Brambleman (56 page)

“When you come back,” Tawny said. “I’ll keep
them for you.”

“I paid for a week,” Charlie told her. “In
the meantime, I’m going to board up the broken windows at the
church and get the power turned back on. Here’s some money for cab
fare and whatever.” He handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

Tawny clutched it. “This means a lot.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“No, it’s a big deal. I’ve been with a lot …
never mind who I’ve been with. I’ve just never …” She took a deep
breath. “You don’t make this easy, you know. I don’t want to sound
cheap, but I would like to, you know … I don’t just mean
that
. But I do mean
that
,” she said with a laugh,
“Any time, any place.” She looked at him earnestly. “I can make you
happy. I want to make you happy. Don’t you want me to?”

“I have other plans,” he said.

* * *

Having decided that
Flight from
Forsyth
was worth promoting after all, Fortress scheduled its
bestselling author for a publicity tour. Finally, after all these
years, Charlie had hit the big time. On February 21, he would fly
to New York to meet his agent, sign the contract for
American
Monster
, interview a writer with
The New Yorker
, appear
on TV, sign books, and give a lecture at The New School. Then on to
Boston and a speech at Northeastern University. The tour would end
in Los Angeles in early March. Charlie’s booking agent had lined up
eight lecture dates for him. When the tour was over, Charlie could
pay cash for a new BMW, if that’s what he wanted. (It was.)

With fame in his pocket and fortune on its
way, Charlie couldn’t wait to leave Atlanta. He also wanted to
escape Tyrus Bannister, who had been pestering him about HR 390.
The legislator expected him to testify before the House Special
Judiciary Committee and explain why reparations “for slavery and
historical discrimination” were necessary. Despite his promise,
Charlie had no intention of doing so. No way would he sit at a
table in the state Capitol and let Rep. Stanley Cutchins
(D-Cumming) grill him about his “documents” and …
other
stuff
. Anyway, the concept of reparations was a dead end. A
nonstarter. Nothing he could do about it.

Even though he believed that it was to his
advantage if the varmints thought they were home free,
paradoxically, the idea that they thought they were in the clear
bothered him. Still hoping to make Stanley’s and Cecil Montgomery’s
lives more
interesting
, Charlie gave Bannister something he
could use in his battle for reparations. Two days before his flight
to New York, Charlie retrieved his forgery of Joshua Logan’s
deathbed confession—the original having been burned in a 1953
fireplace incident—from his safety box, pausing to say hello to
Riggins’s finger and again apologize for its confinement.

He had already compared the handwriting on
his work to that contained in letters he’d scanned at Lillian
Scott’s house in October. Both text and signature matched
Montgomery’s and Logan’s handwriting, respectively—close enough for
Charlie’s purposes and government work, at least. In any case, the
miracle shouted down the fraud, the way he saw it.

When Charlie mailed Joshua Logan’s “document”
to Bannister (hoping it would serve to placate the politician,
too), he wondered how Montgomery would respond. Then again, what
could the old third-rate historian do? Cecil’s name hadn’t been
linked to the letter, so how could he claim it didn’t exist when
there it was
? At least it didn’t seem like he could. Anyway,
Charlie didn’t care what Cecil thought—or what happened to him, for
that matter. Although he wouldn’t mind causing Montgomery some
embarrassment, his real purpose was to fire a shot across the
varmints’ bow by connecting John Riggins and Isaac Cutchins, which
the letter did nicely. And the Montgomerys and Logans would go down
along with the Cutchinses when Charlie’s next book came out. In the
meantime, with luck, the General Assembly would adjourn and the
dust would settle before Charlie returned from Los Angeles.
Consequently, there would be no need for him to testify before a
bunch of politicians. That, he thought, would be an excellent way
for things to work out.

* * *

In New York, Charlie was the toast of the
town. The signing at Village Books was well-attended, the
New
Yorker
writer was snarky yet sympathetic, and the co-hosts on
Good Day America
called him “our Southern Salman Rushdie,”
though Charlie joked, “I might be more of a Boo Radley.”

After the show, Charlie huddled with Barbara
Asher in a Manhattan Starbucks. Outside, it was gray and sloshy.
His petite agent, a sixtyish ball of energy and enthusiasm, brought
him some bad news. “They’ve changed the terms,” she told him
between sips of coffee minutes before their 10:00 a.m. meeting with
Spence Greene, Brubaker’s publisher, and the company’s top editors.
“They don’t like the secrecy we’re imposing, not with the amount of
money involved. But they’ll live with it. You have to be cleared of
those criminal charges before they’ll pay the advance. Spence said
they’ll publish books about stalkers, but not by stalkers.” She
laughed lightly.

“No big deal,” Charlie said, his fists
clenched beneath the table as he fought to conceal his
irritation.

Barbara patted the table instead of his
missing hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your money, just as soon
as—” she paused to give him the slightest of frowns “—you
will
be cleared of the charges, won’t you?”

Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but
Barbara bolted from her chair. She made it to the door before she
stopped and returned to the table. “A three-time Pulitzer finalist
just walked by outside,” she explained. “And he doesn’t have
representation at present. Whew. Too fast for me. I guess a younger
agent will catch him.” She glanced over her shoulder. “He won’t
last long on
this
street.”

She took a moment to study Charlie’s face.
“You really should do something about that.” She pointed to his
scar, which was not only rose-shaped, but looked like it had a
stem. “It doesn’t inspire confidence. It’s … like you killed a
gardener in prison or something. Maybe we could cover it up with
concealer.” She reached into her purse.

“No way!” Charlie protested, pushing back
from the table. “If my scar is good enough for a national
television audience, it’s good enough for you.”

She drew out an empty hand. “I just want you
to take this seriously. Did you really have to send mug shots of
yourself in a prison uniform for the jacket photo?”

Charlie shrugged. “Why not?”

“I hope that’s the last time you have to wear
it. That reminds me. We’ll need a wrap-up for the criminal case.”
She sighed, and seeing that Charlie’s hands had reappeared on the
tabletop, patted them both. “Don’t worry. Someone will publish it
even if you do end up in jail.” She took a sip of coffee. “Let’s
get this done, Charles. I’m repping Britney’s makeup artist’s
tell-all, and I have an auction to prepare for. I’m hoping high six
figures. Nothing like yours, of course. Not unless she gets
shot.”

“I know some people.”

“Don’t tempt me. Hmm. I may call you after I
get the manuscript.” She brightened. “We should have some champagne
after we sign the contract.”

“I’m an ascetic.”

“An ascetic?” Barbara said. “Well, you’ll
soon be living in style.”

“That’s nice,” Charlie said. “I don’t have a
style right now.”

“You do too. Militant trade unionist.”
Barbara’s green eyes twinkled. “I’ve seen pictures. Oh! I know
what. I’ll buy you monogrammed uniforms. In case—so everyone knows
who you are.”

“To knowing who you are,” Charlie said,
raising his cup in toast.

* * *

Contracts were signed, interviews given,
speeches made. In Chicago, Charlie had time to kill before his
lecture at the University of Chicago that evening. He was walking
along Lake Shore Drive on his way to the Field Museum. He’d wanted
to go there ever since his father had promised to take him for his
eighth birthday, before that nasty old bridge got in their way. He
was upbeat, even serene, about fulfilling this lifelong dream. When
his cellphone rang, he saw it was Crenshaw. “Hello, stalker.”

“Why didn’t you answer my voicemails?”
Crenshaw sounded pissed.

“My battery went dead. Had to buy a new
charger. Very busy. Dog ate—”

“How many more excuses do you have?” Crenshaw
asked.

“How many do you need?”

“I figure by your caginess that you’ve
heard.”

“I’m figuring by my relatively good spirits I
haven’t. What’s up?”

“My God, you
haven’t
heard.”

“Heard what?”

“About your competition.”

“I wasn’t even aware that I had any
competition,” Charlie said, adopting a mock-elitist tone, hoping it
came across as a joke.

“You know Cecil Montgomery, right? Forsyth
County’s local historian?”

Charlie’s sphincter tightened.
Careful
. “I’ve talked with him. Never met him. Saw where he
was in a snit about my book. Figured him for jealous. Wouldn’t call
him competition, though.”

“You being a famous author and all, yeah,
yeah,” Crenshaw said in a bored tone. “Did you know he was related
to Joshua Logan, the subject of Tyrus Bannister’s most recent news
conference?”

“I
did
know that,” Charlie said,
holding the cellphone away from his mouth, whistling through his
teeth to relieve the sudden rush of tension that hit him. “Why? Is
he denouncing me again?”

“Probably would if he could, but he can’t
’cause he’s dead.”

“That’s … that’s terrible. What happened? I
mean, not a big surprise, I guess. The guy’s in his seventies,
right?” For some reason, Charlie was already thinking of
alibis.

“He was murdered during a burglary.”

Wait a minute.
Charlie wanted to ask:
Was Montgomery the victim, or the perpetrator? However, he had the
good sense to bite his tongue instead.
Be calm
. “What did
the burglar get?”

“Shot. Montgomery walked in on him and they
killed each other. Burglar’s name was Suches. Ring a bell?”

“One of the guys who came after me was named
Suches,” Charlie said.

“Yeah. Interesting. Deputies say the thief
was holding some documents.”

“Documents?”

“You know. Paper thingies with writing on
them.”

“What kind of documents?”

“Kind the sheriff won’t talk about. Bannister
wants ’em, but it ain’t gonna happen, him being black, talkin’
about reparations and all,” Crenshaw said, using his best
In the
Heat of the Night
voice.

“Strange,” Charlie said. “When did this
happen?”

“Last night, the day after Bannister’s news
conference. Go figure.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. Had the varmints
hired another Suches for this job? What a bunch of fuck-ups. “You
think there’s a connection?”

“Why, do you?” Crenshaw asked.

“You’re the one who mentioned it.”

“You’re the one who gave the Logan letter to
Bannister.”

“So?”

“That’s what I’m saying.
So
…”
Crenshaw trailed off.

“Sorry, man. Can’t help you. I gotta go.”

“You think of anything, let me know. And
answer your damned calls, man. You used to be in the business, so
be a good source. And don’t leave town.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

Charlie hung up. Well,
that
certainly
was an unintended consequence. He shuddered as a chill swept
through him. Or maybe it was just the wintry Chicago wind. In any
case, after what he’d been through the past year, he took the
weather personally.

Montgomery’s death brought him no joy, even
if the guy was a pissant. But Charlie didn’t see how he was to
blame if the old bastard fell into the line of fire. Unto the third
and fourth generation and all that. Clearly, the day of judgment
was at hand. And there was a bright side. Montgomery couldn’t
denounce the letter or challenge him on his footnotes anymore. All
part of a divine plan, obviously. Montgomery had been hit by a bus,
so to speak, and the wheels must keep rolling. Time to check out
the dinosaur bones and fulfill his father’s broken promise.

He took the steps to the museum two at a
time.

* * *

Charlie drove to Redeemer’s church the
morning after he returned to Atlanta from the West Coast. The visit
was a surprise to all parties involved. He didn’t know exactly what
he was doing or why, but he was feeling more attracted to the young
hooker than repulsed. Absence, he supposed. He brought toys and
books for Romy and Wyatt. When he pulled up in front of the church,
the lights were on, and after a moment of shock, Tawny let him in.
Charlie was relieved that she didn’t have male company.

The children seemed happy and healthy. While
Wyatt unwrapped a Nerf football, Romy hugged Charlie’s leg and
sang, “I’m better now.”

Just then, Tawny lashed out at him. “What is
wrong with you? It’s been weeks and you didn’t even call to see how
we were doing.”

Her anger surprised Charlie. “There wasn’t
anything I could do a thousand miles away,” he protested.

“I thought that’s why you got me the
cellphone, to stay in touch.”

“I got the cellphone for you, not me,”
Charlie said. The football hit him in the shoulder. “Hey!”

“Thanks,” Wyatt said. “It was my birthday
this week.”

“Happy birthday! How old are you now? Five?”
Wyatt nodded.

“You’re my son’s age.” Charlie turned to
Tawny, frowning. “He needs to be in school.”

“I know,” she said, looking away. “But
there’s no requirement until first grade, next year.”