Chapter 3

Lincoln Steele swept his room at the Old South Inn for microphones and cameras. It took a while to inspect every light fixture, vent, and other places the electronics could be hidden. Why so long? He hadn’t brought the sophisticated equipment he had back home. There had been no need. He was there to bury a friend. That’s all. So much of Steele’s life took him where he had not planned.

Confident he wasn’t being monitored, Steele returned to the empty suitcase on his bed. He lifted a thin lead plate disguised as the bottom of the suitcase. The hidden compartment housed his Glock 19 pistol, ankle holster with gun, full magazines, and a large knife in a leather case, all held in place in form-fitting cut-outs in the Styrofoam. Going anywhere without them would be like leaving his toothbrush at home. Steele strapped on the ankle gun, leaving the Glock in place. He locked the suitcase and slid it under the bed.

Steele strolled to the lobby. Unlike the day before, the sun shone brightly. Fickle southeastern weather. The constant was the thick humidity.

The air-conditioned lobby welcomed Steele. Bufford sat behind the counter with his eyes glued to the television. He glanced up and nodded.

“Where can a guy get a drink around here?” Steele asked.

“Our restaurant is good if you’re hungry. It serves alcohol. Or our bar if all you want is a drink. You won’t be treated no better anywhere else.”

“The bar sounds good. Maybe something to eat later.”

Steele gave Bufford a salute. Not the crisp one used in the military, but a casual, friendly one. Both the restaurant and bar had a street entrance as well as an entrance from the lobby. The restaurant was on the left. The bar on the right.

Steele strolled into the bar. A hush fell over the room and all eyes settled on him. A bartender stood behind the bar. The man sitting on a bar stool twisted around to look at Steele. Two men sat at a table on the right. The bar was small and, like his room, looked like it belonged in the past. There was ornate trimming around the ceiling with the dark brown mahogany carrying over to the massive bar. The painting on the wall behind the bartender was of a woman lying on her side. A blanket strategically draped over her sumptuous body showed a hint of the swell of one white breast and a bare leg from mid-thigh to foot. A black woman, clothed like the chambermaid who had come into Steele’s room, was fanning her. Steele sat on a stool at the bar, leaving an empty one between him and the other man.

“Howdy,” Steele said to the man.

The man eyed Steele before turning away, focusing on his beer. He spun the glass on the bar, brought it to his lips, and took a sip. His eyes remained on the glass as he once again twirled it. Steele looked past the man. The two at the table were staring at him. Sizing him up?

“Can I help you?” the bartender asked.

Steele turned around. The bartender was wiping a tall glass with a bar rag.

“Beer,” Steele said. “What’s ever on tap.”

The bartender flipped the towel onto his shoulder, filled the glass, and placed it in front of Steele. After taking a gulp, Steele pressed the cold glass to his cheek.

“Sure is hot,” Steele said.

“You’re in Mississippi,” the bartender said. “What you expect?”

“I’m new in town. Looking for something to do.”

“There’s no Disneyland here. We don’t cater to tourists.”

“I’m not a tourist.”

“You ain’t from around here.”

“I’m new in town, but not a tourist.”

The man on the stool turned toward Steele with a scowl. His narrowed eyes looked like he was trying to read Steele’s mind. Sally had said they didn’t like her kind at the Old South Inn. Did they like anyone?

“So what about it?” Steele asked the man on the stool. “What’s there to do around here?”

The man turned back to his beer. Steele watched him over his glass while sipping the cool liquid. Steele wiped the froth off his upper lip and lowered his head, shaking it. Maybe he’d have better luck in the restaurant. He doubted it. Bars were where people talked. But they weren’t talking and he couldn’t push it. Couldn’t be too aggressive. His many covert missions had taught him to be patient. Hope for luck.

Steele gulped down the remainder of his beer, slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar, and spun his stool around. As he stood, a large black man in denim overalls, work boots, and muscles bulging from a short-sleeve plaid shirt entered from the street.

“Get out of here, boy,” the bartender said.

The black man stopped. “You talking to me?”

“See any other boy in here?”

“You gotta be shitting me. Who the fuck are you calling boy?”

One of the men at the table stood up. “You, nigger.”

The black man charged. He leaped over the table with arms extended, crashing into the man like a linebacker tackling a quarterback. The table toppled over. The chair fell to the floor, breaking apart from the weight of the two men. The black man, on top, smashed his fist into the white man’s face. Even from where Steele stood, he heard the bone break.

The other man at the table wrapped both arms around the black man’s neck and pulled. It was like trying to move a deep-rooted tree. The black man pried the arms off and flipped him over his hip. The white man landed on his friend with the broken nose. The black man was about to throw a punch when the one who had rushed from the stool grabbed his raised forearm with both hands. With a flick of his muscular arm, the black man sent him flying across the room. He landed on his back, slid on the floor, and crashed into the wall.

The bartender pulled a shotgun out from behind the bar so Steele dashed to the others and jumped the black man. The two rolled around on the floor, struggling, muscles straining, teeth clenching. Steele ended up on top. The black man grabbed Steele around the neck and flipped him onto his back. Now he was on top. The black man threw a punch. Steele blocked it with his forearm, knocking the man’s arm to the side. He wrestled the black man off him and jumped to his feet. The black man scampered to his feet as well.

The black man glared, nostrils flaring, and lunged. Steele ducked, jabbed him in the kidney, and then swept the man’s legs out from under him. The black man jumped back up with fingers clenched into two tight fists. Eyes narrowed. Upper lip curled up showing white teeth. As soon as he moved, Steele swung a leg high in the air. The foot smashed into the side of the black man’s head who crumbled to the floor.

Steele grabbed the unconscious man by the back of his collar and lifted. “Do you know this nigger?”

The bartender placed his shotgun on the bar. “Never saw him.”

“Me neither,” the man who had been on the stool said. He walked up to Steele rubbing his shoulder and then offered his hand. “I misjudged you. I’m Jake Wallerman.”

Steele dropped the black man and shook the hand. “Linc.”