Southern Cross

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “It’s very good,” I said. “And you’re artist enough to know it.”

  “It’s just practice. An exercise. An indulgence.”

  “It’s probably therapy, too. But it’s also art.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, well, that and a dollar will get me a cup of coffee in any joint in town.”

  “Money doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “It does if you like eating.” She looked at her watch. “I should go. I’m doing one whole side of Colonial Lake tomorrow. That’s a lot of geography in one sitting.”

  “Don’t,” I said again.

  She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, eyes lazy and lidded. “Why not?”

  “I want you to spend the night with me.”

  “Why? Because all this heat has made you horny?”

  “Because I like you. Because we’ve had a good time this evening, and it would be nice to end it making love.”

  “What makes you think I do things like that?”

  “Like what? Enjoy yourself?”

  “Sex is always more than fun. Even Yankees know that much.”

  “Even assuming you’re right, you know tonight was special, you know we’re attracted to each other, and you know the reasons not to do it aren’t nearly as good as their opposites.”

  She looked away from me and out the window, at the silent streets of the ancient city that had heard a million ploys like mine. When she looked back, her expression was equivocal. “You’d make a good Southerner,” she said simply.

  “I’m not going to beg you, Scar. Or use some verbal voodoo. I just know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of the main purposes of life is making memories. Doing things you want to do so you can remember them when you need to and feel good about what you did instead of regretting what you let slip away.”

  “Memories, huh? Is that all it would be?”

  “No, that’s the least it would be.”

  “You must have made a mint as a lawyer,” she said, then looked around the studio as though I had asked her to forsake it. “The couch isn’t very comfortable,” she mused absently, the criticism directed at a sagging sofa that was skulking in a corner.

  “The daybed downstairs makes out into a double.”

  “I know.” She looked at me until she was sure I had absorbed her message, then grinned at me like a scamp. “I have to admit it heats me up a bit to think of screwing someone else down there.” She glowered in mock chastisement. “And you know it, don’t you, you bastard?”

  I muttered a pro forma disclaimer, then took her by the hand and led her down the stairs.

  As we plowed through the preliminaries—washing up, bed expanded, clothes removed, condom readied, bedside claimed—I realized that the past week had been a watershed. I’d made love with Betty Fontaine the night before I left for the reunion, with Libby Grissom the night before I flew to Charleston, and, lo and behold, I was on the brink again: My cup runneth over; my libido had known no better days.

  Or had it? Each sex act may diminish those that went before, each new partner may devalue partners past. The equation is the basis of a big branch of Western morality, after all—the crux of the sacrament of marriage and monogamy, the wellspring of the rejection of contraception and divorce. Although I don’t think I believed it, deep down, and certainly didn’t intend to live my life according to such speculations, enough of the doctrine lay unsullied in my psyche that a part of me felt diabolical.

  But part of me definitely didn’t. A smorgasbord of sex, who could possibly complain? Unless, as Scar had suggested, sex is always more than fun.

  Good and evil; right and wrong; fidelity and faithlessness. A bed was the worst place to debate such polarities, an orgasm an inappropriate resolution of any issue. But if not noble or untroubled, neither was I lonely. Crouched above my chest, breasts brushing at my belly, teeth nibbling at my neck, Scar Raveneau wreaked a quick revenge on my friend Seth Hartman, and made me her amanuensis.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Scar was up and out before I woke; the only thing she left behind was a note in my shoe—Good morning from the Belle of the Ball. I had a nice night, so have a nice day, hear? In the bathroom, I found a second message, this one scrawled inside the shower stall in what looked like pink lipstick—Holler if you need me to scrub your back. Love, S. I was smiling as I washed it off.

  When I was dressed, I called Seth and took him up on the offer to lend me his car. When he asked where I was going, I told him I was going shopping.

  I was halfway out the door when the phone rang. I was about to ignore it, assuming it was someone for Seth, until I remembered who might have been trying to reach me.

  “Mr. Tanner?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is the First Field Marshal of the Alliance for Southern Pride. I understand you’re interested in joining our movement.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The voice was brisk and commanding, not the fractious boy on the tapes sent to Seth and Alameda, more a match to the man who had phoned to follow up. I came up with a ploy, then waited for a chance to use it.

  “How did you learn about us?” he continued.

  “The posters at the college, primarily.”

  “Are you connected with the school? You don’t sound like a student.”

  “I’m not. Is that a requirement?”

  “Not at all. But I was wondering what form your support of ASP might take. Some of our activities tend to be rather … strenuous.”

  “I was thinking more in terms of financial than physiological participation. Is that allowed?”

  “Affirmative. May I tell you where to send your check?”

  “Not so fast. I’d like a meeting first. With you and the headman.”

  He paused. “For what purpose?”

  “My knowledge of ASP is pretty sketchy; I’d like to know what I’m buying. In the past, I’ve wasted a lot of money on groups that talked a good game but didn’t follow through when opportunities arose. Time is of the essence in these matters; the nation is imperiled. I don’t want to join forces with anyone who’s not ready to pay the price to make a difference. Plus, I want to be sure my contribution will remain … anonymous.”

  The Field Marshal flashed his best bravado. “You can count on ASP to do whatever it takes to prevail against the forces of darkness, Mr. Tanner. What level of support are we talking about?”

  “Let’s say in the neighborhood of ten thousand.”

  “That would be most welcome.”

  “I’ve never had anyone turn me down, Mr. …?”

  “Bedford. Forrest Bedford. First Field Marshal of ASP; Commandant of the Purification Brigade. You don’t sound like a Southerner, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Is that important?”

  “I’m only wondering why an organization devoted to restoring the Southern Way of Life would be of interest to a Yankee?”

  I dredged some data from my memory. “I recently moved here from Denver, Mr. Bedford, where I was a significant supporter of the resurgent Klan activities in that area. Moral and racial issues transcend regionalism, as I hope you know. Do you know the Denver leadership, by any chance?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “There’s a young man there who will go a long way on the national scene—he’s David Duke without the baggage. From what I hear, you may have similar skills. Well? When do I meet the Chief of Staff, Mr. Bedford? Or shall I send my funds to Denver?”

  Bedford hesitated. “We have a march at Hampton Park this evening. Unless things get out of hand, which of course we would welcome, we should be finished by eight. There’s a baseball stadium nearby. I could meet you at the entrance after our demonstration, and we can go somewhere and satisfy your curiosity. Somewhere secure,” he added heavily.

  “Fine.”

  “Eight o’clock.” When he spoke again, it was to issue a warning. “We are pledged to assassinate any and all agents of
the Zionist Occupation Government who attempt to infiltrate us, Mr. Tanner. Just in case you aren’t what you seem to be.”

  The phone went dead. I replaced the receiver with a hand as wet as soup.

  I picked up Seth’s car in the lot behind his office, then drove west on Calhoun to the bridge across the Ashley. On the west side of the river, the contrast with the historic district was stark. The usual mix of suburban commerce defiled the roadside, the K Marts and Burger Kings and Jiffy Lubes that convince us they make life convenient when in reality they just make it dreary.

  After a couple of miles of blight, conglomeration yielded to uniformity—the highway became an Auto Row. Every make of car imaginable was on display, from cheaply made Korean clunkers to outrageously expensive Italian roadsters. One dealership flew the largest flag I’ve ever seen, looming like a supple spacecraft over the Chevys and Geos and BMWs that were a melting pot of metal in the lot below. At the far end of the row, in the last gasp of consumptive civilization before the road turned rural and plunged through marshland as it headed for Savannah, I found the store I wanted.

  Seth’s car was a new Thunderbird, which is why, I suppose, no one hurried to greet me before I’d shut the engine down—I didn’t seem likely to spin off a commission. I got out of the car, browsed the sales lot long enough to establish some bona fides, then went inside the showroom.

  The only person in sight was the receptionist. She smiled like a sunflower at high noon, searched in vain for a salesman, then blinked and said good morning. Her dress was billowy in the bodice and low cut; the flesh above her breasts was freckled. The sign on the counter said her name was LaWanda.

  “Howdy,” I answered cheerfully, then surveyed the empty showroom. “Guess the staff must be on coffee break.”

  “Bubba Martin’s the only agent that’s checked in so far—we don’t get customers before noon much anymore—but he’s out on a test drive. Should be back any minute, though. Were you interested in new or previously owned?”

  I looked back at the showroom again. “I’m kind of partial to that convertible over there.”

  Her eyes ignited. “Isn’t that the sexiest thing you ever saw? I’d love to have an EX-four-hundred.”

  I leaned forward and worked with her enthusiasm. “Now tell the truth, LaWanda. Is this outfit prepared to deal a little?”

  She nodded briskly. “Bubba’s great at building a deal you’re comfortable with. This is a good time to buy, too—financing’s the lowest it’s been since, like, forever.”

  “I’m told the man who signs off on ’em is Bilbow.”

  “Beau?”

  “Is there more than one?”

  “No.”

  “Then Beau’s the one I mean.”

  Our brief excerpt from Pirandello put LaWanda off balance for a moment, but true to her heritage, her smile couldn’t stay submerged. “Mr. Bilbow is the general manager; I know he’d be happy to discuss our entire line with you. It’s the best we’ve ever had; all the publications say so.” She reached for a shelf behind her. “I’ve got this copy of Motor Trend? December issue? It says—”

  “He here?” I interrupted.

  “Mr. Bilbow? I expect him any time.”

  “Like when?”

  “I’m not sure. He had an appointment at the bank, so …” She shrugged helplessly, to let me know how banks were behaving these days, then fussed with her hairdo. “I’m not very good at this, am I? I guess that’s why I’m still on phones.”

  As if on cue, one of them started to ring. “If you want to wait,” she said as she reached for her instrument, “there’s coffee down that hall.”

  She pointed to her right, then turned her smile into its verbal equivalent and blessed the caller with a greeting. I debated what to do and decided it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at the EX-400 in case I won the lottery and my Buick took early retirement.

  I strolled over to the convertible. The sticker price was twenty-one-five. EPA estimates were seventeen and twenty-two. The paint looked as deep as the Ashley. I walked around it a couple of times, then opened the door and climbed in. The feel and smell were as they should have been—plush as a palace and pungent as mint. The buttons and gauges made me feel like a pilot; the steering wheel made me feel like a Petty; the sticker made me feel like a pauper.

  I was headed for the Thunderbird when another car whizzed into the lot and stopped on a dime in front of the door. It was a clone of the convertible in the showroom—top down, windows up, the man behind the wheel handsome but harried, running late and maybe scared as well.

  He was tall and thin in the legs and chest, but there was a bulge at his belt the size of a melon and a sag to his lips and chin that made him look petulant. He wore a white shirt and a red tie and pants too short in the seam. His hair was combed back in an oily compress that clung to his skull like paste—he must have thought it looked suave, but what it made him look was feral.

  Without acknowledging my presence, he hurried to LaWanda and asked for his messages. She gave him several slips of paper, then said something I couldn’t hear. The man glanced my way, then beyond me toward the sales lot, then said something else to LaWanda and headed toward the coffee.

  When he’d gone, I returned to LaWanda’s desk. “That Bilbow?”

  She nodded. “I told him you were waiting on him. He said he’d just be a minute.”

  “Looks a little haggard—bank must have given him a hard time.”

  “Business hasn’t been that great what with the recession and all, so he’s had to lay people off. He’s been working harder than he’s used to.”

  It was an interesting way to put it—not exactly a tribute to Beau Bilbow’s industriousness, but not exactly a slur. “Who owns the dealership?” I asked.

  LaWanda seemed befuddled. “I don’t know for sure. Folks from up North, I think.”

  “Ever hear of a group called the Alliance for Southern Pride, LaWanda?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “What is it, kind of a historical-type group or something?”

  “Something like that. I thought I saw Bilbow at a meeting one time. I just wondered if he ever talked about it.”

  “Not to me.” She gestured toward the convertible. “Looks great, huh?”

  “A little steep in the sticker for a second car, though.”

  “If it’s the down payment you’re worried about, we’ve got a lease program that—”

  I put a plug in her spiel. “I’m running late, sweetheart; better save it for the next guy.” I started down the hall, toward the coffee and Bilbow both.

  He was lugging a Styrofoam cup into his office when I caught up to him. He didn’t like it that I had followed him into his private lair, and he liked it even less when I plopped into a chair without being asked.

  He stirred his coffee and loosened his tie and rearranged the papers on his desk, debating what to do with me. “You must want a car real bad,” he began with a humorless chuckle. “If I told you I could put you in that convertible out front for nineteen even, would you do it?”

  I smiled. “No.”

  “Tough bargainer, huh?”

  “I don’t bargain. I name a price; you say yes or no. If it’s yes, I write a check. If it’s no, I take a hike.”

  A drop of sweat leaked down his temple. “That’s not the way we do business.”

  “That’s not the way I hear it.”

  He scratched his nose. “From who?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a close personal friend of a close personal friend of a former member of your family.”

  “Who the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Your ex-wife.”

  He frowned and squirmed and sweated even more. “Seth send you out here?”

  “Why would he?”

  “He don’t like me much.”

  That would have been my guess. “Why not?”

  “Thinks I’ve still got the hots for his woman.”

  “Is he right?”

  “
Shit. I got better things to do with my dick than stick it down a dry hole.” Beau’s grin tried to turn lascivious, but it was more moronic than erotic. When I tried to mate him with Jane Jean, I couldn’t come close.

  Still discomfited, Bilbow looked at a picture on the wall, a color photograph of the intercoastal waterway with a big yacht gliding through it—I assumed it served him as a security blanket. Next to the picture was a diploma from the Palisade, which was next to a framed photo of Bilbow wearing the high-necked gray tunic and white dress hat of a cadet, which was next to a pair of ceremonial sabers crossed beneath a bright blue sash.

  “So what are you,” Bilbow blurted nervously, “one of her boyfriends from back in her nigger-lovin’ days? Hey, it don’t make no never mind to me; they crawl out of the swamp ever’ other week, seems like.”

  Bilbow started to say something else, but LaWanda peeked in the door. “Can Bubba see you a minute, Beau? Needs you to authorize a write-down.”

  Bilbow glanced at me. “We done?”

  “Not yet.”

  He started to object, then shrugged. “Be right back.”

  He left the office, and I looked around. The only thing of interest other than the Palisade mementos was his Rolodex. I gave it a spin, then inspected it more purposefully. Except for Jane Jean and Seth and her daddy, only one person I’d heard of was in there: There were three numbers listed for Aldo Benedetti, of the Newark Benedettis, each with a different area code.

  I wrote the numbers in my notebook and was minding my business by the time Bilbow came back, far more composed than when he’d left. “Know anything about the Alliance for Southern Pride?” I asked as he sat down.

  Nothing registered on his face; the shift of subject didn’t faze him. “What is it, one of those old-maid societies?”

  I shook my head. “Patriotic group.”

  He shrugged convincingly. “Never heard of ’em.” He clasped his hands behind his head and smiled. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Tanner.”

  “Did you say you wanted to buy a car?”

  “No.”