40

There was a message from the Governor in a mustard interoffice envelope, Walter’s name typed on the front, the note itself written out in that familiar meticulous handwriting, the studied penmanship of the South. Come on down to Nashville tonight. I need you at the mansion at 9:00. I’ll send a driver. There was no more, and Walter knew better than to ask what the meeting might be about. The Governor wouldn’t admit to having had an extra glass of orange juice at breakfast unless he was certain the time was right, and had some reason to believe that credit would accrue to him for his candor. Still, there were clues, and after a decade’s service they were plain enough. The Governor didn’t like to do business at home, except in instances where intimacy would be an advantage; someone was going to be snowed. Moreover, he frowned upon frivolous uses of public money where cheaper alternatives were available. The car and driver, then, meant that he wanted Walter to be happy and relaxed, perhaps even inclined to spend a little gratitude, and no less so for the fact that it had been manufactured in plain sight. Then again, everyone knew that a pool of newspaper reporters paid the State’s drivers twenty-five dollars a week in cash to tell who came and who went, anywhere policy might be made. Thus the meeting was meant to be known at large, at least unofficially, and the Governor could appeal to the need for a unified front should someone object to whatever was being proposed. And 9:00 was too late for dinner and only an hour before the Governor’s customary bedtime, so the night would be quick and frank. Walter smiled.

The guard at the door of the mansion nodded to Walter Selby, and the butler in the vestibule bowed a little. Good evening, he said. They’re waiting for you in the library.

The Governor was sitting silently on a long, low leather couch; he looked up at Walter with almost childlike confidence. Beside him was a motionless man, grey-haired and wearing a grey suit; behind them both stood a young and plump and ruddy-faced man, who was silent, too, but smiling. Selby, said the Governor. Good. This is Johnson from the power authority, Bodean from the State Police. Let’s make this a quick one. He nodded at Bodean.

The plump man spoke up. You been talking to this man out in Boo City, name of Drake? Yes? He mentioned you.

Walter had to think for a moment: Drake, yes, the colored man. He came by my office a little while ago, he said. Just before the election.

Son of a bitch, said Bodean. Nobody tells me nothing.

What’s the matter?

What’s the matter is, the man’s holed up out there, and he’s not moving. Got his wife and kids in the house, and he won’t come out. He says it’s his land, it’s his home, and we’ve got to shoot him if we want him off it.

I’ve got contractors lined up out there, said Johnson. Laborers, engineers. It’s costing the state two thousand a day.

Walter looked at the Governor. You need to get out there, said the Governor. See if you can talk to him before someone gets hurt.

Hurt, said Walter.

My troopers don’t like to sit still for too long, said Bodean. They get itchy, if you know what I mean.

Yeah, said Walter. I think I probably do.