Nightwoods - Charles Frazier [68]
—Thank you.
—For what?
—You know.
—No, I don’t. I kind of need you to say a word or two here.
He expected her to balk, but she said, Well, for not being afraid.
STUBBLEFIELD TAPPED ON the snowflake translucent glass of the door and walked in. The lawyer glanced up from a pile of papers, raising his big fountain pen higher than necessary to indicate he’d been interrupted in mid-thought. The still blades of the ceiling fan reflected an X off his brown pate. He said, Sit.
Stubblefield sat. Said, I’ve been thinking about those ag leases you mentioned.
The lawyer studied his calendar, one of those page-a-day deals fanned on a chrome stand, a chunky red number on each perforated sheet. He flipped through the recent past, making a show of how long it had been since they last talked. As he got back to the final day of each month, he enunciated the name as if he were calling out words for a third-grade spelling bee. October, September, August. Then he slowed down for a few pages before finally stopping.
—Ah, he said. Here we are.
He dug in a file drawer for a yellow pad and turned to a page of big blue figures.
He said, So, you’ve had plenty of time for deep thoughts.
—I’ll think of some clever comeback tonight and drop you a postcard tomorrow, Stubblefield said. Right now, thing is, I’m going to be here for a good while, and it’s not just me now.
The lawyer said, Hum. He raised his eyebrows, casting waves of wrinkles up his forehead and over the dome of his head.
He said, The back taxes haven’t gone away.
—Sell the Roadhouse, if we can find a buyer, Stubblefield said.
—Oh, I’ve had a name or two in mind.
—And those leases sound good. Same deal we talked about, if you’re set to go.
—Je suis prest.
—I took Spanish.
—I’ll draw up the papers. You can come by tomorrow and sign.
Stubblefield sat within himself a few beats. He said, I thought you old boys worked off a smile and a handshake.
—We do, when we go into business with each other.
Stubblefield stood and said, I’m trying not to get insulted, but if you want a deal, this is it. I’m not signing any papers.
He reached his hand across the desktop.
The lawyer looked at Stubblefield and then down at his yellow pad of numbers all the way to the bottom line. He grinned and stood and took the offered hand. Hell, he said, I guess you only live the one time.
CHAPTER 9
POOL HALL.
Said so twice on the blacked-out glass of the windows on either side of the door. Same angular gold script as the Citizens’ Bank a block up Main Street. Some probably dead dude from the twenties with good handwriting must have passed through town and made a couple of quick tens. Still a lot of casual business to be conducted here, such as taking orders for jugs of cheap vodka and grain alcohol tinted brown to become Scotch. On non-traveling days, the pool hall was like Bud’s office from afternoon until night, when he shifted to the Roadhouse.
Inside, festive odors of stale spilled bootleg beer and tobacco in its many forms. Dark as midnight, except