Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

“Y’all have to excuse me,” he said, and the drawl was thick enough to cut with a pearl-handled knife, “but I was listenin t’some of what yuh was sayin. Don’t git the idea ah’m the kinda fella listens in on private conversations, but I caught yer general drift, an it kinda intrigued me. Yuh said there’s a general feelin roun these parts that money’ll buy anythin’.”

“That’s right,” said Landry. He did not look embarrassed or even surprised. I had to give him credit for a certain bravery: he was not one to step back from a challenge or an obstacle. He was hot headed, certainly, but he was not without the courage of his convictions. You had to give him that.

The stranger pushed his hat back, exposing a high, lined forehead and, above it, a mane of thinning gray hair. He might have been a retired Western star, or a champion rodeo rider, or a cardsmith. But I had a premonition he was none of these things.

“Well, that may be the feelin, but y’all excuse me if I tell yuh there’s at least one thinget money cain’t buy. No, sir. And that’s courage.”

“Courage?” Landry repeated.

The Texan nodded, then glanced from Landry to me and asked, “Y’all mind if I sit down here?”

Landry shook his head and indicated a chair.

The big man sank into it and exhaled, then looked up with a startled expression as if he had just been caught cheating at cards.

“Shucks, I forgot t’introduce m’self. That’s downright rude. M’names DuBose. John Jacob DuBose. J.J. to m’friends.”

He reached out a hand the size of a small ham, and pumped Landry’s first, then mine.

“This is Paul Gardner,” Landry said, indicating me. “My name’s Steve Landry.”

“Pleased t’meet both o’you,” the Texan said. “Yer not from this part o’the country, ah’d wager.”

“No,” Landry said. “I’m from San Diego originally, and Paul’s from San Francisco.”

J.J. DuBose winked at me. “Nice city,” he said, putting an end to that phase of the conversation and turning his attention back to Landry. As he spoke he fished a golden cigarette case out of his pocket, shook a cigarette loose, and then spun the wheel of a gold-plated cigarette lighter that bore on its side the single gleaming monogram-med letter D. That done, he touched the flame to the cigarette and said, “But we was speakin o’courage. I wish t’God money could buy that, cause ah’d...”

He broke off, and glanced from Landry to me.

“Ah’ll level with you boys. Yer lookin’ at a dyin’ man.”

The incongruity of his statement must have struck us both at once: J.J. Du Bose looked perhaps sixty years of age, and everything about his appearance, from his burly forearms with their timberline of dark curling hair to his powerful voice, suggested he might live to be a hundred.

Noting our appraisal of his physical condition, he shook his head. “Don’t let appearances fool ya. Ah’m eaten up with cancer. That’s what comes o’smokin five packsa Chesterfields a day over forty years. There ain’t no doubt of it: ah’ve been t’every g.p. an every cancer specialist from here t’Tuscaloosa, an it cost me sixteen Gs t’hear the same thing from ever one of em: ah’m crawlin with the things. They’re all over me, in muh lungs, muh colon, muh liver. They probably reached muh brain b’now.” The Texan took a deep drag off his cigarette and smiled wistfully. “But it’s OK. Ah’m resigned t’that. It don’t scare m’none. Hail, everbody gotta die sometime. Ah’ve had a good life: ah’ve been with a lotta women — if y’catch muh meanin — ah’ve made a lotta money, ah’ve gotta nice spread. Ah coulda died, wheezin and coughin, twenty years ago an ah didn’t. The lord been lookin after me fer a long time. But that ain’t m’point.”

He drew his chair closer to the table. The wistful expression was gone now, replaced by one of remarkable earnestness.

“The point is ah ain’t got too much time left on God’s earth, an the land an the money has gotta go somewhar after ah kick. Ah ain’t got nobody t’leave it to. Nobody deservin, that is.” He scowled. “Ah’m single now, but ah was married oncet. To a Mexican woman, name o’Juanita. She’s dead now a good five years. She was fifteen years younger’n me, and I outlasted her.”

He smiled bitterly at the memory, then went on:

“Anyways, we had a son. But he ain’t a DuBose. Not by a country mile. An d’you know why? Cause he lacks the greatest dang thing God ever give us: courage. Truth t’tell, he’s the most miserable bastard was ever whelped. He’s off livin somewhar in Mexico now. I ain’t even heard of him since afore his mother died. Dint even come t’the funeral. Some people are like at. I guess it’s somethin yer born with, like a suck-egg dog, they’s nothin y’can do for em; y’either get rid of em or shoot em. I can’t very well shoot m’own boy, so I disowned em. Point bein: who in hail’m I gonna leave m’money to?” He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.

I glanced over at Landry. To my surprise he was listening to the Texan’s every word. I thought it an appropriate time to speak. “Who are you going to leave it to?”