Free A Shred of Truth by Eric Wilson

of the trigger.

10
    D esperado Artist Development. Johnny had to be here.
    I parked along the curb on Sixteenth. Clouds hovered over the treetops, and I rolled up my windows. A warm gust stirred freshly cut grass around my feet as I got out and headed past DAD’s black and silver lawn sign. Though the studio occupies a two-level brick home, it’s all business inside. The living room’s been converted into a front lobby, the upstairs into offices, the downstairs bedrooms into a soundproof studio and mixing room.
    At the steps of the wraparound porch, I turned toward Sammie’s late-model Mustang in the driveway. No sign of my brother’s pickup. She must’ve given him a ride.
    “Got a kickin’ set of wheels, doesn’t she?”
    “Huh?” I looked up. “Oh. Hi, Chigger.”
    Johnny’s goateed guitarist was leaning against a porch post, taking drags on a cigarette between sessions. He was in faded jeans, a paint-splattered hoodie, and a baseball cap sporting the initials C.S.A. over a Confederate flag.
    “Ever had yourself a ride in that car?”
    “Couple times,” I said. “Went out to Percy Priest Lake in it last year.”
    “You and Sammie? Not gonna lie to ya. I’m jealous.”
    “Johnny was with us.”
    “Johnny Ray Black.” Smoke writhed from the man’s nostrils, through hissideburns. His mouth curled into its standard sneer. “Can’t begin to tell ya how many times that boy’s come between us.”
    Meaning the car? Or Samantha?
    “He’s keeping you employed,” I pointed out. “Is he inside?”
    “Whoa now, let’s get one thing straight. Chigger keeps
himself
employed, and if Chigger’s not feeling it, he’s got other places he can go.”
    “I’m sure you do.”
    “Man’s gotta take pride in his work.” He swatted his cap against a thick leg. “Can’t let no one push him around.”
    “What do the initials stand for?”
    “C.S.A.?” He looked the hat over as though contemplating things best addressed in reverence. “Confederate States of America.”
    “You into all that?”
    “All what? I’m proud of my heritage. My great-great-granddaddy, he gave his life for this land. Fought for his loved ones.”
    “Sure. You gotta protect your family.”
    “A God-given right, yes sir. Says it there in the Con-
stee
-tution.”
    “And then there’s the whole thing against slavery, right there in the Bill of Rights.”
    Squinting, he took a long drag, then dropped and crushed the cigarette with his boot. His next phrase rang like a battle cry. “Mark my words: the South will rise again.”
    Though numerous responses rushed to my lips, I couldn’t pretend to have a grasp of the Southern psyche. I do know slavery was wrong, but I also know Union troops were as guilty of wrongdoing as those they fought against.
    “So have you seen my brother?” I stepped onto the porch. “Is he in there?”
    “He’s here, all right, and he’s gonna regret it if he doesn’t start showin’ a li’l appreciation. Chigger’s about artistic freedom. Maybe you could go in and bend his ear. He might just listen to his kid brother.”
    “Name’s Aramis.” The steps lifted me onto the porch.
    Situating the cap back on his head, Chigger droned on. “ ‘Tryin’ to Do Things Right,’ my foot. Johnny Ray’s more about doin’ what suits Johnny Ray.”
    “That so?”
    “A blind man wouldn’t tell ya no different.”
    My fists swung like hammers as I moved toward Chigger’s leaning post. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”
    “Doesn’t change the fact. He thinks he’s above listenin’ to Chigger—one of
the
best guitar players on Music Row. Man’s gonna learn the hard way that ain’t how things work. Hear this: I can knock ’em down as quick as I build ’em up.”
    “You wanna talk about knockdowns?”
    With chests almost touching, we locked gazes. His left eye twitched.
    “Not that I meant nothin’ by it, Aramis.”
    “ ’Course not.”
    He backed into the railing. “You