commerce, two paved acres surrounded by a sea of trees. At the island’s center sits a plaza, a tripartite complex that houses a gas station, pancake house, and liquor store. In front, a checkered lawn provides a retreat for travelers with children, a modest park with picnic tables, swing sets, and a fenced-in yard complete with a fire hydrant for the family dog.
“We’ve got another twenty miles.” Brendan steers the Jeep beside a pump. “The county’s pretty spread out.”
Andre decides to stretch his legs, and as he steps out of the Jeep, the cuffs of his pants dip into an iridescent puddle. The air here, thick yet cool, makes his suit stick against his chest, and he hopes that the final miles quickly pass. A day like this, without a moment’s rest, he needs a soft bed, perhaps a nightcap. What he wouldn’t give for the touch of a woman. The week he’s had, he thinks he deserves all three.
“Another pack of cowboy killers?” Andre says. Brendan reaches for his wallet, but Andre shakes his head. “I got it. You’re old enough to smoke, though, right?”
“You gonna quit making fun of my age?”
“Not till I find a better reason to mock you.”
Andre heads toward the plaza, passes a community bulletin board on which pastel flyers in bold fonts advertise guided fishing trips, evening Bible studies, spare bedrooms, and opportunities for army enlistment. One flyer, black italics on blue paper, promises fifty dollars for information about a missing, yet adorable, old woman, and Andre wonders whether this woman’s family is poor, cheap, or indifferent to her actual return.
Inside the liquor store, music plays over the loudspeakers, a boy band trying to cover Motown, the soul gone, replaced by a rockabilly beat. The shop is a warehouse of booze, pallet upon pallet of beer, wine, spirits: all prices, all brands, for all tastes. He wants to buy a bottle—maybe he’ll buy two—but decides against it. Their first day together, he doesn’t need Brendan wondering whether the boss is a lush.
The doughy cashier meets Andre’s eye and blanches. She drops her face, slips her hand beneath the counter. He knows what she’s thinking—This black man’s here to rob us—and Andre knows exactly how to handle this. Indeed, every brother in America knows how to handle this. Flash a warm smile, show your empty hands, and pray this terrified white girl isn’t gripping a Glock.
“My friend, the blond guy out there, he’s buying gas.” He uses his least threatening tone, gestures softly toward Brendan. “It’s okay to use your restroom?” The cashier glances over her shoulder and relaxes.
“Oh sure. Go on ahead, mister.” She sets her hands atop the cork countertop and smiles as though nothing has passed between them. “Help yourself. Y’all don’t have to buy nothing, but the diner starts sellin’ day-old donuts soon. The maple frosted, I promise you, mister, they’re a little piece of wonderful.”
“I like maple frosted.” He doesn’t, but if favoring syrupy treats prevents this white girl from shooting him full of holes, then he’s pleased to change his taste. “Bathroom’s in the back?”
“Next to the audiobooks.”
The bathroom is, in fact, a locker room: benches, toilets, showers. In one shower stall, a tall man sings. In another, a short man whistles. The bank of sinks, well lit and immaculate, smells like aftershave, and a raven placard above the fogged mirror warns, in big bone-white text: LEWD CONDUCT IS A FELONY PUNISHABLE BY JAIL, FINES, AND PUBLIC RIDICULE.
Andre splashes cloudy water on his face, notices a dispenser that sells temporary tattoos. The tattoos, two for a quarter, cost far less than he remembers. But he hasn’t worn a temporary tattoo in years, not since he ferried bindles across Southeast. The bindles, aluminum packets the size of his thumbnail, fitted easily inside the tongues of his Velcro shoes. He had thought he was clever, a teardrop tattoo on his face, a Japanese symbol on his arms, distinctive physical characteristics that he could erase if anything went wrong. In those days, he thought he was so damn smart. Smarter than the cops. Smarter than the junkies. No way anyone could touch him. In hindsight, he regrets much about that life. Sure, he enjoyed the thrills of small-time dealing. Try to find a fifteen-year-old dropout who wouldn’t. But now, washing his hands in the sink, he counts himself lucky that he’s not rotting in some potter’s field.
He leaves the men’s room, follows a row of refrigerators that keep cool beer, wine, strawberry