might really have killed herself. And not because of any affair Max had. Because of this illness.”
Kirby shrugs. “In my experience, when patients kill themselves, it’s not usually a single stressor that causes it. There’s preexisting depression, which Sally didn’t have for most of her life but did after this diagnosis. Then something else pushes them over the edge.”
“Like the betrayal of an old friend?”
“Possibly. I’ve heard the rumors, of course.”
“Have you heard a name?”
“Three or four. Some more plausible than others. I don’t want to dignify any of them. But with Max they could all be true. He’s a legendary pussy hound.”
Dr. Kirby’s casual use of this term reminds me that his courteous manner is a veneer he preserves for business hours and mixed gatherings. At heart, he’s a Southern male who spends his holidays and summers in hunting camps and fishing cabins. He sees life as it is, and he’s quite capable of speaking with crude candor.
“I understand, Jack. I appreciate you telling me this.”
He nods and takes another drag off the Winston, quickly burning the cigarette down to a stub.
“Are you going to tell anybody else this information?” I ask.
“I think I’m pretty much obligated to pass it on to the police. Don’t you?”
“Yeah. I faced a similar dilemma earlier today. Someone left a photograph in my car, a tip having to do with Buck’s murder. I’d like to keep it to myself, but I’ll give it to the sheriff just before I publish it.”
Dr. Kirby rolls his eyes. “For all the good it will do, right?”
“With our sheriff? You’re right.”
“Can you tell me who the photo implicated?” he asks.
“I shouldn’t.”
“I shouldn’t have told you about Sally.”
I give him a wry smile. “What do you know about Dave Cowart?”
The doctor scowls. “A belligerent redneck. Some of the crooks in this town are old-time rogues, you know? Best drinking companions you could hope for. Not Cowart. He’s stupid and greedy and doesn’t have a lick of moral sense.”
“Well, I’m about to make an enemy of him. Probably his boss, too. Beau Holland.”
“Another prize ass.” Kirby throws down the cigarette butt and grinds it out with his patent leather shoe. “Beau Holland comes from a long line of arrogant, effete bastards.”
“It shows.”
“Do you carry a pistol?”
Dr. Kirby asked this as casually as he would inquire if I carried a pocket watch. “I started last night.”
“Good. Wear it night and day. If you’re going to make enemies of Cowart and Holland and their pals, you need to keep your head on a swivel.”
The doctor’s matter-of-fact warning sobers me. “Sounds like you know some firsthand information about them.”
Kirby looks off into the trees. “I’ve lived in this town a long time, Marshall. That Poker Club’s a unique little organization. When they want things to happen, sooner or later those things happen. Sometimes you can trace it back to direct action by a member, but more often you can’t. Take civil rights. I know of no direct ties between the Poker Club and the Klan or even the White Citizens’ Council. In fact, I don’t think the members give much of a damn about skin color. If you’ve got the money to live where they live, you’re mostly welcome—schools being the exception. They don’t like their kids going to school with blacks. They don’t mind a few black football players peppering the teams, but they don’t want their daughters dating them.”
“The old miscegenation bugbear is still alive and well.”
“Yes, indeed. But the Poker Club has funneled enough money to black leaders in this county over the years that things have stayed just how they like them. And if a few colored boys got killed back in the day for not knowing their place, well . . . nothing led back to the Poker Club.”
“That was a long time ago, Jack.”
“Not to me. But if you want more recent history, I can think of five or six men who ran afoul of the Poker Club in the last twenty years and wound up ruined or dead.”
“Murdered?”
Dr. Kirby turns up one palm. “It’s never that cut-and-dried. One-car crash. Hunting accident climbing through a fence with a rifle. Another guy got caught up in his own bush hog, bled to death.”
“And nothing traced back to the Poker Club?”
“Never.” Dr. Kirby looks back at me. “Sounds a lot like Buck Ferris drowning in the Mississippi River, doesn’t it?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“Remember what I said about your pistol. Make sure you don’t have any accidents.”
“I hear