratty wool tweed suit in July and sleep with his windows open in February. His career was built on his brilliance and ostentatious peculiarity, not to mention a spectacular head of white wavy hair, a voice dark as molasses, and eyes like a cocker spaniel's—all very effective in the courtroom. When I was younger, I’d tell him, “Get off your fat butt. You could be rich and famous!” He’d say, “Probably,” and go back to identifying weeds or birdcalls, or reading Rumanian poetry, or whatever weird fancy he’d dodged off into at the time.
“Ahhh, God.” A sigh rumbled down Rosethorn like an old elevator as he settled into the seat. “Poor Cooper hates you, still hates you.”
“No kidding. It's not exactly the way to get folks behind you.”
“So who are you, Dale Carnegie? What's this ‘Auto-Reverse’ mean?” he said, then he sneezed on my dashboard.
“Tapes, they play one side, then they play the other. Isaac, you’re too old, not to mention fat, to try dodging shotguns in the slush. Why are you out here?”
“Who said shotguns?” He checked his watch, then started through his soggy pockets, dropping crumpled papers and file cards on the seat, looking for his cigarettes. “Our lieutenant governor's now been in there forty-two minutes. That's his chauffeur over there in the stretch limo.”
“I figured. You know why?”
His round shoulders shrugged inside his overcoat. Then straightening a cigarette, he pointed it at the prison gate. “You know who carved those letters over the gate?” I glanced across at the deep Gothic incisions in the stone ledge: EUSTACHE P.DOLLARD STATE PRISON.
He smiled, “W. O. Wolfe, Thomas Wolfe's father, that's who. Interesting, huh.”
“Yes, interesting.” Back by the fire, I saw Bubba was still cornering Jack Molina, or vice versa. I said, “Okay, Isaac, besides nobility and architectural tidbits, what are you up to? Yesterday you said you had to rewrite a petition for some
Molina pushed forward. “They were going too fast. They yelled out stuff like ‘Gas the nigger’—”
“And ‘Fuck the nigger lovers,’” Jordan added, her eyes bright and hard.
Coop winced with impatience. “So what? You think my mind's on filing some more complaints about what a few more chickenshit rednecks spew out of a truck window?!” He pointed at the prison looming over us. “Julian Lewis is in there with the warden right now! And I can’t find out if it's even about my brother or not. So, do you know, Mr. Police Chief?”
“No. I don’t know any more about it than you do.” I looked at Isaac Rosethorn. Hall walked away from us back toward the gate. The other vigilants followed him immediately, and Bubba Percy grabbed Molina, tugging him aside.
Isaac finally budged; he’d just been watching me and Coop. “Here's the bottle they threw. That makes it assault. Ron Rico rum, a pint. Disgusting.” He pulled a bent McDonald's milkshake cup out of his fat coat pocket and handed it to me; it was full of chunks of glass.
“I tell you what's disgusting, Isaac. The thought of you out in this weather drinking a milkshake.” I walked him back to my car and he pulled himself in, lifting his bad right leg with his hand.
Isaac Rosethorn's a fat old bachelor who's never done a thing todeserve still being alive. Living in the South, his family had totally tossed away all the healthy habits of their race. When Isaac wasn’t eating spareribs or fried chicken wings, he was drinking bourbon; when he wasn’t napping on his worn-out couch, he was sucking on unfiltered Chesterfields, holding the smoke down until it puffed out of his wide mouth like steam from a train. I never could decide if his eccentricities were natural, or if he’d put them together out of all the books he must have read to get away from being a poor, fat, brainy Jewish boy in the South, when none of that was popular. But he’d eat lasagna for breakfast and cereal for supper; he’d wear a ratty wool tweed suit in July and sleep with his windows open in February. His career was built on his brilliance and ostentatious peculiarity, not to mention a spectacular head of white wavy hair, a voice dark as molasses, and eyes like a cocker spaniel's—all very effective in the courtroom. When I was younger, I’d tell him, “Get off your fat butt. You could be rich and famous!” He’d say, “Probably,” and go back to identifying weeds or birdcalls, or reading Rumanian poetry, or whatever weird fancy he’d dodged off into at the time.
“Ahhh, God.” A sigh rumbled down Rosethorn like an old elevator as he settled into the seat. “Poor Cooper hates you, still hates you.”
“No kidding. It's not exactly the way to get folks behind you.”
“So who are you, Dale Carnegie? What's this ‘Auto-Reverse’ mean?” he said, then he sneezed on my dashboard.
“Tapes, they play one side, then they play the other. Isaac, you’re too old, not to mention fat, to try dodging shotguns in the slush. Why are you out here?”
“Who said shotguns?” He checked his watch, then started through his soggy pockets, dropping crumpled papers and file cards on the seat, looking for his cigarettes. “Our lieutenant governor's now been in there forty-two minutes. That's his chauffeur over there in the stretch limo.”
“I figured. You know why?”
His round shoulders shrugged inside his overcoat. Then straightening a cigarette, he pointed it at the prison gate. “You know who carved those letters over the gate?” I glanced across at the deep Gothic incisions in the stone ledge: EUSTACHE P.DOLLARD STATE PRISON.
He smiled, “W. O. Wolfe, Thomas Wolfe's father, that's who. Interesting, huh.”
“Yes, interesting.” Back by the fire, I saw Bubba was still cornering Jack Molina, or vice versa. I said, “Okay, Isaac, besides nobility and architectural tidbits, what are you up to? Yesterday you said you had to rewrite a petition for some
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