other real good. Motley told Noose he wouldn't get fifty votes in Van Buren County next election. They promised to stuff ballot boxes, harass the blacks, rig the absentee ballots, the usual election practices in Van Buren County. And Noose knows they'll do it."
"Why should he worry about it?"
"Don't be stupid, Jake. He's an old man who can do nothing but be a judge. Can you imagine him trying to start a law practice. He makes sixty thousand a year and would starve if he got beat. Most judges are like that. He's got to keep that job. Buckley knows it, so he's talking to the local bigots and pumping them up and telling how this no-good nigger might be acquitted if the trial is moved and that they should put a little heat on the judge. That's why Noose is feeling some pressure."
They drank for a few minutes in silence, both rocking quietly in the tall wooden rockers. The beer felt great.
"There's more," Lucien said.
"To what?"
"To Noose."
"What is it?"
"He's had some threats. Not political threats, but death threats. I hear he's scared to death. Got the police over there guarding his house. Carries a gun now."
"I know the feeling," Jake mumbled.
"Yeah, I heard."
"Heard what?"
"About the dynamite. Who was he?"
Jake was flabbergasted. He stared blankly at Lucien, unable to speak.
"Don't ask. I got connections. Who was he?"
"No one knows."
"Sounds like a pro."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome to stay here. I've got five bedrooms."
The sun was gone by eight-fifteen when Ozzie parked his patrol car behind the Saab, which was still parked behind the Porsche. He walked to the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. Lucien saw him first.
"Hello, Sheriff," he attempted to say, his tongue thick and ponderous.
"Evenin', Lucien. Where's Jake?"
Lucien nodded toward the end of the porch, where Jake lay sprawled on the swing.
"He's taking a nap," Lucien explained helpfully.
Ozzie walked across the squeaking boards and stood above the comatose figure snoring peacefully. He punched him gently in the ribs. Jake opened his eyes, and struggled desperately to sit up.
"Carla called my office lookin' for you. She's worried sick. She's been callin' all afternoon and couldn't find you. Nobody's seen you. She thinks you're dead."
Jake rubbed his eyes as the swing rocked gently. "Tell her I'm not dead. Tell her you've seen me and talked to me and you are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not dead. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow. Tell her, Ozzie, please tell her."
"No way, buddy. You're a big boy, you call her and tell her." Ozzie walked off the porch. He was not amused.
Jake struggled to his feet and staggered into the house. "Where's the phone?" he yelled at Sallie. As he dialed, he could hear Lucien on the porch laughing uncontrollably.
The last hangover had been in law school, six or seven years earlier; he couldn't remember. The date, that is. He couldn't remember the date, but the pounding head, dry mouth, short breath, and burning eyes brought back painful, vivid memories of long and unforgettable bouts with the tasty brown stuff.
He knew he was in trouble immediately, when his left eye opened. The eyelids on the right one were matted firmly together, and they would not open, unless manually opened with fingers, and he did not dare move. He lay there in the dark room on a couch, fully dressed, including shoes, listening to his head pound and watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly. He felt nauseated. His neck ached because there was no pillow. His feet throbbed because of the shoes. His stomach rolled and flipped and promised to erupt. Death would have been welcome.
Jake had problems with hangovers because he could not sleep them off. Once his eyes opened and his brain awoke and began spinning again, and the throbbing between his temples set in, he could not sleep. He had never understood this. His friends in law school could sleep for days with a hangover, but not Jake. He never managed more than a few hours after the last can or bottle was empty.
Why? That was always the question the next morning. Why did he do it? A cold beer was refreshing. Maybe two or three. But ten, fifteen, even twenty? He had lost count. After six, beer lost its taste, and from then on the drinking was just for the sake of drinking and getting drunk. Lucien had been very helpful. Before dark he had sent Sallie to the store for a whole