The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear (27 page)

“Is he kidding?” Jessie asked me.

Tyler was the last one to come in from the garage. When Tobias saw him he smiled and moved straight to him and wrapped him in a big hug. I could see Tyler's confused look over Tobias's bony shoulder. Tobias held Tyler at arm's length and said, “It's really good to see you, Tyler. I want you to know something. Your father was a great man. He wasn't a perfect man, but he was a great man.”

Tyler looked confused, then his face softened. “Yeah, well, thanks.”

“I've got an idea,” I said. “This Confederate Dead site, you can post to it, right?”

Tyler nodded.

“And you think your pal Tommy is checking it?”

“Who's Tommy?” Walter asked.

“Oh God,” Jessie moaned. “You have any beer?” she asked Tobias.

“A pretty girl asks for a beer in this house, she—”

“Oh Jesus fuck,” Jessie said, “just get me a beer. Please.”

“He's checking the site. I know he is,” Tyler said.

“So you send him a message. But do it as Somerfield. Tell him he wants to meet him. Tell him that you told him what he was doing and he wants to meet.”

Tyler thought for a moment. “I could do that. He'd do anything to see Somerfield.” He nodded his head. “It's not stupid,” he said, and pulled out his phone.

While Jessie sat at Tobias's kitchen counter drinking beer and trying to explain to Walter, Paul, and Tobias what Tyler had told us about Tommy, Tyler signed on to the Confederate Dead site. He left a message for Tommy that read, “Zolly, cavalry still rides. Bless you. Meet at Founders House to talk next raid? Mosby.”

“Zolly, Mosby? Founders House?” I asked.

Tyler looked embarrassed, which was a strange thing for him. “We all took names of Confederate cavalry generals. Tommy is Felix Zollicoffer. Somerfield is John Mosby. I'm Jeb—Jeb Stuart. It's stupid, I know.” He sighed. “Founders House is—”

“Beauvoir,” I said. “Jeff Davis's house.”

Tyler nodded. “Did you ever play Dungeons and Dragons?” he asked.

“God no.”

“We had our own world like that but with the Confederacy.” He thought for a moment. “Stupid.”

It took half an hour for Tommy—Zolly—to reply. While we were waiting, I watched the news of the convention. It was humiliating to be reduced to getting news like a regular civilian. The convention had called a suspension for a day after the car bombing at the motel. More delegates were leaving town. I knew that Eddie would be going crazy trying to track which delegates were leaving, who the alternates were, and what it would do to our hard count.
His
hard count. The official delegate count for Vice President Hilda Smith, which now most definitely was not
our
hard count. It was another perfect Armstrong George moment. He was promising that his New Bill of Rights would protect Americans and that a strong leader would guarantee the first right: the right of personal safety. He blamed the bombing on “terrorists who threaten our democracy and are opposed to my strong stance against the criminals and illegals in our society.” That he didn't have any particular evidence for this didn't seem to bother anyone.

I called Paul Hendricks on his cell. “Jesus, is this the dead man talking?” he said when he answered.

“And like a dead man, I want this OTR, good?” I knew he'd agree to off the record. He might even stick to it, though that was always a crapshoot.

“From the grave,” he said. “What you got?”

I told him that I'd heard he was going to report that some of the delegates loyal to Hilda Smith were thinking about defecting to Armstrong George, and I'd been checking around and didn't think there was anything to it. Not a word of that was true, but I knew how he would play it.

“I've been working on that,” he said coyly. “You really don't think there's anything to it?”

“It's bullshit,” I said. “Their biggest complaint was that Eddie wasn't calling them back and stroking them enough, but I told them to give the guy a break, he was swamped.”

“Got it,” Hendricks said. “Don't suppose you want to give me some names of who was calling you?” I named two delegate chairmen who I knew hated Hendricks and would never talk to him. “So look, J.D., what's the story with you? All kinds of rumors going around. Why don't you give it to me and let me break it with your side of the story?”

“Let's just say I had an issue with some stuff in the campaign. So we parted ways. Complicated. But I'll make a deal. Don't do anything, and when it's time I'll give you the exclusive. Cool?”

He snapped at that like a starving man offered bread. Just like I knew he would.

Within five minutes, Paul Hendricks was reporting that he had confirmation from party chairmen loyal to Vice President Hilda Smith that they were facing defections. Among the problems was lack of response from Eddie Basha, the new acting campaign manager for the vice president. It was exactly what I knew he would do. Fuck you, Eddie Basha.

The message came in from “Zolly” asking if “Mosby” could meet tomorrow at the Founders House at the usual time. Tyler wrote back as Mosby that he would be there.

“The usual time?” I asked.

“That's nine twenty-four in the morning. When Pickett launched his charge. We used to text each other at that exact time on July Fourth every year.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me,” Jessie said. Tyler shrugged.

“You really think he will show?” Walter asked.

“He'll be there,” Tyler said.

“You remember our deal,” Walter said to me.

“What deal?” Jessie and Tyler asked together.

I waved it off. “Walter wants credit for any arrests. Don't you need to bring in some help?”

“It's called backup,” Jessie said.

“Is she always such a bitch?” Tyler asked.

“Pretty much,” Jessie answered.

“We're talking one crazy guy?” Walter said. “No, I think I can handle it.”

Tyler asked, “What will happen to Tommy?”

“Tyler,” Tobias said in his deepest voice, “he needs help. This acting out is a cry for help.”

“Acting out?” Jessie said. “Acting out is when you get stoned on your class trip. This is a whole level above ‘acting out.' ”

Tobias looked at Jessie, smiling broadly. “You are a magnificent creature.”

“Oh God,” Jessie said. “Now it's the Wild Kingdom.”

I'D DRIVEN PAST BEAUVOIR,
a big white house facing the Gulf, hundreds of times, but I'd never been inside. “This place really means something to you?” I asked Tyler when we were driving over early the next morning. It was just the two of us in Tobias's old Lincoln Continental. It drove like a boat floating on air. It took a full half turn of the steering wheel to get any response, but it was comfortable like a deep-cushioned couch.

“Can you imagine a bigger fuck-you to the government than seceding and starting your own country? That's why we love it. It's not all that slavery bullshit. It's just the balls to walk away and say you won't put up with the bullshit any longer. You spend some time in the army and that has a lot of appeal. Just the biggest screw-the-system protest in the history of the country.”

“Protest? Are you out of your mind? Hundreds of thousands slaughtered?”

“Dude, you don't get it. Forty thousand fucking people die in car crashes every year driving around America. What do we say? ‘As goes Detroit, so goes America.' Cars are the ultimate killing machines and we love 'em. Even this piece of shit. It's the identity.”

He wasn't dumb. I had to give him that. He had Powell's and Renee's brains, and that was a powerful gene match. “Look,” I said, “Paul and I, we fucked up. I fucked up, anyway. We shouldn't have disappeared on you and your mom. We should have tried to be there more.”

“Oh, please,” Tyler said. “Don't get sensitive on me. I hate sensitive. But thanks, okay?”

We rode in silence for a while, the Gulf to our right, Tobias's car floating along the road. Behind us were Walter and Paul in Paul's car and Jessie in her own. She had wanted to bring her car and Walter figured that the Joey Francis crowd might be tracking his cruiser. It was quite a little caravan we had going.

“You're trying,” Tyler finally said. “I give you that. And it's not that I think you're a total shit. But what you have to understand, sort-of brother of mine, is that my mother and I had zero desire to have anything to do with anybody named Callahan. You got that? You disgusted us. It wasn't that you didn't come around to us; we were trying to forget that we ever knew anybody named Callahan. You were just a bunch of entitled fucks who stumbled through the world fucking things up for other people and thinking you were morally superior. And I'm not real sure that much has changed. My mom's too nice to say it and I never gave enough shits to track you down to tell you, but that you didn't realize it just sort of proves the point, right? You think you can play with people. That's what this whole politics thing is to you, right? A way to feel powerful. Master of time and space. You'll pull the strings and decide who gets to be president. Our Tommy pal is sick, no doubt about it, but you think he and you are that far apart?”

We didn't say anything else until we got a half block away from Beauvoir. We parked at a Waffle House just off the beach. The parking lot was half filled with the usual combination of tourists and locals, some clearly coming down from all-night gambling sprees at the nearby casinos. Walter tried to take charge, but no one really took him seriously.

“So you drive,” he said, pointing to Tyler, “and then we wait for your text that he's there. And then we come in.”

“Do you think that Waffle House coffee is drinkable?” Jessie asked, and that's all anyone said. Tyler drove off. It was nine fifteen when Tyler left. I went inside the Waffle House with Jessie and ordered coffee. “I don't think I've ever been in one of these sober,” she said. “Or when it was daylight.” I thought about it and realized I hadn't either. Waffle Houses were ritual last stops after nights of partying.

“Holy fuck,” she said.

“Hey, there are kids in here,” said a woman sitting in a nearby booth with two young kids. Both were giggling.

Jessie dragged me outside by the arm and pointed down the street at a car. It was one of those awful electric GM things that the convention was using. “Somerfield fucking George just drove by,” she said.

“What?”

Walter and Paul were sitting in Paul's car arguing over the 1999 LSU–Ole Miss game and why they had lost. When they saw us running toward Jessie's car, Walter jumped out. “What?”

“Somerfield,” I yelled. “He drove past.”

Ahead we could see the electric car pulling in to the mostly empty Beauvoir parking lot. “What do I do?” Jessie asked, as she drove slowly ahead.

I shrugged. “Park, I guess.”

Somerfield had parked next to Tobias's car. We pulled in as far away as possible and Walter and Paul parked next to us. Then we sat there, not sure what to do. There had been no text from Tyler. I sent him a text and waited. Nothing.

I got out and walked over to Paul's car. “What do we do?”

“You sure it was Somerfield?” Paul asked.

“Jessie was. And that's a convention car.”

I turned toward the brick path that led to the entrance. “I'll text you or call,” I said over my shoulder. In an instant, Jessie was beside me. “No, please. Let me just do this,” I said, and to my surprise, she stopped.

“Don't fuck up,” she said, turning back to the car.

Inside I paid ten bucks to a middle-aged woman in a Civil War–era hoop skirt. She handed me a pamphlet,
The Confederate Summer White House
. I thought that was odd, calling the house that was used by the president of the rebellion against the White House the same name, but I suppose it made it easier for people to grasp. The house had high ceilings and hardwood floors, rebuilt after it was almost leveled during Katrina. I looked through all the rooms and found only a few French Canadian tourists. Then I started to walk out the front door to look at the Gulf and heard Tyler talking on the porch.

“Tommy, look, dude, you got to chill.”

Then a high voice I didn't recognize, which I knew had to be Tommy. He sounded like he was about to cry. “You wanted me to do this. I did it for your old man. Everybody on television says it's helping him.”

“Come on, Tommy, it wasn't like that,” Somerfield said.

“You talked to Tommy?” Tyler asked. “You guys talked, Tommy?”

“I met him before the convention,” Tommy said. “Come on, man, don't act like that.”

“We met for old times' sake. He got in touch, and I didn't want to be an asshole,” Somerfield said. “Tommy, look, this is serious shit.”

“I was trying to help your old man. He's like us.”

“You know what I think?” Tyler said, and he had that hot edge to his voice I knew so well. “I think Tommy is telling the truth and you're lying, Somer. I think Tommy did just what you wanted him to. And then you saw I posted that message and you freaked out.”

“You didn't post that?” Tommy asked.

“Sure I did,” Somerfield said. “I just wanted to see you and make sure you were okay.”

“Gimme a break,” Tyler said.

“What do you want me to do?” Tommy asked in a tired voice.

“You want to help my dad? You know what would really help, would clinch this whole deal, is if you let it out that you blew up that stuff to help Hilda Smith. Like you were helping her frame my dad.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Tyler said. “Nobody would believe that.”

“I don't think so,” Tommy said, sighing. “I didn't think you'd fuck me, Somer. I really didn't. I'll leave you guys alone now.”

I could hear Tommy start to walk away. “Don't do that, Tommy,” Somerfield said. “Come on with me. We can talk to my dad about all of this.”

“We can do that?” Tommy asked.

“He's fucking you again,” Tyler said. “Jesus Christ. Don't believe anything he says.”

“Call your dad,” Tommy said. “Call him and put him on the phone with me.”

“I can't do that now, Tommy. Come on.”

I heard Tommy walking away. “I gotta go now,” he said.

“Let me go with you, Tommy,” Somerfield said.

I stepped out the rest of the way onto the porch. Tyler saw me, but Somerfield was walking away, his arm around Tommy. I could still hear them talking.

“I'm not stupid, Somer. But I thought you would be a stand-up guy.”

“Come on, Tommy. Don't be like that.”

Tommy looked at Somerfield like a lover who had just been jilted. “Is your dad going to win?” Somerfield brightened and nodded. “And you still won't have anything to do with me, right?”

“Come on, Tommy.”

I went back inside while they walked around the big house to the parking lot. I called Walter on his cell phone. “Tommy's coming around with Somerfield. Don't do anything now. You don't want Somerfield to see you. Shoot some video of him with Tommy on your phone.” Walter started to argue, but I hung up.

When I got back outside, Tommy and Somerfield were standing by an old Honda Accord that belonged to Tommy. Tyler walked over to me, and it seemed that his awkward, off-center walk was more pronounced than ever. “What's going on?” I said.

“Fucking Somerfield. I believe Tommy. I think he put him up to this shit. Somerfield saw what I posted and showed up here.”

Somerfield turned and left Tommy standing by his car. When he saw me standing with Tyler, he shook his head and walked over.

“What a goddamn mess,” Somerfield said.

“Nice to see you,” I said.

“What the hell were you doing, Somerfield?” Tyler said. “You know Tommy's a basket case. What were you fucking around with him for?”

“Truth?” He started to answer but stopped. “What are we going to do about Tommy?”

“Do?” Tyler asked.

“We need to take care of him.”

“You mean hush him up,” I said. I looked over Somerfield's shoulder. Tommy was still leaning against the car, staring down at his phone.

“What a mess,” Somerfield said. “Look, you got fired, right?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “What's that got to do with this?”

“Can we just agree that if I can talk Tommy into getting some kind of help, we won't call in the dogs?”

Tyler looked at me. All of a sudden, I really didn't care. Seeing how pathetic and broken Tommy had looked, it was hard to argue that he should be dragged in front of the country and humiliated. Or thrown in jail. Somerfield was right. He did need help. I was running out of hate.

“Sure,” I said. “Go talk to him.”

We watched him walk over to talk to Tommy. From across the parking lot, Walter, Paul, and Jessie were looking at us, wondering what was going on.

“You're going soft,” Tyler said.

“So are you,” I said.

Tommy and Somerfield got in the car. “They going to run out on us?” I asked, not really caring.

“I doubt it. Probably just talking in the car.”

Jessie Fenestra was the hottest reporter on the planet. She had the perfect scoop, not one that depended on a source, because she
was
the source, an eyewitness to the—as it was now being called everywhere—“fiery deaths” of Somerfield George and Tommy Mayfield. And she had video. Goddamn Jessie had shot it all on her iPhone. She had the two of them walking together. Then the explosion.

Most of the even quasi-legit news outlets on cable and broadcast didn't run the full video, on the pretense that the public should be spared the gruesome spectacle of two people blowing up in a ball of fire. What a joke. Online, the video damn near broke the Internet. If there had only been a little sex in it, the clip would have been the ultimate snuff film.

For a few minutes after the explosion, while waiting for the cavalcade of emergency vehicles, we had argued about what had really happened. Not that it wasn't clear that both Tommy and Somerfield were still smoldering in the heap down at the end of the parking lot, but had it been an accident, or had Tommy blown up the car on purpose?