I don’t know how to respond. Then a fragment of Dad’s thumbnail sketch of local politics comes to me: Shad Johnson moved home to Natchez from Chicago specifically to run for mayor. “I hear the same could be said of you, Mr. Johnson.”

He laughs. “Call me Shad.”

“How can I help you, Shad?”

“I’d like you to come see me for a few minutes. I’d come to you, but you might not want the neighbors thinking we’re any closer than we are. News travels fast in this town. Like those Payton women coming to see you this morning.”

A wave of heat rolls up the back of my neck. “I have no intention of getting involved in local politics, Mr. Johnson.”

“You got involved the second you talked to the newspaper about Del Payton.”

“Consider me uninvolved.”

“I’d like nothing better. But we still need to talk.”

“We’re talking now.”

“Face to face. I’m over at my campaign headquarters. You’re not afraid to come to the north side of town, are you?”

“No.” My father is straining hard to hear both sides of the conversation. “But I’ve got to be somewhere in an hour.”

“Not that fund-raiser for Wiley Warren, I hope?”

Shad Johnson obviously has the town wired. I’m about to beg off when he says, “You and your family are in danger.”

I fight the impulse to overreact. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Give me your address.”

“Martin Luther King Drive. It’s a storefront setup, in a little strip mall.”

“Where’s Martin Luther King Drive?”

“Pine Street,” Dad says, looking concerned.

“That old shopping center by the Brick House?” I ask, recalling a shadowy cinder-block bar I went to once with two black guys I spent a summer laying sewer pipe with.

“That’s right. But it’s not the Brick House anymore, just like it’s not Pine Street anymore. Times change, counselor. You on your way?”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

“What the hell did he want?” Dad asks, taking the phone from me and hanging it up.

“He said our family’s in danger.”

“What?”

I tie my tie and walk to the bedroom door. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. We’ll make the party in plenty of time.”

He gives me his trademark stern-father look. “You’d better take a pistol with you.”