This is exactly what Lyle wants to hear. He lights up, smiles at me, and says, "That's a great idea. That's what I want to do." For the moment, he's forgotten about the game.

"The best organization is an outfit in Virginia, the Confederate Defense Fund. You gotta be careful. Some of these nonprofits give at least half their money to build monuments to honor the Union forces. I don't think that's what you have in mind."

"h.e.l.l no."

His eyes flash hot for a second, and Lyle is once again ready for battle. "Not my money," he adds.

"I'll be happy to serve as your trustee," I say, and move a checker.

"What does that mean?"

"You name the Confederate Defense Fund as the recipient of your estate, and upon your death the money goes into a trust so that I, or whomever you choose, can watch the money carefully and make sure it's accounted for."

He's smiling. "That's what I want, Gill. That's it."

"It's the best way-"

"You don't mind, do you? You'd be in charge of everything when I die."

I clutch his right hand, squeeze it, look him firmly in the eyes, and say, "I'd be honored, Lyle."

We make a few moves in silence, then I wrap up some loose ends. "What about your family?"

"What about them?"

"Your daughter, your son, what do they get from your estate?"

His response is a cross between a sigh, a hiss, and a snort, and when they are combined with a rolling of the eyes, I know immediately that his dear children are about to get cut out. This is perfectly legal in Mississippi and in most states. When making a will, you can exclude everyone but your surviving spouse. And some folks still try.

"I haven't heard from my son in five years. My daughter has more money than I do. Nothing. They get nothing."

"Do they know about this land in Polk County?" I ask.

"I don't think so."

This is all I need.

Two days later, rumors race through Quiet Haven. "The lawyers are coming!" Thanks primarily to me, the gossip has been festering about a ma.s.sive lawsuit under way in which the family of Ms. Harriet Markle will expose everything and collect millions. It's partially true, but Ms. Harriet knows nothing about it. She's back in her bed, a very clean bed, well fed and properly medicated, properly supervised, and basically dead to the world.

Her lawyer, the Honorable Dexter Ridley of Tupelo, Mississippi, arrives late one afternoon with a small entourage that consists of his faithful secretary and two paralegals, both wearing suits as dark as Dexter's and both scowling in the finest lawyerly tradition. It's an impressive team, and I've never seen such excitement at Quiet Haven. Nor have I seen the place as spiffed-up and shiny. Even the plastic flowers on the front desk have been replaced by real ones. Orders from the home office.

Dex and his team are met by a junior executive from the company who's all smiles. The official reason for this visit is to allow Dex the opportunity to inspect, examine, photograph, measure, and in general poke around Quiet Haven, and for an hour or so he does this with great skill. This is his specialty. He needs to "get the feel of the place" before he sues it. Anyway, it's all an act. Dex is certain the matter will be settled quietly, and generously, without the actual filing of a lawsuit.

Though my shift doesn't start until 9:00 p.m., I hang around as usual. By now the staff and the residents are accustomed to seeing me at all hours. It's as if I never leave. But I'm leaving, believe me.

Rozelle, working late, is busy preparing dinner, not cooking, she reminds me, just preparing. I stay in the kitchen, pestering her, gossiping, helping occasionally. She wants to know what the lawyers are up to, and as usual I can only speculate, but I do so with a lot of theories. Promptly at 6:00 p.m., the residents start drifting into the cafeteria, and I begin carrying trays of the vapid gruel we serve them. Tonight the Jell-O is yellow.

At precisely 6:30, I swing into action. I leave the cafeteria and walk to room 18, where I find Mr. Spurlock sitting on his bed, reading a copy of his last will and testament. Mr. Hitchc.o.c.k is down the hall having dinner, so we can talk.

"Any questions?" I ask. It's only three pages long, at times written clearly and at times loaded with enough legalese to stump a law professor. Dex is a genius at drafting these things. He adds just enough clear language to convince the person signing that though he or she may not know exactly what he or she is signing, the overall gist of the doc.u.ment is just fine.

"I suppose so," Lyle says, uncertain.

"Lots of legal stuff," I explain helpfully. "But that's required. The bottom line is that you're leaving everything to the Confederate Defense Fund, in trust, and I'll oversee it all. Is that what you want?"

"Yes, and thank you, Gill."

"I'm honored. Let's go."

We take our time-Lyle is moving much slower since the stroke-and eventually get to the reception area just inside the front door. Queen Wilma, Nurse Nancy, and Trudy the receptionist all left almost two hours ago. There is a lull as dinner is being served. Dex and his secretary are waiting. The two para legals and the company man are gone. Introductions are made. Lyle takes a seat and I stand next to him, then Dex methodically goes through a rough summary of the doc.u.ment. Lyle loses interest almost immediately, and Dex notices this.

"Is this what you want, Mr. Spurlock?" he asks, the compa.s.sionate counselor.

"Yes," Lyle responds, nodding. He's already tired of this legal stuff.

Dex produces a pen, shows Lyle where to sign, then adds his signature as a witness and instructs his secretary to do the same. They are vouching for Lyle's "sound and disposing mind and memory." Dex then signs a required affidavit, and the secretary whips out her notary seal and stamp and gives it her official blessing. I've been in this situation several times, and believe me, this woman will notarize anything. Stick a Xerox copy of the Magna Carta under her nose, swear it's the original, and she'll notarize it.

Ten minutes after signing his last will and testament, Lyle Spurlock is in the cafeteria eating his dinner.

A week later, Dex calls with the news that he's about to meet with the big lawyers from the corporate office and engage in a serious settlement conference. He's decided he will show them the greatly enlarged photos I took of Ms. Harriet Markle lying in a pool of her own body fluids, naked. And he will describe the bogus record entries, but not hand over copies. All of this will lead to a settlement, but it will also reveal to the company my complicity in the matter. I'm the mole, the leaker, the traitor, and though the company won't fire me outright-Dex will threaten them-I've learned from experience that it's best to move on.

In all likelihood, the company will fire Queen Wilma, and probably Nurse Angel too. So be it. I've seldom left a project without getting someone fired.

The following day, Dex calls with the news that the case settled, confidentially of course, for $400,000. This may sound low, given the company's malfeasance and exposure, but it's not a bad settlement. Damages can be difficult to prove in these cases. It's not as if Ms. Harriet was earning money and therefore facing a huge financial loss. She won't see a dime of the money, but you can bet her dear ones are already bickering. My reward is a 10 percent finder's fee, paid off the top.

The following day, two men in dark suits arrive, and fear grips Quiet Haven. Long meetings are held in Queen Wilma's office. The place is tense. I love these situations, and I spend most of the afternoon hiding in the kitchen with Rozelle as the rumors fly. I'm full of wild theories, and most of the rumors seem to originate from the kitchen. Ms. Drell is eventually fired and escorted out of the building. Nurse Angel is fired, and escorted out of the building. Late in the day we hear the rumor that they're looking for me, so I ease out a side door and disappear.

I'll go back in a week or so, to say good-bye to Lyle Spurlock and a few other friends. I'll finish up the gossip with Rozelle, give her a hug, promise to drop in from time to time. I'll stop by Miss Ruby's, settle up on the rent, gather my belongings, and indulge in a final toddy on the porch. It will be difficult to say good-bye, but then I do it so often.

So I leave Clanton after four months, and as I head toward Memphis, I can't help but succ.u.mb to smugness. This is one of my more successful projects. The finder's fee alone makes for a good year. Mr. Spurlock's will effectively gives everything to me, though he doesn't realize it. (The Confederate Defense Fund folded years ago.) He probably won't touch the doc.u.ment again before he dies, and I'll pop in often enough to make sure the d.a.m.ned thing stays buried in the drawer. (I'm still checking on several of my more generous friends.) After he dies, and we'll know this immediately because Dex's secretary checks the obituaries daily, his daughter will rush in, find the will, and freak out, and soon enough she'll hire lawyers who'll file a nasty lawsuit to contest the will. They'll allege all manner of vile claims against me, and you can't blame them.

Will contests are tried before juries in Mississippi, and I'm not about to subject myself to the scrutiny of twelve average citizens and try to deny that I sucked up to an old man during his last days in a nursing home. No, sir. We never go to trial. We, Dex and I, settle these cases long before trial. The family usually buys us off for about 25 percent of the estate. It's cheaper than paying their lawyers for a trial, plus the family does not really want the embarra.s.sment of a full-blown bare-knuckle trial in which they're grilled about how much time they didn't spend with their dearly departed.

After four months of hard work, I'm exhausted. I'll spend a day or two in Memphis, my home base, then catch a flight to Miami, where I have a condo on South Beach. I'll work on my tan for a few days, rest up, then start thinking about my next project.

Funny Boy

Like most of the rumors that swept through Clanton, this one originated at either the barbershop, a coffee shop, or the clerk's office in the courthouse, and once it hit the street, it was off and running. A hot rumor would roar around the square with a speed that defied technology and often return to its source in a form so modified and distorted as to baffle its originator. Such is the nature of rumors, but occasionally, at least in Clanton, one turned out to be true.

At the barbershop, on the north side of the square, where Mr. Felix Upchurch had been cutting hair and giving advice for almost fifty years, the rumor was brought up early one morning by a man who usually had his facts straight. "I hear Isaac Keane's least boy is comin' back home," he said.

There was a pause in the haircutting, the newspaper reading, the cigarette smoking, the squabbling over the Cardinals game the night before. Then someone said, "Ain't he that funny boy?"

Silence. Then the clicking of scissors, the turning of pages, a cough over there, and the clearing of a throat over here. When delicate issues were first brought to the surface at the barbershop, they were met with a momentary caution. No one wanted to charge in, lest he be accused of trading in gossip. No one wanted to confirm or deny, because an incorrect fact or an erroneous a.s.sumption could quickly spread and do harm, especially in matters dealing with s.e.x. In other places around town, folks were far less hesitant. There was little doubt, however, that the return of the least Keane boy was about to be dissected from a dozen directions, but, as always, the gentlemen proceeded cautiously.

"Well, I've always heard he didn't go for the girls."

"You heard right. My cousin's daughter was in school with that boy, said he was always on the queer side, a regular sissy, and soon as he could, he got outta here and went off to the big city. I think it was San Francisco, but don't quote me on that."

("Don't quote me on that" was a defensive ploy aimed at disclaiming what had just been said. Once properly disclaimed, others were then free to go ahead and repeat what had just been said, but if the information turned out to be false, the original gossiper could not be held liable.) "How old is he?"

A pause as calculations were made. "Maybe thirty-one, thirty-two."

"Why's he comin' back here?"

"Well, now, I don't know for sure, but they say he's real sick, on his last leg, and ain't n.o.body in the big city to take care of him."

"He's comin' home to die?"

"That's what they say."

"Isaac would roll over in his grave."

"They say the family's been sendin' him money for years to keep him away from Clanton."

"I thought they'd gone through all of Isaac's money."

Whereupon a digression was begun on the topic of Isaac's money, and his estate, his a.s.sets and liabilities, his wives and children and relatives, the mysterious circ.u.mstances surrounding his death, and it was concluded with the general agreement that Isaac had died just in time because the family he left behind was nothing but a bunch of idiots.

"What's the boy sick from?"

Rasco, one of the bigger talkers in town and known to embelish, said, "They say it's that queer disease. No way to cure it."

Bickers, at forty the youngest present that morning, said, "You're not talkin' about AIDS, are you?"

"That's what they say."

"The boy's got AIDS and he's comin' to Clanton."

"That's what they say."

"This can't be."

The rumor was confirmed minutes later at the coffee shop on the east side of the square, where a sa.s.sy waitress named Dell had been serving breakfast for many years. The early-morning crowd was the usual collection of off-duty deputies and factory workers, with a white collar or two mixed in. One of them said, "Say, Dell, you heard anythang about that youngest Keane boy movin' back home?"

Dell, who often started benign rumors out of boredom but generally maintained good sources, said, "He's already here."

"And he's got AIDS?"

"He's got something. All pale, wasted away, looks like death already."

"When did you see him?"

"Didn't. But his aunt's housekeeper told me all about it yesterday afternoon." Dell was behind the counter, waiting on more food from the cook, and every customer in her cafe was listening. "He's a sick boy, all right. There's no cure, nothin' n.o.body can do. Won't n.o.body take care of him in San Francisco, so he's come home to die. Very sad."

"Where's he livin'?"

"Well, he won't be livin' in the big house, that's for sure. The family got together and decided he couldn't stay there. What he's got is contagious as h.e.l.l, and deadly, and so they're puttin' him in one of Isaac's old houses in Lowtown."

"He's livin' with the coloreds?"

"That's what they say."

This took a while to sink in, but it began to make sense. The thought of a Keane living across the railroad tracks in the black section was hard to accept, but then it seemed logical that anyone with AIDS should not be allowed on the white side of town.

Dell continued, "G.o.d knows how many shacks and houses old man Keane bought and built in Lowtown. I think he still owns a few dozen."

"Reckon who the boy'll live with?"

"I don't really care. I just don't want him comin' in here."

"Now, Dell. What would you do if he walked in right now and wanted breakfast?"

She wiped her hands on a dishcloth, stared at the man who asked the question, tightened her jaws, and said, "Look, I can refuse service to anyone. Believe me, with my customers, I think about this all the time. But if he comes in here, I'll ask him to leave. You gotta remember, this boy is highly contagious, and we're not talkin' about the common cold. If I serve him, then one of you might get his plate or gla.s.s next time around. Think about that."

They thought about it for a long time.

Finally, someone said, "Reckon how long he'll live?"

That question was being discussed across the street on the second floor of the courthouse in the offices of the chancery clerk, where the early-morning coffee crowd was nibbling on pastries and catching up with the latest news. Myra, who was in charge of filing land deeds, had finished high school one year before Adrian Keane, and of course they knew even back then that he was different. She had the floor.

Ten years after graduation, Myra and her husband were vacationing in California when she gave Adrian a call. They met for lunch at Fisherman's Wharf and, with Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, had a delightful time talking about their Clanton days. Myra a.s.sured Adrian nothing had changed in their hometown. Adrian talked freely about his lifestyle. The year was 1984, he was happily out of the closet, though not attached to anyone in particular. He was worried about AIDS, a disease Myra had never heard of in 1984. The first wave of the epidemic had roared through the gay community out there, and the casualties were heartbreaking, and frightening. Changes in lifestyles were being advocated. Some die within six months, Adrian had explained to Myra and her husband. Others hang on for years. He had already lost some friends.

Myra described the lunch again in great detail before a rapt audience of a dozen other clerks. The fact that she'd actually been to San Francisco and driven across that bridge made her special. They had seen the photographs, and more than once.

"They say he's already here," another clerk said.

"How long's he got?"

But Myra didn't know. Since the lunch five years earlier, she'd had no contact with Adrian, and it was obvious she wanted none now.

The first sighting was confirmed minutes later when a Mr. Rutledge entered the barbershop for his weekly trim. His nephew threw the Tupelo daily each morning at sunrise, and every house in downtown Clanton received one. The nephew had heard the rumors and was on the lookout. He rode his bike slowly down Harrison Street, even slower when he approached the old Keane place, and sure enough, that very morning, not two hours earlier, he came face-to-face with a stranger he would not soon forget.

Mr. Rutledge described the encounter. "Joey said he's never seen a sicker man, frail and gaunt, skin pale as a corpse, with splotches on his arm, sunken cheekbones, thin hair. Said it was like lookin' at a cadaver." Rutledge seldom encountered a fact he couldn't improve upon, and this was well-known to the others. But he had their attention. No one dared to question whether Joey, a limited thirteen-year-old, would use a word like "cadaver."

"What'd he say?"

"Joey said, 'Good morning,' and this fella said, 'Good morning,' and Joey handed over the newspaper, but he was careful to keep his distance."

"Smart boy."