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cream.
    "She knows where the bodies are buried," I agreed.
    "Ethics." John laughed. "Kiss my ass."
    A cop car was parked at the E-Z Way. Two cops were standing over a guy in a T-shirt, who was talking up at them from the blacktop. John pulled in, down at the end, away from the action.
    "I'll get it," I said. We needed caffeine for the drive back to Memphis, and the E-Z Way would be the last chance. I hopped out of the car and walked to the door. The cops were fifteen feet farther on, big guys in dark blue uniforms. One of them was dangling a nasty leather-wrapped sap on a key chain. The guy on the ground had brilliant white teeth. He was trying to smile, to placate them, and there was blood on his teeth. He was young, in his late teens or early twenties, with dirty blond hair and a beat-up face. I went inside, got the Coke, and paid the fat counterman. "What happened out there?"
    "Danny Oakes, running his mouth again. Boy'll never learn," the fat man said.
    "Sounds like a bad town to run your mouth in," I said. I meant it as a wisecrack, but he took it seriously.
    "It surely is," he said, nodding solemnly.
    At the door I put a quarter in an honor box and took a copy of the Longstreet daily. The headline said something about a hearing on a new bridge for the city. Outside, the cops were putting the blond in the backseat of the squad car.
    "What'd he do?" John asked. The cop car's light bar was still bouncing red flashes off the E-Z Way's windows.
    "Ran his mouth," I said. John nodded. The Delta.
    We rolled along for a while, quietly. I was thinking about the blond kid and white teeth slick with blood and spit when John blurted, "You think she's fuckin' Harold?"
    "I don't think so," I said when I caught up. "They didn't... vibrate that way. Maybe a long time ago."
    "That's what I think," he said.
    "This won't be a problem, will it?" I asked.
    John said, "I fear I'm in love." He said it so formally that I didn't laugh.
    "Should I... chuckle?" I asked.
    "I don't think so," he said, and we drove out of town toward Memphis.
    Chapter 3
    When John and I got back to Memphis, the temperature was already climbing into the eighties. Instead of going straight to the airport, he took me through a section of narrow streets of small houses with dusty turnouts in front. The children in the yards were all black.
    "Your plane doesn't leave for two hours," John said when I asked where we were going. "I want to show you something."
    We stopped at a gray clapboard house with a deep green lawn inside a quadrangle of carefully trimmed hedge. "Come on in," he said, and I followed him through the heat up the sidewalk. He opened the front door with a key and turned on the air-conditioning as we stepped through. The walls were eggshell white, and the floors were blond hardwood. Art prints dotted the walls. I didn't know the artists' names, but all were competent, and some were excellent. The strongest color came from handmade rag rugs spotted through the rooms.
    A back bedroom had been converted to a study, with racks of books along the walls. Most of them, judged from their size and color, were histories and political texts. An IBM clone sat on a desk, with a modem and a mouse. Past the bedroom we dropped down a set of stairs into the basement.
    "This is my workroom, you know, like a studio," he said as he pulled the strings on a half dozen overhead light bulbs. "I don't bring many people down here."
    "You can't work in public," I said. "You get shitty art from committees."
    A kiln sat behind the stairs, next to a furnace and water heater. To one side was a workbench made of four-by-four timbers, with a rack of wood and stoneworking tools above it. Welding tanks, along with a torch and mask, were stacked next to the bench. The whole area smelled of hot metal and glass and the pleasantly sharp odor of ceramic glazes.
    At the far end of the room a long table was covered with masks. Some were stone; some were baked clay; some were wood. One was glass,