Hughes became Bennett’s assistant after the war. The man ran his errands, drove for him when Bennett didn’t want to slide behind the wheel, and served as an informal secretary. Bennett was known to pay Hughes very well and treat him respectfully, which was surprising because there were few others he treated that way. It was especially surprising because Hughes was a Negro.

“He said Cliffie’s decided that Doran killed him. I guess they had some kind of run-in last night.”

“I know they did, Kenny. I was there.”

“No, I mean afterward. In front of the Royale. After Bennett left the hospital he seemed a lot calmer. Then he went to the bar in the Royale and had some drinks. When he came out he saw Doran across the street. He ran over there and they got into an argument and Bennett punched him.”

I kept thinking of Lou Bennett coming apart over his son last night at the peace rally. Then I thought about how bad this looked for Doran.

As Kenny talked, I watched one of Cliffie’s deputies walking down the long drive toward us. This was Bill Tomlin. He was no genius, but at least he knew that fingerprints mattered.

He walked up to us and said, “Morning, men.” He was all khaki and campaign hat, playing his part in Cliffie’s Western fantasy. Pancho Villa would be swooping down on us very soon now. “I’m kind of embarrassed about this-I mean you’re standing on public land-but the chief wants you both to leave.”

“What the hell, Bill,” I said. “Public land, like you said. He can’t make us move.”

He had a moon face and a moon belly. His armpits and parts of his sleeves were dark with sweat. He glanced over his shoulder as if allknowing Cliffie might be listening. “You know how it is. He ain’t got a real good track record with you. With murders and everything. You and the judge are always right and he’s always wrong. I guess it makes him nervous that you’re anywhere in the vicinity.”