"None that I know of. If you learn of any, let me know."
"And you have no female friends?"
"Why would I want female friends? They can't talk about football, or duck hunting, or politics, or lawsuits, or anything that I want to talk about. They talk about kids, clothes, recipes, coupons, furniture, stuff I know nothing about. No, I don't have any female friends. Don't want any."
"That's what I love about the South. The people are so tolerant."
"Thank you."
"Do you have any Jewish friends?"
"I don't know of any in Ford County. I had a real good friend in law school, Ira Tauber, from New Jersey. We were very close. I love Jews. Jesus was a Jew, you know. I've never understood anti-Semitism."
"My God, you are a liberal. How about, uh, homosexuals?"
"I feel sorry for them. They don't know what they're missing. But that's their problem."
"Could you have a homosexual friend?"
"I guess, as long as he didn't tell me."
"Nope, you're a Republican."
She took his empty can and threw it in the back seat. She opened two more. The sun was gone, and the heavy, humid air felt cool at ninety miles an hour.
"So we can't be friends?" she said.
"Nope."
"Nor lovers."
"Please. I'm trying to drive."
"So what are we?"
"I'm the lawyer, you're the law clerk. I'm the employer, you're the employee. I'm the boss, you're the gofer."
"You're the male, I'm the female."
Jake admired her jeans and bulky shirt. "There's not much doubt about that."
Ellen shook her head and stared at the mountains of kudzu flying by. Jake smiled, drove faster, and sipped his beer. He negotiated a series of intersections on the rural, deserted highways and, suddenly, the hills disappeared and the land became flat.
"What's the name of the restaurant?" she asked.
"The Hollywood."
"The what?"
"The Hollywood."
"Why is it called that?"
"It was once located in a small town a few miles away by the name of Hollywood, Mississippi. It burned, and they moved it to Robinsonville. They still call it the Hollywood."
"What's so great about it?"
"Great food, great music, great atmosphere, and it's a
thousand miles from Clanton and no one will see me having dinner with a strange and beautiful woman."
"I'm not a woman, I'm a gofer."
"A strange and beautiful gofer."
Ellen smiled to herself and ran her fingers through her hair. At another intersection, he turned left and headed west until they found a settlement near a railroad. A row of wooden buildings sat empty on one side of the road, and across the street, all by itself, was an old dry goods store with a dozen cars parked around it and music rolling softly out the windows. Jake grabbed the bottle of Chablis and escorted his law clerk up the steps, onto the front porch, and inside the building.
Next to the door was a small stage, where a beautiful old black lady, Merle, sat at her piano and sang "Rainy Night in Georgia." Three long rows of tables ran to the front and stopped next to the stage. The tables were half full, and* a waitress in the back poured beer from a pitcher and motioned for them to come on in. She seated them in the rear, at a small table with a red-checkered tablecloth.
"Y'all want some fried dill pickles, honey?" she asked Jake.
"Yes! Two orders."
Ellen frowned and looked at Jake. "Fried dill pickles?"
"Yes, of course. They don't serve them in Boston?"
"Do you people fry everything?"
"Everything that's worth eating. If you don't like them, I'll eat them."
A yell went up from the table across the aisle. Four couples toasted something or somebody, then broke into riotous laughing. The restaurant maintained a constant roar of yelling and talking.
"The good thing about the Hollywood," Jake explained, "is that you can make all the noise you want and stay as long as you want, and nobody cares. When you get a table here, it's yours for the night. They'll start singing and dancing in a minute."
Jake ordered sauteed shrimp and charbroiled catfish for both of them. Ellen passed on the frog legs. The waitress hurried back with the Chablis and two chilled glasses. They toasted Carl Lee Hailey and his insane mind.
"Whatta you think of Bass?" Jake asked.
"He's the perfect witness. He'll say anything we want him to say."
"Does that bother you?"
"It would if he was a fact witness. But he's an expert, and he can get by with his opinions. Who will challenge him?"
"Is he believable?"
"When he's sober. We talked twice this week. On lues-day he was lucid and helpful. On Wednesday, he