“I heard a nigger done that, too,” Tarver goes on. “A poacher from down in Lusahatcha County. Found him dead behind a crack house in Baton Rouge, didn’t they?”

Garland lifts his mug and drains half the beer in it. “Yup. One less to worry about.”

While these comments ricochet around my neurons, I draw the Springfield from my belt, pull back the slide, and lay the barrel against the comedian’s temple.

“Say that again, Mr. Garland.”

Devine’s chair scrapes the floor as he shoves back from the table and gets to his feet, wheezing from the effort. The kid looks like he wants to jump me, but Tarver just laughs and says, “Damn, I wish I had a camera.”

“I got one on my cell phone,” says the blond kid.

“Don’t worry, Buddy,” Tarver says calmly. “Cage won’t shoot. He’s the fuckin’ mayor.”

“Don’t do nothin’, Alois,” says the man with the pistol against his head. “Don’t touch your phone. Please.”

“He ain’t gonna shoot,” Tarver insists. “Take the picture, Alois. If we get a picture of this, Sheriff Dennis will have to throw him in jail. It’ll be front page news.”

As the blond kid digs into his pocket, the empirical reality of the situation finally registers in my brain. Tarver wants me to shoot. The life of the man at the end of my gun barrel means nothing when weighed against the prospect of me sitting on death row in Angola Penitentiary—which is where I’ll wind up if I kill a man on this side of the river.

As the blond kid holds up his cell phone, I lower the gun and take the empty chair at the table, concealing the gun below its Formica surface.

“I came over here to tell you guys something,” I say softly.

“What you waitin’ for?” asks Tarver.

“Snake sent me a message about three weeks back. Through a biker. He said, ‘Wives and children have no immunity.’”

The old man squints as though laboring to understand the words. “That don’t sound like Snake to me.”

“Yes, it does. It sounds like all you fuckers. I know you, Tarver. You’re the kind of backshooting coward that stands in the dark and executes a man who’s lying in a hospital bed, or throws a cup of acid into a young girl’s face. You’re the kind of shithead who kills an old lady who remembers being raped by you back when you could still get it up.”

Tarver’s head jerks at that, and his eyes fill with hatred.

“Oh, yeah,” I tell him. “I know all about that machine shop.”

Will Devine swallows audibly.