While Frank considered this rumor, Jim Reeves began singing “He’ll Have to Go.” “Gentleman Jim” had died in a plane crash near Nashville only nine days ago, and disc jockeys had been playing his records practically nonstop ever since.

“Bullshit,” Frank decided at length. “Not that the FBI hasn’t cozied up to the mob some, ’cause I know they did during the Cuba mess. Half the guns coming into our training camps in sixty-one were being supplied by Carlos Marcello’s people, and Trafficante’s Havana contacts were providing our intel for the invasion. Hoover knew all about that. The CIA ran the South Florida camps, but I met FBI agents down there, too. J. Edgar wouldn’t use a wop on something like this, though. If he wants a gun stuck up some Klansman’s ass, he’s got field agents who’ll do it for him. The Bureau’s got some hard boys, same as us.”

“Yeah,” said Morehouse. “They got southern boys in the FBI.”

Frank laughed bitterly. “You think there ain’t no tough Yankees? Have you forgotten that Irishman, McClaren, on Guadalcanal? He killed more Japs than I ever did, and he was from Boston, just like the Kennedys. Fighting alongside that crazy bastard showed me how we lost at Gettysburg.”

Sonny watched Frank like an interrogator waiting for a prisoner to crack. He knew his old sergeant had something to tell them. But hell could freeze over before Frank Knox would show you his hole card. After Sonny’s curiosity got the best of him, he said, “Come on, Top. You ain’t gonna let this Neshoba County thing pass unanswered, I know.”

Frank’s eyes shone with menace, like the glow of a tire fire in a dump, which could burn for fifteen years. “That’s a fact, Son. Today is a red-letter day. One you boys ain’t ever gonna forget.”

“How come?” asked Morehouse.

“Because today we’re leaving the Klan.”

Glenn gasped, and Sonny choked on the smoke in his lungs.

“Don’t know why you’re surprised,” Frank said. “The Klan we got now’s about as dangerous as the Garden Club. Every goddamn klavern in the state’s eaten up with informants. The whole organization’s useless. Worse than useless.”

Morehouse looked like a Cub Scout whose father had told him they were renouncing American citizenship. “But—but—” he stammered.

“But nothing,” Frank snapped. “We’re splitting off, and that’s it.”

“We can’t quit,” Sonny said. “You know that. Once in, never out.”

Frank laughed. “We’re not telling anybody we’re quitting. We’ll keep going through the motions, wearing the stupid robes and masks, kowtowing to the Dragons and Kleagles and Wizards and all that other Halloween bullshit. But that ain’t nothing but cover now. You follow? I’m forming a special unit. An action squad. A wrecking crew.”

“Our own wrecking crew,” Morehouse echoed, savoring the words on his tongue.