Free Mortal Fear by Greg Iles Page B

brother-in-law, rolls his eyes at me while carefully making sure I am the only one who can see him. Patrick and I went to school together and are exactly the same age. An oncologist in Jackson, Mississippi, he is married to Erin, my wifes younger sister. His rolling eyes sum up a feeling too complex for words, one common to our generation of Southerners. They say, We may not like it but theres nothing we can do about it except argue, and its not worth arguing about with our father-in-law because he wont ever change no matter what .
    It being racism, of course.
    What are you jabbering about, Daddy? Drewe asks.
    My wife is wearing a yellow sundress and standing over the wrought-iron table that holds the remains of the barbecued ribs we just devoured. Erin excluded, of course. My wifes sister is a strict vegetarian, which in Mississippi still rates up there with being a Hare Krishna. This get-together is a biweekly family ritual, Sunday dinner at the in-laws, who live twenty miles from Rain, on the outskirts of Yazoo City. We do it rain or shine, and today its shine: ninety-six degrees in the shade.
    Dont get him started, honey, my mother-in-law sayswearily. Margaret Anderson has taken refuge from the heat beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.
    Im talking about my new office, baby, Bob tells Drewe, ignoring Margaret.
    Bob Anderson is a veterinarian and an institution in this part of the Delta. His practice thrives, but that is not what pays for the columned Greek Revival house that towers over the patio we are sitting on. In the last twenty years, Bob has invested with unerring instinct in every scheme that made any money in the Delta, most notably catfish farming. Money from all over the world pours into Mississippi in exchange for farm-raised catfishenough money to put the long-maligned catfish in the same league with cotton. A not insignificant portion of that money pours into Bob Andersons pockets. He is a short man but seems tall, even to those who have known him for years. Though he is balding, his forearms are thick and hairy. He walks with a self-assured, forward-leaning tilt, his chin cocked back with a military air. He is a natural hand with all things mechanical. Carpenter work, motors, welding, plumbing, a half dozen sports. Its easy to imagine him with one strong arm buried up to the shoulder in the womb of a mare, a wide grin on his sweaty face. Bob Anderson is a racist; he is also a good father, a faithful husband, and a dead shot with a rifle.
    I took bids on my building, he says, looking back over his shirtless shoulder at Drewe. All the local boys made their plays, ocourse, first-class job like that. And all their bids were close to even. Then I get a bid from this nigger out of Jackson, name of Boyte. His bid was eight thousand less than the lowest of the local boys.
    Did you take it? Patrick asks.
    Erin GrahamPatricks wifeturns from her perch at poolside. She has been sitting with her tanned back to us, her long legs dangling in the water, watching her three-year-old daughter with an eagle eye. Erins dark eyes glower at her father, but Bob pretends not to notice.
    Not yet, he says. See, the local boys somehow got wind of what the nigger bid
    Somehow? Drewe echoes, expressing her suspicionthat her father told his cronies about their minority competition.
    Anyhow, Bob plows on, it turns out the reason this nigger can afford to bid so low is that hes getting some kind of cheap money from the government. Some kind of incentive read handoutwhich naturally aint available to your white contractors. Now I ask you, is that fair? Im all for letting the nigger compete right alongside Jack and Nub, but for the government to use our tax money to help him undercut hardworking men like that
    Are you sure the black contractors getting government help? Drewe asks.
    Hell yes, Im sure. Nub told me himself.
    So what are you going to do? asks Patrick, as if he really cares, which I know he does not.
    What can I do? Bob says haplessly.