Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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He motions for me to follow him to some chairs in an empty corner. Mackey was a year ahead of me in school from kindergarten through college. A perennial middle-of-the-class kid, he managed to make most athletic teams but never the first string. His grades were unremarkable, and I’m pretty sure he chose Ole Miss Law School so he wouldn’t have to pass the bar exam in order to practice in Mississippi, a rule they changed the year after he went into practice.
“Any particular reason you came home and shat in our little sandbox?” he asks as we sit.
This is not a fortuitous beginning. “Good to see you again, Austin.”
“Skip the sentiment, Cage.” He keeps his eyes on the mayor.
Watching Austin Mackey play the tough throws me a little. But Natchez is his legal fiefdom now, and if he chooses to behave like George Raft in a bad film noir, he can.
“Look, Austin, about that article. Caitlin Masters didn’t exactly—”
“Earth to Cage, give me a fucking break. By now every jig in this town is bitching about how Austin Mackey never lifted a finger to help Mrs. Payton find out who killed her poor baby.”
I don’t know how to segue from this to warm reminiscences of our shared history. Mackey seems to have forgotten we have one. “I just mentioned the Payton case as an example of a local mystery. Because it was an unsolved murder.”
Mackey’s eyes glint with superiority. “Don’t 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