“Don’t make fun. This is serious. Maybe they do have secret codes or passwords—how do I know? I’m asking you.”

“Well, let me see. There’s the Masons—three or four lodges, pretty sinister boys. Then there’s the Knights Templars, still searching for the Holy Grail. Hell, maybe they found it, tucked it away in their basement. We could walk over and check, it’s only up on Front Street.”

“Harry—”

“You got your Knights of the Golden Eagle, your Knights of Pythias, your Woodmen of the World—now, there’s a cadre of revolutionary scoundrels.”

“Harry, I didn’t mean—”

“For pure deviltry, nobody beats the Fraternal Mystic Circle. They meet right across from city hall. Up to no good, I suspect.”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“How about the Improved Order of Redmen?”

“Harry—”

“See, we Southern boys are joiners. About once a week, we need to sit ourselves down inside a room full of fellows just like ourselves who agree with everything we say.”

“Sarcasm won’t get it done, Harry.”

“Course, we haven’t even scratched the ladies’ societies, the veterans’ brigades, the church social clubs, the amateur theatrical troupes, or the Jews—the Jews are always up to something.” He drank. “If it’s juvenile delinquents you want, check out Walker Taylor’s Boys Brigade, marching around in Rough Rider clothes, carrying wooden rifles.’’

Sam let him rattle on until he was dry for whiskey and reached for his glass, then said evenly, “How about the Secret Nine?”

“What?” Harry said, coughing out the whiskey right into his bare hand. He dried the hand elaborately with his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket.

“Group Six, Harry? Ever hear of them?”

Harry reached across the table, grabbed Sam’s arms above the elbows, and pulled him in close. Harry could be strong when he wanted to be. “Lower your voice, if you please. Now, who you been talking to besides me?”

“I came to you first, Harry.” No sense in dragging anyone else into this. He just needed to know if it was true.

“Three can keep a secret if two are dead.” Harry let go. “You have to take care about who you’re fooling with.”

“I’m tired of fooling, Harry. I’m supposed to be a reporter.”

“Tom Clawson doesn’t want a reporter. He’s got no use for bad news. He answers to MacRae. Haven’t you figured that out?”

Sam glared at him. “What’s the Secret Nine, Harry? Who are they?”

Harry Calabash shot the whiskey into the back of his throat and stood up. “Come on. Let’s you and me take a walk.”

They walked slowly in the oppressive heat, up the hill toward city hall and the courthouse, where they spotted Colonel Waddell hurrying inside. Harry said, pointing his cane at Waddell, “I’ll tell you one gentleman who isn’t in the club, and it’s killing him.”