“Eakins painted hunters. Homer painted fish.”

“Damn well, too.”

“So who do you like? Artists?”

“Rembrandt. Ingres. Degas. Egon Schiele. Like that. Guys who could draw. People who like color. Gauguin. Living guys, maybe Jim Dine. Wolf Kahn. A couple of personal friends. Why?”

“I do some

art.” He said it reluctantly, almost as a confession.

“Painting?”

“No, no.” He slowed for a moment, letting a woman in an old canary yellow Ford Pinto squeeze in front of us. Traffic in Memphis is usually tangled, especially when you get close to the water. The heat didn’t help, and the people who weren’t sealed in air-conditioned cars were driving with an air of desperation. “I make things. Out of wood and glass and rocks and clay, from down along the river.”

“Sell it?”

“Shit,” he said in disgust.

“I’d like to see it.”

He looked over at me for a moment. “Maybe.”

We lapsed back into silence. Ten minutes later we were on a narrow two-lane highway lined with recapped tire joints and motels with signs that said TRUCKERS WELCOME. Memphis was disappearing in the rearview mirror.

“Where’re we going?” I asked.

“Downstream,” he said. We were running along the river in the gathering evening twilight. “It’ll take a while. Town of Longstreet.”

“What’s in Longstreet?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he braked and turned into a roadside convenience store. When we’d stopped, he said, “I want to get Cokes and ice. I’ve got a cooler in the trunk.”

“Get a six-pack of beer, too,” I said. I took a five-dollar bill out of my pocket, passed it to him, and asked again, “What’s in Longstreet?”

“A problem. Maybe some trouble. A lot of hate.”

“A garden spot,” I said.

“It’s in the fuckin’ Delta,” he said, as if that explained everything. “There could be some money in it.”

“That sounds interesting,” I said.

“Yeah. Bobby thought it might.”

While he was in the store, I considered the possibility that Bobby had dipped into my IRS files. I hadn’t decided one way or the other when John returned. He stashed the cooler on the backseat, and we each popped a can of Coke. It was a small piece of camaraderie and seemed to loosen him up. He started answering questions.

“Where’s Bobby?” I asked, as John barely beat a tractor-trailer onto the highway. “In Longstreet?”

“I don’t know. I never met him,” John said, sounding a little puzzled. “I thought you’d know.”

“No. I’ve never met him face-to-face.”

“Huh. I wonder if anybody’s ever met him face-to-face.”

“Somebody must have. He’s got to eat

You’re a computer jock?”