“But the thing is,” I go on, “guys like you and Snake, the ones who did the beatings and killings back in the sixties? You were nothing but pawns in the hands of the rich boys. White trash. Flunkies. In the grand scheme of things, you were only one cut above a nigger yourself. That’s why civil rights scared you so bad. You talked loud and wore your bedsheet proud, but if you ever really got out of line—or got ideas above your station—the boss in the big house would trim your wick so fast your head would spin.”

The blond kid looks like he’s about to have a stroke, but the truth of my words is written on the faces of the older men.

“My dad started as poor as every one of you,” I go on. “But he worked his way up and out. Now, sure, I’m the one living in the big house on the high side of the river. But I’ve never forgotten where I came from.”

I hear a siren in the distance. Did a cook in the back dial 911?

“Cops on the way,” says Alois, an edge in his voice.

“Just say your piece and get the fuck out,” Tarver mutters.

Sliding the Springfield from beneath the table, I lay it flat on the Formica in front of me, the barrel pointed at Tarver’s belly, my finger on the trigger.

“Back during the Civil War in Tennessee, there was a man named Jack Hinson. Came from Highland Scots stock. Hinson tried as hard as he could to stay out of the war. But one day, a Union patrol killed two of his sons, then had the heads mounted on Hinson’s gateposts. After that, Hinson had a special rifle made. Then he went to war against the Union army. He killed the lieutenant who murdered his boys first. But before he was through, he killed more than a hundred soldiers.”

The old men are watching me with rapt attention; this is the kind of story they would normally love.

“The point is, I come from Highland Scots stock on my mother’s side. And if the girl who got acid thrown in her face today had been my little girl . . . I wouldn’t have walked in here like I did. I wouldn’t have sat down to talk. I’d have walked in and shot you in the face.”

Tarver blinks slowly, appraising my words.

I look next at Garland, then Will Devine. The fat man looks afraid.

“Then I’d have shot these two. Center mass while they were still pissing themselves. And no jury within five miles of Natchez would convict me.”

The old men are watching Tarver now.

“Aren’t you the badass all of a sudden?” Tarver says softly.

“Why don’t you ask Forrest Knox that question?”

The old Double Eagle’s mouth drops open.