"It's where I got the idea," Arlen said, "of sticking whores in trailers at Junebug's. Ever since Rosella left him and took the kids Junebug's in there once a night with that little Traci. He sits home all day hungover smoking weed and watching TV. Or you catch him holding auditions, checking out some little girl with big titties on her wants to be in show business. Nights, when he's at the club, he'll have Eugene baby-sit the dog with a shotgun."

"It was Eugene 's dog," Jim Rein said. "Junebug took care of it while Eugene was at Delta Correctional."

"I know that," Arlen said. "I asked Junebug what he was protecting the dog from. The dog'll tear the throat out of anybody looks at her cross. Junebug says it ain't anybody's throat he's worried about. The dog tears up the house you leave her alone."

"What kind of dog it is?"

"Farm dog. Kinda white and brown, has some setter in her."

Jim Rein said, "I didn't know Eugene was out till I run into him. He says yeah, a couple months. Did you know the dorms at Delta Correctional are airconditioned? I couldn't believe it."

"That's account of it's private-run."

" Eugene says you tell the warden you don't like something, that state soap for instance? The warden says, `We ain't in the business of liking.' "

They were coming on to Tunica.

" Eugene says he got rich there at Delta only never saw the money."

"Working that con on the queers," Arlen said.

"Yeah, that's what he told me but not how it worked where he was. I only got into that business far as selling my pitcher to some cons that used it. Remember that? What was that hack's name, took my pitcher in the shower?"

"Otis," Arlen said. "Dumbest spook I ever met. No, Eugene worked it the usual way. Ran personal ads in homasexual magazines. Eugene used the one, he'd been falsely accused of receiving stolen goods from his boyfriend and would like the advice of an older and wiser homasexual. Pretty soon he's hearing from a bunch of old homo sweeties feeling sorry for him. After while he gets around to saying he's up for appeal and needs five thousand sent to his lawyer in Jackson, as he can't receive the check hisself. See, the lawyer was in on it. The old homos have a stack of Eugene 's letters and pitchers of this boy standing there naked and they start sending the checks."

"Pitchers of Eugene?"

" Jesus, no. Junebug took pitchers of one of the boys does the sex show, Eyetalian kid, hung like a goddamn horse, and I sent 'em to the old homos, telling 'em as a favor to Eugene, pitchers taken before he went down. He got letters from near every one of 'em saying the check's in the mail and hope to see you soon. See, the checks are made out to Eugene and suppose to go into an account the lawyer opened for him."

They were in Tunica now on Main, coming to Fox Island Road, and Jim Rein turned right. Arlen said, "I heard that's the house the fella runs Tishomingo leased, Billy Darwin?" Arlen pointing to a big Tudor set among white oaks. "Best-looking house in town." Junebug's was up ahead on the left a half mile: one of Kirkbride's manufactured homes with a screened porch, a patio and a three-car garage, additions Junebug'd had built on.

Jim Rein said, " Eugene told me he knew it worked, but he'll never see the money, something like over two hundred thousand dollars."

"I know that was his estimate," Arlen said. "He had homos all over America sending checks. Eugene got his release-you know there wasn't any appeal, he did the whole bit, three years straight up. Went to Jackson to collect his money and the lawyer says, `What money?' He only received ten thousand and it went for his fees." "Lying."

"Course he was."

"What'd Eugene do?"

"He shot him."

They were coming to the house now with its new lawn and young yellow poplars, June bug's Cadillac and a pickup truck in the drive.

Jim Rein said, "Then where's the money?" Arlen, looking at the house, said, "That's a good question."

Walter Kirkbride would arrive in a car he borrowed from Arlen, usually the Dodge: drive around back of Junebug's to the trailer with Traci lettered on the door in a vivid red, the way it could've appeared on the bedroom door of an 1860s whorehouse. New Orleans coming to mind. There might not have been girls named Traci then, no Airstream trailers for another seventy years or more, it didn't matter. Kirkbride loved the feeling of the past coming here gave him. The name on the door and, once inside, little Traci in the black stockings she wore snapped onto a garter belt and no underpants. Farby, but close enough, a French whore from a time past.

She was looking at the ashtray he'd brought, a special gift today.

"Walter, I love it."

"It's from Morocco."

"Oh, wow."

"The Mamounia Hotel in Marrakech.”

“It's my favorite one I've ever had."

"I'll have to tell my wife I broke it."

“She collect ashtrays too?"

"She'll see it's gone."

"Walter, you're so cute."

"But if I broke it the pieces would be in the trash."

"Hon, look up here before your eyeballs fall out."

He did, tore his eyes away from her crotch and said, "I want you to do something for me."

"I'm not gonna beat you up again, hon. I'm not strong enough."

"I want you to take part in the reenactment. I'll have a tent for you and ice chest full of Coca-Cola." "Sure, if I can get away."

"I'll fix it."

"You want me to dress up? Like in a hoopskirt with all those petticoats they wore?"

"Just the hoopskirt. Nothing under it."

They walked into Junebug's manufactured home and Jim Rein said, "Man, we's just talking about you," to Eugene Dean watching TV with Junebug. They sat at either end of a green-plaid sofa, a dozen empty beer cans on the low table in front of them, the ashtray full of butts, the smell of marijuana in the air.

Eugene said, "Hey, Fish, how they hangin'?"

Jim Rein said, "Just like you left 'em."

Arlen turned off the giant TV and then adjusted his Confederate slouch hat to feel just right, Junebug yelling at him, "Hey, I'm watching my fuckin show. They's just about to start hitting each other."

"Arguing over the Confederate flag," Eugene said, no shirt on, showing his sunken chest and ribs. "The white guys're skinhead militia, they say it's part of our heritage. The colored guys say well, it ain't part of ours, motherfuckers. They bleep it, but you can tell what they're saying."

"Look like some gang niggers," Junebug said, "they got off the street."

Arlen said, "Bug, have you been telling people we shot Floyd?"

Junebug held a beer can on his knee looking up at Arlen. "Man, are you crazy?" A scowl on his face.

"And that diver was up on the ladder the whole while?"

"Jesus Christ, Arlen, it wasn't me told anybody, you fuckin moron, it was you. I'm behind the bar looking right at you when you told Bob Hoon and one of his boys. They'd just delivered a load of crank."

Arlen said, "You gonna stick to that story?" "It's the truth. Ask Bob Hoon." Arlen turned his head to Jim Rein.

Jim Rein put his hands around to his back and brought out a U.S. Army Colt.45 from under his shirt hanging out.

Arlen said, "Bust him."

Junebug tried to sit up saying, "Hey, come on-"

And bam, Jim Rein shot him.

A dog started barking and scratching at a door.

Arlen held his eyes on Junebug slumped back against the plaid sofa, his eyes open.

Eugene had his eyes hooked on Jim Rein.

Jim Rein said, "He ought to be dead. I shot him through the heart."

Arlen said, "You heard him lie to my face?" He looked up. "That dog don't quit I'm gonna shoot it."

That got Eugene up. He went to the kitchen door the barking was coming from, telling Arlen, "I got it, I'll take care of the dog," went through the door and closed it again.