The Front Porch Prophet

Regina’s father, Mr. Deberry, Esquire, was a man of repute in the legal community, and he roared into town with the full intention of “straightening some country ass out.” He spent exactly seventeen minutes with Slim, and when he emerged from the town hall, he had his daughter. Slim remained inside. Mr. Deberry-Deeb to his friends-then sought out Eugene, who had succeeded in taking full responsibility for the killings despite A.J.’s best efforts to shift the blame to its rightful owner. Deeb found Eugene down at the beer joint, and they quaffed a couple while he thanked Eugene for saving his daughter. Eugene was free on a property bond pending the outcome of the inquest, a guarantee posted by John Robert Longstreet because Johnny Mack wouldn’t sign. Deeb told Eugene his legal woes would be handled as soon as he got back to Atlanta, and he proved to be a man of his word.

As for the departed in the woods, they were dead first and foremost, and not a great deal more could be added. The three A.J. had dispatched were the intended buyers of the marijuana. Kenneth was Regina’s muscle on the deal, and Regina was the purveyor. The problem had been one of league. She was accustomed to dealing a little doobie down at the hallowed halls, and in that venue dissatisfied customers did not as a general habit rape and then kill their suppliers.

Playing with the big boys proved to have its own set of rules, but Regina was an intelligent woman who did not have to be told twice. She contracted with Eugene-whom she mistakenly believed would kill for her-to distribute all the black Jamaican she could provide, and since he warranted she would make a fair profit and not be ravaged or terminated, a partnership was born that lasted for several years.

This left the loose end of A.J. and Maggie. One of his main concerns-aside from Lukey in the Reidsville shower stall-was how Maggie would react when informed her beloved had killed more people than Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray, and Sirhan Sirhan, if that was his real name. But he told her anyway and was surprised to discover her thoughts on the affair were similar to Eugene’s.

“Eugene was right. He could get away with it. You they would have hung.” She spoke in a sardonic tone. “Anyway, he really wanted the credit. Can’t you tell? He gets to be a hero without being a hero.” And that was that, except for her comment on the act itself. After describing to her the scene at the campground, Maggie’s response was cool and measured.

“Good. I hope it hurt.”

CHAPTER 6

Establish a scholarship in my name with the enclosed $5000.00.

– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to the management of The Panther Club

A.J.’S WALK WITH MAYHEM WAS ANCIENT HISTORY, but it had taken center stage in his consciousness when Eugene had chosen to refer to the incident, and A.J. had been in a foul frame of mind ever since. His mood remained sour until the following Wednesday, when he was summoned to the mill for an early meeting. At that point, his disposition really decayed. He normally reported at 4:00 p.m. and turned logs into boards until 2:00 a.m. the following morning. He called it the Bermuda Shift, because many hapless souls had wandered onto it over the years, never to be seen again. He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee with John Robert when the phone call came.

“A.J., there’s a meeting at two o’clock,” said Marie Prater. She had been an institution at the sawmill for many years. “You have to be here.” Marie was John McCord’s secretary, and John McCord was president and general manager of McCord Lumber. She was a formidable woman, seldom wrong and rarely challenged. Her husband, Randall, was disabled, having suffered from a bad back since about the time he was old enough to perform any work. This affliction was hereditary and had stricken his father and grandfather, and others before that. Marie’s children-four teenaged boys with bad backs-amazed A.J., because he could not envision Randall expending the energy necessary to father them. In truth, none of the boys favored Randall much, and one of them was the spitting image of John McCord, so perhaps Marie had been forced to make other arrangements.

“What’s the meeting about?” A.J. asked, still groggy. The previous evening’s sawmill outing had been challenging, and he hadn’t been up long. He hated early meetings and had pointed out on numerous occasions that if they were periodically scheduled for 3:00 a.m., then the day staff would be afforded equal opportunity to come in a couple of hours early. This suggestion had yet to be acted upon.