The new Farmers’ Market was positively palatial by comparison. The multitude of sheds were broad and painted bright colors, the floor paved with white concrete so it could be easily washed down. Only the farmers seemed unchanged, slow-talking and tight-faced, their skin leathery and their eyes troubled by being forced to focus on prices and change and the strange talk of city-bred folk. Marcus loved to breathe the perfume of fresh goods with the earth still clinging to their roots.
The market now held two restaurants, and they were almost always full. One had trestle tables and a fast-food counter and sold only fish. The fish came only one way-fried. Whatever they had that day-bass, shad, bream, popcorn shrimp, trout-was served with hush puppies and homemade fries and cole slaw. Beans were extra. Nobody who entered the Farmers’ Market fish restaurant a second time said anything about calories or fat content or cholesterol. There were three portion sizes to choose from, and the large portion would feed a starving nation for a month.
The other restaurant was his favorite place in the entire world. The first time he came, three days after his return from law school, it had been as the guest of federal justice Charlie Hayes. The gentleman had observed carefully as Marcus took in the concrete floor and the simple tables and the clamor and the aroma. Marcus had finally turned to the judge and said, “If I ever make it to heaven, I expect to find someplace pretty much like what they got here.” Charlie Hayes had nodded once and replied, “I believe there’s hope for you yet.” They had been friends ever since.
Marcus spent the better part of his chicken-and-dumpling lunch describing his journey to Washington and Richmond. These midday discussions had started the year of Charlie’s retirement, and were a habit so ingrained that both men took it as natural. For a querulous opinionated man who was impatient with just about everything in life, Charlie Hayes was an excellent listener, as were most good judges. He let Marcus ramble his way through, sorting things out and making verbal notes in the process.
Only over dessert and Marcus’ description of his morning encounter with Austin Hall did Charlie interrupt. “I’m not sure you did right there.”
“I had no choice.”
“Well, now. Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. Some folks delight in leaving the hardest decisions to others. All you’ve seen is a spat between husband and wife. You don’t know if this was just a lifetime’s tango they were dancing there.”
“And I’m telling you I had no choice.” Marcus was certain of that. “Maybe you’ve got to go through it to understand.”
“Don’t even think such a thing.” Charlie pushed his half-finished dessert aside. “Look at what you’ve gone and done. Ruined a perfectly good portion of banana-cream pie with your nasty talk.”
“You can’t finish it because you ate about a pound of calf’s liver and twice that of turnips. Even Boomer would be hard-pressed to outeat you today.”
Charlie took a long pull on his lemonade, served in a Ball jar. “Boomer may not be much, but he’s all I’ve got. At least the boy showed the good sense to marry well.”
“Libby is great,” Marcus agreed.
“She is that. Good mother to the children and her husband both. Boomer’s a kid and always will be. Thank you, dear.” Charlie held his lemonade glass up to the waitress’s pitcher. “And the woman is smart as a whip. Back soon after they were married, I got all riled ’cause she convinced Boomer to stop his law studies and come run her daddy’s Chrysler dealership. I went over there ready to tear a piece out of her hide for ruining my boy’s life. Know what she told me?”
“I can’t imagine,” Marcus replied, “what Libby Hayes had to say.”
“The lady met me square on, said she was saving us both a whole world of misery. She said my problem was I’d never gotten to know the real Boomer Hayes, on account of my always pushing him to be me. But he wasn’t then and never would be. Libby told me Boomer was the son her own daddy never had, a man who lived for hunting and fishing and football and family.”
Marcus spent a hollow moment pondering such love and wisdom, knowing it would never be his. “That sounds like Libby.”
“Then she told me to go out and find me somebody else to push and prod and raise to the skies.” Charlie fiddled with his lemonade and changed the subject. “Randall Walker called me this morning.”
“You don’t say.”
“Wanted to know if we were still in touch, you and I.”
Marcus pushed his empty plate out of the way and leaned across the table. “What did you tell him?”
“Now and then, I said. He asked what kind of lawyer did I make you out to be. I pretended like I didn’t understand the question. He said, ‘Well, is Marcus just a paper pusher, or can he carry the ball in court?’ ” Charlie drained his lemonade, wiped his face with an age-spotted hand. “I told him you were weak as yesterday’s dishwater.”
“Good.”
“Randall didn’t think so. Randall said it was a crying shame. They had an opening for an experienced lawyer and he’d been thinking you’d fit the bill.” Charlie lifted his chin until he had Marcus pinned in the proper angle of his bifocals. “I told him not to go wasting his time.”
“He didn’t call about a job,” Marcus said.
“What do I look like to you, a fool on a high horse? I knew that.”
“Randall Walker is outside counsel for New Horizons.”
“I figured it was something like that. Randall Walker is a goat with a good tailor. Always has been.” He spooned up the last of his banana-cream pie. “You sure about his being outside counsel?”
“The file Gloria’s roommate gave me, it had a copy of the letter confirming his appointment.”
Charlie fiddled with his napkin. “Wonder how she got hold of that.”
“I’d like to ask her that very same thing.”
“Anything else in that file?”
“Yes.” Marcus told him what he had found.
Charlie gave his mouth a second swipe, slower this time. “Sounds like you may be better armed than you thought.”
“Looks that way.”
“You remember what I told you before we went fishing?”
Marcus nodded. “We don’t have to win the case to succeed.”
“Good. You were listening. I like that.” Charlie’s fingers scrabbled across the table top for the check. “Sure hope your Professor Hall decides to run with this thing.”
Marcus snagged the check from him. “I’m beginning to feel the exact same way.”
The sense of anticipation and progress stayed with him until Marcus pulled up in front of his house, and saw his drive blocked by a scarred and dirty pickup. One that sent his heart thumping into overdrive when he recognized the clay-encrusted sides.
The driver did not look his way. He did not need to. The profile was enough to drown Marcus in fear and rage.
Before he cut his motor, a second man was at his door. He wore a dark suit and a true Southern smile-all teeth and no eyes. “Well, hey there, Mr. Glenwood. Glad you made it home okay.”
Marcus snarled through his open window, “I’m calling the police and having that man arrested for assault.”
“Naw you ain’t.” He turned and called toward the pickup, “That’s okay, Lonnie. I’ll be seeing you around.”
Marcus pushed open the door to his Jeep and rose onto the running board, trying to read the dirty license plate. He could only make out two numbers. The driver waved a languid hand and drove away. “What is Lonnie’s last name?”
“You know, I don’t rightly recall. Ain’t memory a funny thing?”
“What’s your name?” His breath came in tight bursts clumped together. “You remember that much?”
“Sure do, Mr. Glenwood. Hank Atterly.” He started a slow circle around Marcus’ new Jeep. “Work with the city council. Got myself a little business in town. Family’s been here longer than America’s been a nation.”