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Ott sacked out with a beach bunny…the story probably was all over Harney by now。 〃Maybe that's it；〃 Decker said。 〃He was probably on his way home when the accident happened。〃 This was Ott's old pal from Miami； lying through his teeth。 If Kilpatrick only knew the truth； Decker thought。 He said； 〃Sandy； I'm so sorry。 I can't believe he's dead。〃 That part was almost true； and the regret was genuine。
〃The service is tomorrow；〃 Kilpatrick said。 〃Cremation seemed the best way to go； considering。〃
Decker said good…bye and hung up。 Then he called a florist shop in Miami and asked them to wire an orchid to Ott Pickney's funeral。 The best orchid they had。
Jim Tile was born in the town of Wilamette； Florida； a corrupt and barren flyspeck untouched by the alien notions of integration； fair housing； and equal rights。 Jim Tile was one of the few blacks ever to have escaped his miserable neighborhood without benefit of a bus ride to Raiford or a football scholarship。 He attributed his success to good steady parents who made him stay in school； and also to his awesome physical abilities。 Most street kids thought punching was the cool way to fight； but Jim Tile preferred to wrestle because it was more personal。 For this he took some grief from his pals until the first time the white kids jumped him and tried to push his face in some cowshit。 There were three of them； and naturally they waited until Jim Tile was alone。 They actually got him down for a moment； but the one who was supposed to lock Jim Tile's arms didn't get a good grip and that was that。 One of the white kids ended up with a broken collarbone； another with both elbows hyperextended grotesquely； and the third had four broken ribs where Jim Tile had squeezed him in a leg scissors。 And they all went to the hospital with cowshit on their noses。
After high school Jim Tile enrolled at Florida State University in Tallahassee； majored in criminal justice； was graduated； and joined the highway patrol。 His friends and classmates told him that he was nuts； that a young black man with a 4。0 grade average and a college degree could write his own ticket with the DEA or Customs； maybe even the FBI。 Jim Tile could have taken his pick。 Besides； everybody knew about the highway patrol： it had the worst pay and the highest risks of any law…enforcement job in the state…not to mention its reputation as an enclave for hardcore rednecks who； while not excluding minority recruits； hardly weled them with champagne and tickertape parades。
In the 1970s the usual fate of black troopers was to get assigned to the lousiest roads in the reddest counties。 This way they could spend most of their days writing tickets to foul…mouthed Klansmen farmers who insisted on driving their tractors down the middle of the highway in violation of about seventeen traffic statutes。 Two or three years of this challenging work was enough to inspire most black troopers to look elsewhere for employment； but Jim Tile hung on。 When other troopers asked him why； he replied that he intended someday to bee mander of the entire highway patrol。 His friends thought he was joking； but when word of Jim Tile's boldly stated ambition reached certain colonels and lieutenants in Tallahassee he was immediately reassigned to patrol the remote roadways of Harney County and faithfully protect its enlightened citizenry； most of whom insisted on addressing him as Boy or Son or Officer Zulu。
One day Trooper Jim Tile was told to acpany a little…known gubernatorial candidate on a campaign swing through Harney。 The day began with breakfast at the pancake house and finished with a roast…hog barbecue on the shore of Lake Jesup。 The candidate； Clinton Tyree； gave the identical slick speech no less than nine times； and out of utter boredom Jim Tile memorized it。 By the end of the day he was unconsciously muttering the big applause lines just before they came out of the candidate's mouth。 From the reactions…and penurious donations…of several fat…cat political contributors； it was obvious that they had gotten the idea that Clinton Tyree was letting a big black man tell him what to say。
At dusk； after all the reporters and politicos had polished off the barbecue and gone home； Clinton Tyree took Jim Tile aside and said：
〃I know you don't think much of my speech； but in November I'm going to be elected governor。〃
〃I don't doubt it；〃 Jim Tile had said； 〃but it's because of your teeth； not your ideals。〃
After Clinton Tyree won the election； one of the first things he did was order Trooper Jim Tile transferred from Harney County to the governor's special detail in Tallahassee。 This unit was the equivalent of the state's Secret Service； one of the most prestigious assignments in the highway patrol。 Never before had a black man been chosen as a bodyguard for a governor； and many of Tyree's cronies told him that he was setting a dangerous precedent。 The governor only laughed。 He told them that Jim Tile was the most prescient man he'd met during the whole campaign。 An exit survey taken on election day by the pollster Pat Caddell revealed that what Florida voters had liked most about candidate Clinton Tyree was not his plainly spoken views on the death penalty or toxic dumps or corporate ine taxes； but rather his handsome smile。 In particular； his teeth。
During his brief and turbulent tenure in the governor's mansion； Clinton Tyree confided often in Jim Tile。 The trooper grew to admire him； he thought the new governor was courageous； visionary； earnest； and doomed。 Jim Tile was probably the only person in Florida who was not surprised when Clinton Tyree resigned from office and vanished from the public eye。
As soon as Tyree was gone； Trooper Jim Tile was removed from the governor's detail and sent back to Harney in the hopes that he'd e to his senses and quit the force。
For some reason he did not。
Jim Tile remained loyal to Clinton Tyree； who was now calling himself Skink and subsisting on fried bass and dead animals off the highway。 Jim Tile's loyalty extended so far as to driving the former governor to the Orlando airport for one of his rare trips out of state。
〃I could take some p time and e with you；〃 Jim Tile volunteered。
Skink was riding in the back of the patrol car in order to draw less attention。 He looked like a prisoner anyway。
〃Thanks for the offer；〃 he said； 〃but we're going to a tournament in Louisiana。〃
Jim Tile nodded in understanding。 〃Gotcha。〃 Bopping down Bourbon Street he'd be fine。 Fishing the bayous was another matter。
〃Keep your ears open while I'm gone；〃 Skink said。 〃I'd steer clear of the Morgan Slough； too。〃
〃Don't worry。〃
Skink could tell Jim Tile was worried。 He could see distraction in the way the trooper sat at the wheel； driving was the last thing on his mind。 He was barely doing sixty。
〃Is it me or yourself you're thinking about？〃 Skink asked。
〃I was thinking about something that happened yesterday morning；〃 Jim Tile said。 〃About twenty minutes after I dropped you guys off on the highway； I pulled over a pickup truck that nearly broke my radar。〃
〃Mrnrnm；〃 Skink said； acting like he couldn't have cared less。
〃I wrote him up a speeding ticket for doing ninety…two。 The man said he was late for work。 I said where do you work； and he said Miller Lumber。 I said you must be new； and he said yeah； that's right。 I said it must be your first day because you're driving the wrong damn direction； and then he didn't say anything。〃
〃You ever seen this boy before？〃
〃No；〃 Jim Tile said。
〃Or the truck？〃
〃No。 Had Louisiana plates。 Jefferson Parish。〃
〃Mmmm；〃 Skink said。
〃But you know what was funny；〃 Jim Tile said。 'There was a rifle clip on the front seat。 No rifle； just a fresh clip。 Thirty rounds。 Would have fit a Ruger； I expect。 The man said the gun was stolen out of his truck down in West Palm。 Said some nigger kids stole it。〃
Skink frowned。 〃He said that to your face？ Nigger kids？ What the hell did you do when he said that； Jim？ Split open his cracker skull； I hope。〃
〃Naw；〃 Jim Tile said。 〃Know what else was strange？ I saw two jugs of coffee on the front seat。 Not one； but two。〃
〃Maybe he was extra thirsty；〃 Skink said。
〃Or maybe the second jug didn't belong to him。 Maybe it belonged to a buddy。〃 The trooper straightened in the driver's seat； yawned； and stretched his arms。 〃Maybe the man's buddy was the one with the rifle。 Maybe there was some trouble back on the road and something happened to him。〃
〃You got one hell of an imagination；〃 Skink said。 〃You ought to write for the movies。〃 There was no point in telling his friend about the killing。 Someday it might be necessary； but not now； the trooper had enough to worry about。
〃So you got the fellow's name； the driver；〃 Skink said。
Jim Tile nodded。 〃Thomas Curl。〃
〃I don't believe he works at Miller's；〃 Skink remarked。
〃Me neither。〃
〃Suppose I ask around New Orleans。〃
〃Would you mind？〃 Jim Tile said。 〃I'm just curious。〃
〃Don't blame you。 Man's got to have a reason for lying to a cop。 I'll see what I can dig up。〃
They rode the last ten miles in silence； Jim Tile； wishing that Skink would just e out and tell him about it； but knowing there were good reasons not to。 The second ma