Butch gazed out the window of his second-floor conference room, gripping tight to the cell phone he held in his right hand. From this position, he could barely make out the plaque. Occasionally, on what used to be called Robert E. Lee Day but now was celebrated in most of the country as Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Butch would see tourists walking aimlessly down Madison, clearly trying to find the plaque that no longer had any words on it. And just last week, some Klansmen marched around the square after news broke that Ennis Petrie had been granted parole. Some of the men had ambled down the sidewalk and had knelt in front of the plaque, and a few had even kissed the damn thing. Then Butch had stood in this spot and marveled at how there were people in this crazy world who still celebrated the exploits of the Klan and wore the white robes and hoods with pride.

Now, though Butch was looking out the same window, he saw nothing at all. If the Klan were marching below in full regalia, Butch would have stared right through them.

Though the air-conditioning was blowing full blast, beads of sweat had pooled on Butch’s forehead and under his arms. With his left hand, he reached down and grabbed the pint of George Dickel he’d placed on the sill. The top was already off—he’d had several belts since coming in that morning—and he took another pull.

“Easy with that, Butch. What is it? Nine thirty in the morning?”

“Nine fifteen,” Butch said and took another sip of whiskey. Then he turned around and looked down at the conference room table, where Terry Grimes was seated with his hands clasped in a tent position over his stomach. Terry wore a blue-and-white seersucker suit—the same one he had donned for the commercials he’d cut for Terry Grimes Ford/Buick, which was the largest dealership in town now that Walton Chevrolet had closed a few years back. In public, Terry almost always wore a coat and tie. A friendly seersucker for his TV spots, a navy or charcoal suit for the hearings he attended as a six-term county commissioner, and perhaps a sports coat and slacks for meetings of the numerous civic organizations and bank boards he served on. He was a clean-shaven man whose salt-and-pepper hair was thick and curly, and for as long as Butch had known him, Terry had been trim and fit. He worked out at the YMCA five times a week, didn’t smoke, and never touched alcohol.

But despite these healthy habits, Terry Grimes did have one dubious and dangerous vice.

Which is why we’re all sweating bullets now, Butch thought.