“Warwick County. It’s the worst place in Alabama. These people can’t even read. The white people can’t even read.”

“Then why are we going out here? It’s spooky. It gives me the creeps.”

“I think you ought to see this. If you’re going to live down here, you ought to see what you’re up against. Junior’s going to be waiting at the store. Nothing can happen to us.”

“It’s just so goddamn dark.”

“Dark of the moon,” he answered and took another drink out of the bottle and passed it to me. I took a sip and shuddered, then chased it down with Coke and took another sip. The two-lane asphalt road wound up into the hills of Warwick County. This land had never been under cultivation. All people out here did for a living was raise a few hogs or pigs or chickens or maybe cows. It was the stronghold of the Klan, where the main obsession morning, night, and noon was keeping the white race pure. This was partially achieved by incest. But the main work was keeping the Negroes in their place, keeping the night as dark as it could be. We turned off the asphalt onto a gravel road and drove a few miles and came to a stop before a country store. Cars and pickup trucks were parked all around the building. A jukebox was playing. The porch was filled with groups of men wearing overalls and dark pants. Some of them were wearing capes. Long white satin capes with hoods and designs in red. Light shone from the windows of the store onto the figures on the porch.

“No,” I said. “We can’t go in. Turn around, Charles William. Let’s go back.”

“You need to see this, Dee. You’re safe. They won’t hurt you. Junior’s here.” As he spoke a man released himself from the crowd and came down the wooden steps and walked up to the car. A dark face leaned into the window on the driver’s side.

“Who you looking for?” he asked. “What’d you need?”

“I’m looking for Winston Strange. We’re supposed to meet him here. We came to bet on the fights.”

“You got a girl with you?”

“Winston said she could come.” I moved back into the seat. I had dealt with white trash before. They worked for my father at his coal mines in Kentucky, but I had never been alone with them in a place where I wasn’t the boss’s daughter. You couldn’t tell what white trash would do. Up in Kentucky they still had feuds and killed each other.

“I don’t care if I come or not,” I said. “It doesn’t matter to me if I see a fight. I just came along for the ride.”