Ravens (13 page)

Then he opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep — and when he looked up he saw that Nell was right out there on the street, getting
into her car. She was dressed in a pantsuit and wore earrings, and Romeo
knew
, instantly, that she was going to the press conference. From the chambers of his heart, terror came shooting up. I knew it.
I could have told you. I
did
tell you, Shaw. They’re gonna fuck us.

Shaw
was so excited he felt light in the head. Riding to the press conference, he wore his faded brown corduroy jacket — the only
one he owned — and a tie he’d borrowed from Mitch. He had the .32 tucked into the thunderbelt behind his back. Prepared for
whatever comes. This is the way to live, he thought. Been trying to live some other way, but this is the only way: everything
into the fire. He was in the passenger seat of the Boatwrights’ SUV — a battered ’02 Jeep Liberty — and Tara was driving,
and the others were in the back. Tara’s expression was grim but determined. Shaw was sure she’d be all right. And she’d lead
the others through as well. We’re all going to soldier through this.

But then his phone buzzed, and when he answered Romeo barked at him, “Nell’s going to your press conference!”

“What?”

“She’s heading there now!”

“How do you know that?”

“She’s all dressed up and she’s in her car. Where else would she be going?”

“Hold on,” said Shaw, and he looked to Mitch. “You said Nell wasn’t coming.”

Mitch said, “I thought she wasn’t. She changes her mind a lot.”

Shaw told Romeo, “Mitch says she changes her mind.”

“
She changes her mind?
Shaw, if she’s at the press conference I can’t touch her! I can’t touch anyone! They can fuck us at will!”

“OK. Try to calm down.”

“This is a
mutiny
! They’re gonna kill us!”

“I really can’t talk now. I’m in the car.”

“We’re dead!”

“We’re fine, Romeo. Let me go.”

He snapped his phone shut just as they pulled into the parking lot of the Plantation House Inn. A Georgia Lottery guy, Mr.
Creave, eyes as small as jumping-beans, greeted them and briskly escorted them through the swarm of reporters and into the
hotel by way of a side entrance. Took them to a kind of greenroom. Tara and Patsy were installed in aluminum folding chairs,
where a couple of local beauticians applied their makeup. Jase sat in a corner and cut down the enemy hordes. Creave kept
chattering away. “The Announcement will take place in the Vince Dooley Room! The local Savannah TV station is covering us
live, and so is Jax, and there’ll be feeds for CNN and Fox! This one’s going
around the world
, folks! So it’s not just the biggest day of your lives — it’s the biggest thing ever to happen to this city! Since Brunswick
stew!”

Nobody answered him.

Shaw was trying to think: could Romeo be right about the Boatwrights? No sign of them plotting — no whispering, no meaningful
glances between them. They all just looked exhausted. And they knew he had a gun. They knew if they tried anything, they were
all going down: they
knew
that. They weren’t
insane.

But when he looked at Mitch, and saw his fat lip hanging sullenly, he thought, well, maybe a
little
insane.

He took Mitch off to a corner of the room, straightened his tie for him. “Everything all right?”

“Oh sure.”

Creave called out, “Five minutes! How we doing? Five minutes! Lives are going to change!”

Tara led her mother to the bathroom, and Shaw let them go. I have to, he thought. I believe in this family now. He whispered
to Mitch, “All right, my friend, when did you save me?”

“March of ’03.”

“And where were we at the time?”

“Greenville, South Carolina.”

“And what were you doing the night we met?”

“Working the crisis line at the church.”

“What was
I
doing?”

“Passing through.”

“All right.”

But Mitch kept staring straight ahead, at nothing. Stupid man, thought Shaw. I’m putting my fate into the hands of an idiot.
“Look elated, Mitch. Don’t look glum.”

“OK.”

“Everyone’s well-being depends on you looking elated.”

Tara
went to the Ladies with Mom, and there she pulled a Diet Coke bottle from her handbag, and said quietly, “Gin. Take a sip.”

Mom waved her off. “Oh pumpkin, that’s sweet of you, but you know I never drink at this hour.”

Tara shut her eyes. Just drink it. Don’t pose now. We don’t have time.

She said, “Mom. Gotta make sure you’re relaxed up there. You can’t seem frightened or nervous or worried at all.”

“Oh, I’ll be
fine.
”

“Take a sip.”

Mom looked off to one side. Then gave a little one-shoulder shrug, and brought the bottle to her lips and neatly polished
off a shot and a half. Afterward she drew her chin back the way she always did after her first drink of the day, that smug-turtle
look. She resisted a little when Tara took the bottle back. But Tara said firmly, as she led her back out into the storm,
“Just keep thinking of how rich we’re gonna be, Mom. Rich. Really
rich
. That’s all you have to think about.”

Burris
and a couple of other cops were turning cars away at the entrance, trying to keep control of the chaos. But people kept pulling
rank. The mayor arrived with a limo full of councilmen. Some bloated bullying congressman showed up; then some guy who said
he was the Secretary of State for the State of Georgia — whatever that meant. A crush of praying-mantis satellite trucks.
Burris was in too black a mood to contend with any of them. He hung back and let the young cops take charge. Truth was, he
didn’t give a damn who got to park and who didn’t — why should he?

The hotel manager came out and scolded: “There’s no more room! Make ’em park on Bartow!” Came out again and said, “Make ’em
park on G Street!” Came out two minutes later and said, “Make ’em park on Goodyear!” In opposition to him was this Lottery
guy who kept wailing, “That’s the congressman! Let the congressman in!” Or, “That’s WICK 103.9! Let WICK 103.9 in!” Or, “That’s
the president of the Sea Island Company! For God’s sake! Let him come in!”

Burris didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it. Horns, curses, bedlam — none of it touched him. He was just trying to stay
out of everybody’s way.

In the midst of all this, Nell appeared.

In her old white Cadillac. She was out on Gloucester Street, wanting to turn into the lot. One of the young cops tried to
shoo her away.

But then Burris stepped up. “It’s OK! Nell! Come on through.”

The young cop was miffed at the interference. He started to bitch but Burris cut him off: “I said let her
in.
”

Nell heard this. She laughed, and called, “That’s the way I like to be
treated
!”

Burris told her, “You can park by the front entrance over there. You see where my cruiser is? Park right there.”

She said, “Thank you, Burris. I love you, darlin’.”

She said it skimmingly and carelessly, but still.

Burris knew that Nell wasn’t beautiful, nor had she ever been. She had the haircut of a schoolboy playing hooky, and the shoulders
of a stevedore. But her laugh was so musical it could melt iron; in fact long ago it had melted the chains that bound him
to the codes of propriety and proportion. He didn’t give a shit about the young cop who was now glaring at him. He didn’t
care about the Lottery guy complaining, “There’s no
room
! You can’t let just
anybody
in here.” He didn’t try to explain himself. He didn’t say, “That’s the mother of the winner,” or anything like that. He just
stood there gazing moonily after Nell as she pulled into the special place he’d saved for her.

Romeo
was in the Tercel right behind Nell. He’d followed her here to the inn, and watched her pull in. They wouldn’t let
him
in of course, so he drove to the next street and made a right, and went one block to G Street and found parking at a dentist’s
office. He leaped out of the car and started running toward the hotel. The air was so damp he felt he was kicking through
water, and by the time he reached the rear of the hotel he was wiped out. There was a hurricane fence covered in morning glory.
He jumped up and gripped the wire and pulled himself to the top. On his way over, he scraped a pair of parallel gouges into
his wrist, but he felt this only distantly. He dropped and rolled, and as he rose he was already into a sprint again.

Around the swimming pool. Trying doors one after another till he found an open one. It led to a laundry room. Old woman roosting
amid dunes of unwashed sheets. She squinted up at him. “I’m lost,” he said. “You know where they’re having the press conference?”

She kept squinting. Clearly she didn’t understand a word.

He said, “Jackpot?”

That worked. She led him to a narrow hallway and pointed out a door. As he approached, he heard a clamor beyond. He opened
the door and found himself in a big conference room full of people. He was near the front, by the stage. No one cared about
his entrance — there was too much going on. Lights ablaze, cameras whirring. On the stage was a microphone stand and two outsized
checks, one made out to
The Boat wright Family,
one to
Mr. Shaw McBride.
The amount on each of them, written in folksy slapdash cursive, was
One Hundred and Fifty-Nine Million Dollars.

Romeo scanned the faces of the audience. Who was here? They all were. Old cousin Alfred, looking distinguished. Patsy’s brother
Shelby and his wife Miriam. Vanessa and Henry. And up front was Nell — ensconced in her folding chair as though upon a throne.
Romeo saw a small patch of standing room by the wall near her, and he went and claimed it.

Nell was the star here. Everyone wanted to be close to her. Folks kept coming up to pay their respects, and she’d smile and
call out, “Well, hel-
lo
!” or, “Hello,
ba-
by!” or “Drew Wilson, I been
look
ing for you!” She kept reaching to touch their hands. Once, when she noticed a camera aimed her way, she posed and batted
her eyes, and said, “I’m ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille.”

Someone asked, “Nell, how come you’re not up on that stage?”

“Well, I don’t
know
. I guess they’re trying to cut poor Grandma out of the deal. Ungrateful wretches!”

She turned to a nearby matron. “Anita, you got kids?”

“Not yet.”

“I’d advise
against
it,” she said, and cackled. She had no worries, no baggage. If there was an insurrection brewing, she wasn’t in on it.

Suddenly the room erupted into applause. The Boatwrights were marching onto the stage from the wings. The kid first, then
Tara and Patsy and Mitch. Lastly here came Shaw with a great sunny grin on his face.

Tara
looked down at the crowd. Everyone was cheering — even the TV crews, even the policemen and the reporters: all whistling
and woof-woofing shamelessly, and melting before the radiance of her family’s good fortune.

Then Mr. Creave stepped up to the lectern, settled the audience, and introduced some congressman, who gave a long dull speech
about American values and reward for hard work. Nell, up near the front, said aloud to a friend, “
Work
? What is he
talking
about?” That got a big laugh. The congressman chuckled as though he were truly amused — then went right back to his thudding
bromides. Tara stole a glance at her mom. She seemed all right now. The drink had done her a world of good. Her eyes were
glossy, bright; she was lapping up the attention. She’ll keep, Tara thought, for an hour or so — long enough to get us out
of here. And Jase was afloat in his usual dream world but so what? — so long as he keeps his mouth shut.

But then Tara turned to her right and saw Dad’s little clenched smile. That scared her. The muscles twitching in his jaw.
She took his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back, too hard. The congressman was getting down to business now, the moment
everyone had been waiting for: the presentation of the mock checks. Flashbulbs sputtered. The applause was renewed. Creave
summoned Shaw up to the mike.

Shaw’s jacket was too small and his tie didn’t match his shirt, and he stood there looking kind of embarrassed, as silence
took hold around the room. Finally he leaned into the mike:

“Well, are you, um, I guess you’re wondering how
I
got cut into this deal?”

A swell of laughter.

Shaw turned to Dad. “Mitch, maybe, maybe
you
could tell it?”

Dad went up to the mike. He seemed to totter. Running two fingers under his shirt collar. He said, “Well. I guess, um. What
happened? Is that a couple of years ago, I. Was, um, doing some business training in Greenville? Up in South Carolina? And
the church I went to, it had a crisis line? And, well, I was working in there one day, and this young man comes in, and that’s,
um, this young man here. And well —”