Morehouse returned Henry’s accusing stare with surprising calm. “I told you, Henry, I liked Albert.”

“You probably liked Jerry Dugan, too. You grew up with him. But that didn’t stop you guys from killing him.”

Fury flashed from the hazy eyes like lightning from a cloudy sky. “Watch yourself, boy.”

Henry didn’t let his gaze waver. “Why was Albert Norris targeted?”

The old man looked as though he meant to keep stonewalling, but then in a weary voice he said, “You can’t be that dumb, Henry. Take your pick. Albert was bootlegging, running numbers on the side … he even used that gospel radio show of his to set up adultery and miscegenation. What the hell did he think was gonna happen to him?”

“So the Eagles were behind his murder.”

Morehouse looked over at the dying fire and said, “Why don’t you go outside and get another log for the fire?”

“Why don’t you answer my question?”

The old man gave him the stink-eye again, but Henry wasn’t going to be deflected. He’d lost too many friends to this man and his kind. “How about we cut the bullshit, Glenn? I know what really happened to Albert Norris, and I know why. In the summer of sixty-four, Pooky Wilson was screwing a white girl named Katy Royal. Her father was Brody Royal, one of the richest men in the parish. Royal killed Pooky to stop the affair and make a point, and he used the Double Eagles to do it. Pooky Wilson was the intended victim all along. Albert just got in the way. He was killed for trying to protect that boy.”

Morehouse’s eyes had gone wide.

“I told you I knew the truth,” Henry said with a rush of triumph. “All I need is confirmation.”

Morehouse slowly recovered himself, but he looked a lot less smug than he had before. “Listen to me, Henry. I’m going to tell you this because my mama always liked yours. The stories you’ve written up to now have irritated some people, but most people can tolerate a little irritation. But—if you start messin’ with Brody Royal, you won’t live long. In fact, you might just beat me to the grave, and that’s saying something.”

This threat didn’t surprise Henry. He’d long known that Brody Royal—the president of Royal Oil and the Royal Cotton Bank, and the owner of massive farm and timber operations—was little better than a gangster. “Let’s say I’m willing to take that risk.”

Morehouse reached out and gripped Henry’s wrist with frightful strength. “If I tell you what happened that night, will you really keep it secret till I’m feedin’ worms? Will you, boy?”

Henry tried to jerk his hand free, but he couldn’t. “I know Brody and Frank visited Albert’s store that afternoon,” he said. “I can prove it.”