Free Heirs of Cain by Tom Wallace Page A

from the sun.
    “Hello, I’m Hannah Buckman,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand. “I assume you’re here to see Simon.”
    “That’s correct,” the Indian said.
    “He’s below, in the cabin.”
    The Indian squeezed her hand, gently. She couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses, but she knew he was staring at her breasts. The black man, clearly embarrassed, looked away.
    “Simon’s expecting you,” she said. “And he’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”
    The Indian released her hand and grinned. She followed him with her eyes until he and the black man disappeared down the steps. When they were out of sight, she sighed and went back to reading Danielle.
    Below, Simon Buckman lay sprawled on an oversized couch, his face covered by a sailor’s cap. He was sixtyish, bald, and not nearly tall enough to accommodate his weight, which long ago had surpassed three hundred pounds. Simon was a man suffocating in the quicksand of his own flesh, a man whose every breath was labored, whose every movement was a struggle. Even the task of lifting himself to a sitting position to meet his two guests was accomplished only by using a cane to hoist himself up.
    “Come in, come in,” he said. His accent was clearly old South. Alabama, maybe Mississippi. The words escaped through a reptilian slit barely visible within the mounds of fat. “Did you meet Hannah?”
    “Yes,” the black man said. “Your daughter is very beautiful, very … uninhibited.”
    Simon convulsed in laughter, his flesh shaking like a vat of Jell-O.
    “What’s so funny?” the black man asked.
    Pounding the cane on the floor, Simon bellowed, “She’s not my daughter; she’s my wife.”
    “Your wife?”
    “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Simon said. “It just goes to show you: if you’ve got money, you can marry anything you want. Women are drawn to money like my old grandpappy to a Klan rally.” He looked at the two men, his eyes gleaming. “I know what you’re thinking: how does a fat SOB like him service a young kitten like that? Hell, I don’t. It’d kill me if I tried. But it’s goddamned impressive to walk into someplace with her hanging on my arm. Makes me the envy of every young hard dick in the room.”
    With great effort, Simon struggled to his feet and moved closer to the two men. He paused, then walked behind the black man. “That’s some scar you have there,” he remarked. “How’d you get it? One of them police dogs in Selma get a little too close?”
    The black man, his right hand touching the scar on his cheek, glared hard at Simon. “Car crash, when I was a kid.”
    “You know, you’re the first black person—I mean, Afro-American—who’s ever been on this vessel,” Simon said. “Except, of course, for the servants.”
    “I’m honored,” the big black man said.
    Simon circled the two men again, slowly, finally stopping in front of the Indian. “You must be Seneca. I’ve heard a lot about you. Why, there are those of my acquaintance who speak of you in almost reverential tones. They say you’re the best, that no one comes close. That true, or is it only a lot of talk from your fork-tongued redskin brothers?”
    “He’s the best, make no mistake about that,” the black man said, turning toward Simon.
    “I don’t recollect asking for your opinion, spade. I asked the man himself. Well, how about it, Cochise? You as good as they say?”
    The Indian flashed a quick grin. “Better,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Just as quickly, the smile vanished and his right hand shot out and grabbed Simon’s testicles. “And the name isn’t Cochise, fatman. It’s Seneca. Got it?”
    He increased the pressure. “Got it?”
    “Yeah, yeah, I got it, I got it,” Simon belched. “Take your fuckin’ mitts off my balls.”
    More pressure.
    “What’s the name, fatman?”
    “Seneca, goddammit … fuckin’ Seneca.”
    “That’s better.”
    The Indian released his grip and