‘He knows it, and he knows he’s suspect merely by outliving his other major-league white prison brethren. It’s why everything about him is wiped clean.’
‘His smile will be the only thing wiped when I’ve finished. I promise.’
‘I’m holding you to it.’ She raised the can of iced tea to her lips.
Wood tipped his head back, stared skywards. ‘We’ve got to second-guess, we’ve got to anticipate how the Caucasian extremists plan to respond.’
‘Check the calendar. Venues, events, festivals.’
‘Done that. Every date is in my head. My fellow African-Americans have a busy schedule programmed.’
‘Starting when?’
‘End of the month. Alabama, Highway 80.’
‘Jesus, I forgot. The Selma-to-Montgomery Peace Walk.’
‘The same.’
Not quite. 1965 had gone, Dr Martin Luther King was dead, unable to lead the mass protest along the fifty-eight-mile route. Times, they had a-changed. On 7 March that year, a group of black Civil Rights demonstrators and white sympathizers, 500-strong, had set out from Brown Chapel AME Church for their marathon procession to the Alabama state capital. They got six blocks. At Edmund Pettus Bridge, they were hemmed in by state troopers firing tear gas, ridden down by mounted deputies wielding bullwhips and billyclubs. President Lyndon Johnson called it a turning point. To the rest of the world, it was simply Bloody Sunday. A fortnight later, Martin Luther King Jnr led 5,000 followers unopposed along the same stretch of Jefferson Davis asphalt. By the time they reached Montgomery, their numbers had multiplied to 25,000. History made, point taken. Re-enactments had occurred, the march revived for different generations, the cause and the sentiment living on in legend and newsreel. The fresh attempt was no anniversary celebration, had been changed from the spring, stood as its own monument, its own statement, in its own setting. A deliberate act which might attract a deliberate act.
‘A Reverend Al Azania initiative?’ Krista asked.
‘Involved, but he won’t be on it. He’s taking his message of love and reconciliation to England. Guess he feels his special brand of bullshit has export potential.’
‘Leaves more room for us as stand-ins.’
‘You suggesting field research, Special Agent Althouse?’
‘I’m suggesting we don’t let our junior cousins in Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms win the merit points.’
Mention of the ATF was akin to a punch in the solar plexus for Wood, tantamount to an unprovoked assault. He had learned not to rise, but could never lose the reflex. ‘ATF can stick to trawling the gun shows. Won’t do us harm to get some klicks under our feet, ask questions down South.’
Krista had asked questions of her own in the telephone call to Josh, had clearance from superiors to maintain light briefing contact. Keep it unofficial, keep it uncomplicated, were her orders. It gave her a chance to reconnect and reconnoitre without the morality minefield of rights and wrongs, of past wreckage placed stage-centre. Strictly business. She could not admit to the jolt at hearing his voice, accept how strange he was no stranger. Communicating again; ice and silence broken. A good feeling. Pity the subject matter sucked. Things were going down in London, the type of malice aforethought – pre-planned – that Los Angeles had witnessed. It reached across the divide, and she would do the same. Krista and Josh Kemp had always complemented each other.
Another blues song had reached its end, trailed into a soft soulful hum and evolved into a spiritual vibrating through the panel walls. Wood cocked his head.
‘Say, are you running a recording studio?’
Krista grinned. ‘Don’t you love it?’
‘I’ve heard great voices, but that. That…’ The expression reformatted into dream-repose.
‘That’s Mary.’
‘Well, I want to meet her and say thank you.’
‘Your lucky chance. It’s a limited tour. She’s substituting for her sister, Eva, who’s got diabetes trouble.’
‘Our gain.’
‘And on cue.’
The glass slide-door rolled aside, Mary’s head bobbing shyly through to smile and wave. ‘Ah’ll be goin’ now, Miss Althouse.’
‘Eva calls me Krista, so you’re welcome to, Mary. She talks about you and the baby so often. How’s Jesus?’
‘Oh, he doin’ fine. Settlin’ down, growin’ big.’
‘How are you finding LA?’
‘Different. Me, I’m cotton-fields and countryside.’
‘With a beautiful voice,’ Wood interjected. She looked away in embarrassment. ‘I mean it, sister. It’s a rare talent.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize …’
‘Hey, it’s us who should apologize for listening in for free.’ She radiated pleasure and self-consciousness as he spoke. ‘We’re grateful. You really touched us.’
‘Voice is easier to carry than a suitcase. It’s how I used to earn a livin’.’
‘The Delta?’
‘Uh-huh. Tunica County.’
‘My great-grandpa graduated from Parchman Penitentiary.’
‘The Farms, Highway 49 – you don’ say? I’ve had family in there.’