Presley squints at me as though measuring me for a shroud. “You keep pushing for that trial, you won’t live to see Wednesday. And that fag bodyguard you got out there won’t be able to help you none.”

“Who’s going to kill me? You?”

“Me? I ain’t leaving this trailer.”

“Do the deal, Ray. It’s your only chance.”

“Me and the judge go back thirty years. I ain’t no punk to roll over on my friends.”

“You think Leo Marston is your friend?”

He jabs the shotgun at me. “I know you ain’t.”

The blonde’s eyes track me over the sights of her rifle, all the way to the door. I shouldn’t say another word, but Ruby’s blood is calling to me from the ground.

“Where were you Tuesday afternoon, Ray?”

He cuts his eyes at the blonde, then looks back at me, a smug light in his eyes. “I believe I was delivering a message in town.”

“A message,” I repeat, recalling the flames eating through the roof of our house, the smell of Ruby’s cooking flesh. My hands ball into fists at my sides.

“I don’t think it got received, though,” he says.

I step within two feet of him. “I’m going to settle that score, you piece of shit. You’re going to die in the Parchman infirmary. They don’t stock your Mexican cocktail there. And there aren’t any blondes to take the edge off, as you like to put it. Not girls, anyway.”

His thin lips part in a predatory smile, revealing small white teeth. “You’ll be dead before I will. It’s coming now, and you don’t even see it.”

When I open the door, the sun hits my eyes like a flashbulb, but it feels good to get out of the stinking trailer.

Kelly is standing by the cars. “Accomplish anything?” he asks.

“No.”

When I reach the cars, he pats me on the shoulder. “Let’s go back to town, boss.”

One of the things that has always separated Natchez from other Mississippi towns is that if you want a drink you can get it, no matter the day or hour.

Kelly suggests the Under the Hill Saloon (a national treasure of a bar), but a big crowd gathers there on Sundays to watch the sun set over the river, and they start celebrating early.

A crowd is not what I want right now.

The bar at Biscuits and Blues is oak and runs a good thirty feet down one wall, with a mirror behind it and glittering bottles and glasses stacked in front. The restaurant is empty but for a couple eating in a booth against the wall opposite the bar. Clanks and clatters filter through the heavy kitchen doors, but otherwise the atmosphere is perfect.