Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“You’re with Globax, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything unusual going on there?”

“Unusual?”

“Here, sit down. Something to eat?”

“No.”

“You could throw it in the microwave.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“How about a drink?”

“A little early for me,” Roy said.

“Yeah? Woulda taken you for a bit of a shooter.”

“Shooter?”

“You know, guy who throws back a few, knows how to have a little fun.”

“No one’s stopping you.”

“Drinking alone’s not me. I’m a social animal.”

Don’t I know.

Barry plucked another chicken ball, started talking again before it reached his mouth. “You were some kind of football hero? Played for Tech?”

“Georgia,” Roy said.

“What position?”

“Tight end.”

“Yeah? You weren’t on the small side?”

“That’s the way it turned out.”

“Played high school myself,” Barry said. “Offensive tackle. Screwed up my knee or I would have gone a lot farther.”

Roy said nothing. Barry popped the chicken ball in his mouth, reached for another.

“So now we have something in common, what’s the story at Globax?” he said.

“Story?”

“Stock’s been behaving strangely the past week, ten days.”

“In what way?”

“Some big blocks changed hands, bing bang bing, in the millions-starting to make a move, right? So I took a position, and when I take a position I don’t dick around. Then what happens? Poof, it all goes soft.”

Roy didn’t really know what he was talking about.

“Something’s going on, I got it from several sources.” He waited for Roy to tell him what it was.

“They changed the name from Chemerica,” Roy said; he couldn’t think of anything else.

Barry gazed at him. “Hard to get, huh?” He kept chewing, but slower, more thoughtful. “Suppose I made it worth your while. Say some little nugget of information came your way, why couldn’t we work out a mutually beneficial arrangement, you and I?”

“About what?”

“I don’t blame you for being careful. Total discretion guaranteed, up front. I’ve got an offshore setup, if that eases your mind.”

Roy missed the significance of that. “What kind of information?”

“Could be anything-anything that’ll let me know what’s going down. It’s all about knowing the future today.”

“That’s what Carol says.”

Barry stopped chewing. “Who’s Carol?”

“No one you know.”

“She wouldn’t be on the financial side, by any chance?”

“Financial side?”

“At Globax. That would be sweet, a contact on the financial side.”

Roy shook his head. They watched each other. Roy had no idea what Barry was thinking. He himself was having a thought he knew was arrogant and unworthy, but couldn’t help: I can see why she’s coming back to me.

“When do you expect Marcia?” he said.

Barry finished eating, pushed the carton aside, leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head; the sweat stains had spread. “Familiar with the term POV?”

“No.”

“Point of view. I only know it from my Hollywood connections. Why I bring it up is I’m starting to see things from your POV.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just that now she’s diddling me,” Barry said, “the way she diddled you.”

That sent a jolt through Roy. Had Marcia told Barry that she and Roy had slept with each other again, that they were getting back together? Roy could think of no other explanation, but why would she do that? A horrible possibility struck Roy: to make Barry jealous. Why make someone jealous unless you were still interested? Roy ruled it out. The man across the table wasn’t jealous. Neither was he angry, bewildered, humiliated, crushed: none of the things Roy had been when he’d found out about Barry. So Barry didn’t know Marcia was leaving him, at most had sensed something and was fishing for information.

“Where are you from, Barry?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Because where I come from we wouldn’t be talking about her like that.”

“Yeah?” said Barry. “Where would a place like that be, exactly?” He went to the fridge, took out another carton.

“I’ll just have a word with Rhett,” Roy said.

“Be my guest.”

Roy went upstairs. Rhett was playing a video game in his bedroom, back to the door, tuft of hair sticking up on his head.

“Why’nt you come on home with me for now?” Roy said. “Till your ma gets back.”

“I’m all set,” Rhett said, not turning.

“What are you going to eat for supper? There’s nothing in the fridge.”

“There’s Chinese.”

“It’s old.”

“I’m not hungry.” Rhett hunched closer to the screen.

Roy watched him play the game. “Got to keep up with your studies even when you’re not there,” he said. “Can’t fall behind.”

No answer. On the screen, a pumped-up warrior ran down a dark tunnel.

Roy drove home. He checked the messages, none, and the mail, bills, then went downstairs and worked on the shelves until they were done. He carried them up to Rhett’s old room-Rhett’s room, period-set them up, tried a few books here and there. He remembered Rhett’s Pop Warner trophy-every kid got one-and his Pop Warner highlight tape, found them in the closet, put them on the top shelf. The setting sun, reflecting off someone’s windshield on the street, glowed on the cheaply plated trophy figure, a hard-charging boy with a football tucked under one arm. Roy stood there until the light faded; probably only a moment or two.

Roy switched on the kitchen lights, sat down with a Coke, a pencil, a blank sheet of paper. He wrote three headings: House Projects, Budget (w/new salary), Managerial Skills. Under House Projects he wrote bathroom. Marcia had always hated the bathroom. Maybe start by ripping out the linoleum, laying those tiles that looked like marble, then hanging a bigger mirror, framed by little makeup lightbulbs, and The buzzer. Marcia didn’t like that either, Roy remembered as he went to answer it. She wanted chimes. He opened the front door.

Gordo. Gordo in muddy uniform, eyes blurry, propped up by a boy-no, it was Lee, not in uniform, wearing a denim jacket and jeans, which was probably why Roy didn’t recognize him right away. Gordo swayed back on the stoop and Lee, so much smaller, almost lost him. Roy grabbed Gordo’s arm. Gordo tilted forward, his eyes making an exaggerated attempt to bring Roy into focus.

“Hi, good buddy,” he said.

Roy pulled him inside. “You all right?” he said.

“I hear the rolling thunder.”

Roy got him in the living room, laid him on the couch.

“Puke city,” Gordo said.

Roy sat him up.

“Roy has a secret life,” Gordo said. He turned green.

“I’ll get some water,” Lee said, going into the kitchen.

“What’s my secret life?” Roy said.

“Listenin’ to gospel. Don’t you worry none. I’ll take it to my grave.” Gordo’s arm shot out abruptly, jerked Roy down beside him on the couch. “Tell you something confidential, good buddy.” Roy smelled alcohol in several states, from raw to almost completely digested. “He’s not gay.”

“Who?” Roy asked.

A mistake, asking a question, because Gordo put his lips to Roy’s ear to answer. His breath was hot, his lips wet. “Lee. Thought he was gay, but he’s not. You think he was gay?”

“No,” Roy said; but he remembered the feeling of Lee’s hand on his back as they posed by the cannon.

“Could have taken advantage of me out there, couldn’t he of?” Gordo said. “If he’d of been-”

Lee returned with a glass of water.