“Hey.”
Minerva glanced at the girl, then at Charlie. “Any day now,” she said. She wiped her brow with a gloved hand, then eyed the spine of the book clasped against his thigh. “So what brings you to our neck of the woods?”
He held up American Monster. She took a step back. “Oh. My. God. Is that … that my father?”
“I’m sor-sorry,” Charlie stammered, horrified at what he’d just done to the poor woman. “I thought … thought you’d seen this.”
“No. You never showed it to me.” Her tone was hard.
“I’m sorry. I thought—I guess I saw too much of it myself, and … sorry. Well, I want you to have the book.” He handed it to her—or tried to. She took a step back and regarded it like a hiker would a coiled snake beside a path in the woods.
She heaved the longest sigh he’d ever heard. After a moment, she slowly raised her hand. “I guess I should have a copy. You autograph this one?”
“I did. To Minerva, whose dignity is unmatched.”
“Take off the cover. I don’t want to look at it.”
Charlie complied and tucked the jacket in his back pocket.
“Well, thank you. Mr. Childress—that’s my lawyer—wants a copy. He’s been waiting for it. Did he get in touch with you? I think he had to go through your publisher. The number you gave me didn’t work. Again.”
“Yeah, I talked to him. I thought I’d give his book to you. I’ve got a couple more in the car. I wanted Demetrious to have one. I’ll give you his copy, too.”
“He won’t read it. Doesn’t read anything. He’s still angry about what happened.”
“I want one,” Takira said.
“Have you seen him lately?” Charlie asked the girl.
“He come and go,” Takira volunteered.
Minerva frowned at the girl. “He do,” Takira insisted.
“He’s fallen on a rough patch,” Minerva said. “He and his mother, both. She hooked up with some bad people. Owes them money. But that’s not your problem.” She sniffed and pointed her trowel at the flowers. “Sometimes I just plant whites. They look like a choir in robes, singing.”
Charlie allowed himself a smile. “Not to change the subject, but the book hits stores tomorrow. I’m holding a news conference. I was thinking maybe you could come and—”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk to people about this. That’s your thing.” She waved and called out a greeting to a neighbor walking by, then fixed her gaze on Charlie. “I bet you made a ton of money off this book. It’s a nasty story, and people love nasty stories.”
Charlie shrugged. He figured she was too proud to ask for money and wouldn’t want it, since the book said exactly what she feared it would, and accepting the money would mean accepting the fact. Then again, maybe God’s plan was to give Minerva something. “If you need help, I’d be glad to … share what I’ve got.” Before my wife gets it.
“Mr. Childress said I shouldn’t take your money. I don’t want it, anyway. What’s mine by rights is mine by rights, that’s the way I see it.”
Charlie realized that this was essentially what John Riggins had said the day he died.
“You were going to give me another book, I believe,” she said.
“Sure.” Charlie went to the Volvo. He took off the jackets from two copies and returned. Takira had retreated into the house. He handed Minerva the books.
“I don’t even know if I want to read it,” she said. “I’m afraid what it will say. Let me have a cover so I can give it to my lawyer.”
“It’s the truth. I swear.” Charlie pulled a book jacket from his pocket and folded it inside out to conceal the photo before handing it to her.
“Sometimes there’s more than one truth, and they contradict. If you don’t believe it, try reading the Bible sometime.” She looked at him, waited for a response, then shrugged. “Whew. Must be ninety degrees.” She wiped her brow with her forearm. “Did you put the part in about the quitclaim?”
“Yes I did, along with the GBI’s denial that they sent anyone over here. They tried to deny that two agents held me in a warehouse, but the Forsyth Sheriff’s Department wouldn’t back them up. So then they had to deny that they denied anything.”
Minerva gave him a rueful chuckle. “Well, I better call Mr. Childress. He needs to know the book’s out.”
“Good luck. I told him I’d testify for you.”
She was already on the steps. “Goodbye.” She waved, giving him the back of her hand.
That went well, Charlie thought as he went back to the car. Better than the last couple of times, anyway.
He drove off. At the stop sign a block away, Demetrious flagged him down, coming out into the street and putting his fist on the car hood. Charlie looked around for P-Dog, D’s little gunman.
“Yo, yo, yo.” Demetrious came around and banged on the driver’s side door.
“Hey.” Charlie rolled down the window and tried to sound breezy. “You stalkin’ me?”
“Got my eyes out. Heard you was in the neighborhood. Just wanted to stay in touch.”
Charlie looked ahead and saw the silhouette of a head just barely above the driver’s seat of an old Buick. He was glad he didn’t bring his BMW.
“Look,” Demetrious said. “I need hep to get someone outta a jam.”
“A little late for an abortion, isn’t it?”
Demetrious waved his hands like he was signaling an incomplete pass. “I’m not worryin’ ’bout that no more. I need to help out my momma. She owes some money. And you rich now, what I hear. Bestseller, on TV and all.”
“Can’t help you.”
“You mean you won’t hep me. Get this straight. This where Ima comin’ from. Man rips us off for twenty million and then you come in and clean up and make yo own. Where’s ours? That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Looking anguished, Demetrious crisscrossed his chest with his hands. “You owe us half what you make, man. It’s our story! It’s my blood!” Demetrious pounded his chest with his fists. “A dealer threatenin’ to kill my mama,” he said. “I need twenty large, man.”
“I don’t have that kind of money to hand out.”
“At least enough fo me to get a gun,” Demetrious pleaded.
“A gun will get you into more trouble than it will get you out of.”
“She die, it gonna be on yo head.”
“No, it won’t. And don’t even talk that way.”
“You say you tryin’ to hep my family. That’s a laugh.”
“I said I was seeking justice. That might not help you personally. You made your bed, now–”
Demetrious reached in to grab his collar. Charlie hit the gas, causing his head to hit the door. The kid let go, yelling, “Fuck you, motherfucker!”
Charlie glanced in the side mirror just before he turned right. “Don’t worry,” he mumbled, rubbing his stinging left temple. “You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
A minute later, when Charlie turned onto Memorial Drive, his phone buzzed. “Hello.”
“We’re going to rip you a new asshole, asshole,” Uncle Stanley said. “We’ve hired a lawyer and we’re going to tear apart every assertion in that book. Did you think you could get away with this?”
Charlie’s tone was cool and proper. “You had every chance to respond.”
“I can’t wait to see you get what’s coming to you. We’re going to beat on your head until your ears bleed.”
Charlie gave Redeemer’s church a sidelong glance as he passed by. Before hanging up, he said, “I reckon that’s a beating I’ll have to take.”
* * *
Charlie’s news conference was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. on June 23, the nationwide release date for American Monster. This was his day, his time to shine, his party. At his own expense, Charlie had hired the local public relations firm of Jacoby and Ruthers to stage the event.
That morning, Charlie visited bookstores and found, to his great relief and joy, that American Monster was ubiquitous
. He gave an impromptu signing in Buckhead, smiling and posing for a photo with a rich white woman who bought three copies for her “African-American friends.” When Charlie suggested that it might be instructive for her to read the book, too, she laughed. What a funny thing to say!
He stopped by Bay Street Coffeehouse, walking in the door in his new blue-and-white seersucker suit from Jos. A. Bank Clothiers—a perfectly respectable summer outfit for a Southern writer. He also wore a white button-down oxford shirt, a yellow-and-blue striped tie, and cordovan Cole-Haan tasseled loafers, accented by a sharp, clean-smelling fragrance he’d bought on a whim at Nordstrom’s. GQ was on the newsstands, and while Charlie’s Industrial Chic was in, now that he had money, he wanted to set new trends. Anyway, he was tired of the working-class look. He was going uptown from here on out.
“This is my Tom Wolfe look,” he proudly told Jean, who gave him a disapproving frown.
“I liked it better when you were a truck driver. Now you look like a man who’s full of it.”
“That’s cold.”
Jean mumbled something about “putting on airs” and turned her back on him as soon as she took his order for a double espresso on ice.
As he sat at his old table by the window and watched a car drive up Bayard Terrace, he thought of all the time he’d spent in the dungeon, helping Kathleen complete her life. That world was gone. Angela had sold her mother’s house recently for a huge amount of money. She’d get another large chunk of change when royalties and movie rights money from Flight came in, but he reminded himself of the happy fact that she’d cut herself out of any share of American Monster. He’d buy a pricey gift for her August commitment ceremony with Sandra. It was the least he could do. Chuckling, he raised his glass toward the dungeon, and said, “Here’s to happily ever after.”
* * *
The news conference went reasonably well, although there was a rough part when Charlie had to explain why he hadn’t gone to the police after the bombing, which had suddenly become common knowledge (and pushed him to the top of the front page again after news of his trial died down). He told reporters that, as far as he knew, there were no new leads in the case. He referred questions to Detective Sanders, who had talked to him three times since their original meeting. Reporters were reluctant to forgive his recalcitrance (along with his disappearing act after his Forsyth County trial), so Charlie tried to thaw the mood with some candor about what it’s like to be shell-shocked and homeless on Christmas Eve, although he no longer looked the part.
Reporters might not like him, but so far the news coverage had been generally positive. TV stations repeated his accusations, along with a confusing mixture of no-comments and denials from the Cutchinses. He’d heard from a reporter that they’d called him a pervert, but that accusation didn’t make the evening news. Charlie was more interested in what Crenshaw would write, since the newspaper reporter had been on the story since the beginning and knew more about it than all the other journalists combined.
The next morning, he was awakened by a freight train’s rumble halfway between four o’clock and dawn. Charlie watched shadows dance on the ceiling. Abandoning sleep and fortifying himself with coffee, he checked e-mails. The haters, who’d been slow to respond to Flight, reacted more quickly to Monster. He’d gotten twenty messages, half of them hostile, and half of those threatening, like the one from [email protected]: “Nigger Lover, you betray your family for silver. Go to hell with my knife up your ass.” Charlie winced and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Maybe it was time he hired real bodyguards.
After checking news coverage on the Internet, Charlie shuffled downstairs to buy a paper, first peeking around the corner of the garage entrance. The coast was clear—at least there were no pickup trucks. He ran to the box, quickly slipped in coins and snatched a copy, then trotted back to the vestibule, humming through his teeth, and tapping his foot nervously while awaiting the elevator.
Safely back in his loft, he read Crenshaw’s front-page coverage of his news conference: “Wealthy Forsyth Farmer Accused of 1937 Lynching.” The photo of Charlie highlighted his scar. Another picture showed Momo’s monster truck in front of Pappy’s house along with three No Trespassing signs and a crudely lettered notice stating Violaters will be shot! Forsyth District Attorney Eric Stockwell was dismissive of Charlie’s claims, saying, “A finger in a jar doesn’t make a case.” But Charlie didn’t expect much sympathy from that quarter, since Stockwell had refused to return Charlie’s phone calls about American Monster in December. There was also a promo blurb: “Coming Sunday: A Look Behind the Book—The Cutchins-Sherman Feud.”
“Reruns,” Charlie muttered.
* * *
Charlie spent the rest of the morning looking for a new loft. Everything he saw was too big or too small; nothing was just right. He missed having Armand, his faux bodyguard, to talk to. When he checked his voicemails after lunch, there were thirteen messages, mostly from reporters—and one from Matthew Steele, inviting Charlie to appear on his TV show: “Of course, we’ll have some Cutchinses on, too. Think of it, Mr. Sherman! An episode dedicated to families who lynch, and the courageous in-laws who expose them!”
The trashiest of trash TV. Charlie groaned in distaste and shouted, “Oh, hell no!” at his new cellphone.
That evening, he cruised bookstores and held impromptu signings, accepting business cards with private numbers written on them from a couple of fine-looking young women. He thought that perhaps his curse was about to be broken.
Late that night, Charlie returned to Castlegate and parked his BMW in the garage. Rather than face his lonely loft, he walked out to the street. Traffic was sparse and the night was balmy; some of the day’s stifling heat had dissipated. Charlie gazed at the few stars he could see over downtown. La Patisserie had been closed for several hours. A few far-off voices called, and when he stopped to listen, he heard the reassuring rumble of a midnight bus and the throaty gospel of the barrel-fire guy who lived near the MARTA station. A freight train rolling slowly through downtown blew its horn.
Feeling restless, Charlie started walking. A block south, on the right side of the street, the flickering neon sign for Max’s Place beckoned him. He’d never been inside before and decided to check it out. He listened to soles of his Cole-Haans slap the sidewalk, proud of their echo in the still night air. When he reached Max’s, he hesitated before pulling the door’s long wooden handle. It was weird to walk into a bar after so many years of sobriety. But things were different now. He’d proved he could handle just about anything, hadn’t he? A drink wouldn’t be that big a deal. Besides, Max’s was the only place open to him right then, so there he was.
Charlie stepped inside to a blast of cold air and funky old R&B, the Bar-Kays’ Holy Ghost. Max’s was nearly empty and a soft reddish glow permeated the place. The carpet smelled of old beer and stale cognac. He glanced at a couple in a corner booth and stepped to the bar. “What’ll ya have, buddy?” asked the bartender, a stocky black man with a knife scar on his face. He gazed appreciatively at Charlie’s rose while awaiting his order.
“Budweiser.” The word just came out. Sounded right. “Yeah.”
The bartender placed the bottle on the counter. Charlie slipped him a ten and stared at the beer. A woman in a sleeveless green dress was slouched over a drink a few stools over. She took an interest in Charlie when his change came back. “Hey, baby,” she cooed.
When he glanced her way, she gave him a bleary-eyed smile. She had chocolate-brown skin. Her hair was teased out and unruly, and her make-up seemed misapplied, as though her mirror didn’t function correctly. She was swaying to the music in a burlesque of seduction. Charlie thought she might have been attractive if she’d kept herself up—but she’d still have that tattoo. He squinted at her. Had she been beaten? Was she crying? Most likely she was a junkie or alcoholic. Maybe she was crashing off crack. He drummed his fingers on the bar, letting them inch toward the bottle.
“Shaundra, leave the gen
tleman alone,” said the bartender, scrutinizing the mug he was drying. “He don’t need your nonsense.”
She ignored him and bumped down the bar toward Charlie, stool by stool. When she was close, she reached out and touched his cheek, brushing his blue polo shirt. “What happen to you face?”
“Got shot,” Charlie said, pulling away from her and picking up the beer.
“My kinda man.” She laughed, flashing a gold-tooth smile.
When he looked into her eyes, there was something familiar and terribly wrong about them. They were small and beady, following him everywhere, looking for a chance to bore a hole through him. Creepy. Evil.
“You dress good. You smell good,” she said, leaning in close. “Wanna party with me? You look like you need a date. No doubt.”
The whiff of beer in his nostrils, the woman coming in on him like a crow on roadkill—all this was wrong. Without taking a sip, Charlie set down the bottle and pushed away from the bar, leaving his change laying there.
“Shaundra workin’ her magic again,” muttered the man in the booth, who then broke out laughing.
Moving quickly, Charlie stepped outside. Feeling like he’d dodged a bullet, he shuddered in relief in the warm night air. The woman staggered out behind him, her heels clicking on concrete. “This ain’t over,” she declared. “You and me need to have some fun. Do some business. You a businessman, right?”
He crossed the street, walking faster with each step. She shouted out after him. “I ’member now! I know you! I know you! You owe me! Come back, honey! We can work it out.”
Everyone knew Charlie. That was his problem. He quickened his pace and ran back to his loft. Once inside, he looked in the mirror and pounded his fist on the wall beside it. Through gritted teeth he said, “You’re an alcoholic, motherfucker. What part of that don’t you understand?”
* * *
Brambleman Page 45