“God is my bodyguard,” Mary Jean would say.

She carried a .38-caliber gold-plated Lady Smith automatic in her bag: the Clara Barton Commemorative Model, presented to her by the Daughters of the Confederacy at their annual “Let’s Lynch Leroy” pecan pie bake-off, held every Martin Luther King Jr. Day. (She didn’t agree with their politics, but the belles could sure sell some makeup. If the South did not rise again, it wouldn’t be for lack of foundation.)

Today, as Mary Jean came through the doors of the main lobby, she was flanked by a tall predatory woman in a black business suit—a severe con-trast to Mary Jean’s soft pastel blue ensemble with matching bag and pumps. “Strength and femininity are not exclusive, ladies.” She was sixty-five; matronly but elegant. Her makeup was perfect, but not overdone. She wore a sapphire-and-diamond pin whose value approximated the gross national product of Zaire.

She greeted every orderly and nurse with a smile, asked after their families, thanked them for their compassionate work, flirted when appropriate, and tossed compliments over her shoulder as she passed, without ever missing a step. She left a wake of acutely charmed fans, even among the cynical and stubborn.

Outside Tucker’s room the predatory woman—a lawyer—broke formation and confronted the maggotry of reporters, allowing Mary Jean to slip past.

She poked her head inside. “You awake, slugger?”

Tuck was startled by her voice, yanked out of his redundant reverie of unemployment, imprisonment, and impotence. He wanted to pull the sheets over his head and quietly die.

“Mary Jean.”

The makeup magnate moved to his bedside and took his hand, all compassion and caring. “How are you feeling?”

Tucker looked away from her. “I’m okay.”

“Do you need anything? I’ll have it here in a Texas jiffy.”