The Quiet Game. Greg Iles

be so sure about that.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “The FBI worked the Payton case. You think they tanked it? Just because no one went to jail for that particular crime doesn’t mean the perp didn’t go down for something.”

      “If that’s the case, why not tell the family? Give them some peace.”

      “I can’t tell them what I don’t know for sure. Listen, when I ran for D.A., I knew the blacks might ask me about past civil rights cases. So I asked the Bureau for their files on the Payton murder. I was assistant D.A. then, and I requisitioned them in the name of the office.”

      “And?”

      “They said that unless we’d developed a suspect and had new evidence, they wouldn’t be showing our office any files.”

      “Why would they say that?”

      “Can I read the mind of J. Edgar Hoover?”

      “Hoover? He’s been dead twenty-five years.”

      “Well, his spirit’s alive and well. Hoover made the final decisions on the disposition of those civil rights cases. And he worked them hard, especially the murders up in Neshoba County. But it’s no secret that his personal agenda had nothing to do with advancing civil rights. He hated Martin Luther King and the Kennedys. Cases like Payton’s were nothing to him but chips in a political game.”

      “What about your office file?”

      “There isn’t one. No one was ever charged with the crime.”

      “Have you looked?”

      “I don’t need to.” He finally meets my eyes. “Let’s get this straight right now. Unless you’re the attorney of record for a member of the Payton family, you’ll receive zero assistance from my office. And since you’re not licensed in this state, that pretty much settles things.”

      Actually, I am licensed to practice in Mississippi, but I see no reason to point this out now. And though my combative instincts urge me to tell Mackey that a single phone call could secure my position as attorney for the Payton family, concern for my father stops me.

      “You really get to me, Cage,” Mackey goes on before I can change the subject. “Mr. St. Stephens, law review at Texas, big-time author. You’ve got nothing better to do than come back here and make your old schoolmates look like assholes?”

      Bitterness and envy literally crackle off the man. I am so surprised that I can do little but apologize. “That wasn’t my intention, Austin.”

      “I’d hate to see what would happen if you really meant some harm.”

      “What would you say if I told you I was shot at by a sniper less than an hour ago?”

      His head snaps up. “Were you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Did you report it?”

      “Not yet.”

      His eyes are like signs reading, Thank God for small favors. “Where did this happen?”

      “The black section, Linda Lee Drive.”

      “What the hell were you doing over there?”

      “Shad Johnson wanted to talk to me.”

      “Jesus.” The muscles in Mackey’s jaw tighten. “What did he say?”

      “He warned me off the Payton case.”

      An ironic smile. “Shad’s no fool. The election’s five weeks off, and the polls have him and Warren neck and neck.”

      “That’s all you have to say about an attempt on my life?”

      “You’re back in Mississippi, bubba. You piss people off, they’re going to hit back. Anyway, it’s pretty obvious which side you’re on.”

      I sip my drink. Melting ice has drowned the gin. “I’m not on any side.”

      “Then you’ve forgotten the primary political reality of your home state.”

      “Which is?”

      “There’s no middle ground. Whatever’s there gets crushed to powder by the sides. I’d pick one quick if I were you.”

      Mackey stands abruptly and drifts back into watchful orbit around his candidate. The conversation couldn’t have gone any worse if I’d set out to make him hate my guts. This is the man upon whose mercy I advised my father to throw himself?

      I stand and walk into the hallway, half looking for Dad and half aiming for the bar. I’m almost to the alcohol when a powerful hand closes on my shoulder and a voice whispers in my ear: “Don’t move, you outside agitatin’ son of a bitch.”

      I whirl, ready for anything, only to find the laughing bearded face of Sam Jacobs, whom I’ve known since we were five years old.

      “A little nervous, are we?” Sam wiggles his black eyebrows up and down. “Wishing we’d been a little less candid with the fourth estate?”

      I punch him in the chest, then hug him hard.

      When Sam and I were tenth-graders at St. Stephens, an assistant football coach invited the varsity football team to establish a chapter of the Brotherhood of Christian Athletes at the school. While the rest of the team lined up to get the necessary applications, two boys remained in the otherwise empty bleachers: Penn Cage and Sam Jacobs. As a Jew, Sam was barred from membership. And I—ever since walking out of Episcopal communion at age thirteen—was a devout agnostic. Under the suspicious gaze of teammates and coaches, Sam and I left that meeting joined in a way that had more to do with manhood than football ever would. Now a petroleum geologist, Jacobs is one of only three non-family members who flew to Houston for Sarah’s funeral.

      “It’s great to see you, Sam. What are you doing at this tight-ass function?”

      He grins. “I’ve sold Don Perry enough Wilcox production to qualify him as a certified oil maggot.”

      “So, that’s how he paid for this palace. You must be doing well.”

      “I ain’t complaining. When the bottom dropped out of the drilling business, I slid over into production. Bought up old wells, worked them over, got them running full bore, and sold out at an obscene profit. It’s getting harder to find wells, though. Everybody’s into it now.”

      “I’m sure whatever happens, you’ll be the guy sitting on top of the pile.”

      “The last guy clinging to the limb, more like.” Sam sips his drink. “How does it feel?”

      “What?”

      “Having everybody in the place stare at you.”

      “I’m pretty used to the fishbowl lifestyle now.”

      “Natchez is a lot smaller bowl than Houston. Even small waves seem big here.”

      “Come off it. A week from now, who’ll give a damn about that article?”

      “Everybody, ace. How much do you know about the BASF deal?”

      I shrug. “A little.”

      “That chemical plant means salvation to a lot of people. Not just blue-collar either. These doctors need patients with private insurance to keep the gravy train running. Everybody’s on their best behaviour, trying to sell Natchez as a Southern utopia. We’re pushing our opera festival, the literary celebration, the hot-air balloon race. And this morning you tossed a toad right into the punch bowl.”

      I glance around the room and instantly find what I’m looking for: Caitlin Masters, deep in conversation with two older men. “You see that girl?”

      Sam cranes his neck. “Caitlin Masters?”

      “You know her?”