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Zeal was at the door by then. He was tall and meant to be naturally thin but his upper body was over-developed by exercise and weight lifting, maybe even some bulk enhancing drugs. His skin was dark, as dark as Fortlow’s. His face had been pretty, would still have been if it weren’t for the scars and a hardness in his eye. He didn’t smile, only took Socrates’ hand in welcome.
He was six three at least, no more than mid-twenties. He wore a clean white T-shirt despite the cool evening temperature and black pants with matching sneakers.
Behind Ron a car passed slowly. From the car’s passenger window a white man peered into the house.
Socrates grinned and gestured for his guest to enter.
“Come on in, brother,” the host said warmly. “We almost all here now.”
He led Ronald Zeal into the room dominated by the big irregular table.
Every chair at the table was of a different make. Straight-back maple, cane and wicker, a black stool and a dark stained piano bench. There were eleven seats in all with the capacity to hold a dozen people.
“This Ronald Zeal, everybody. We only got one more and he told me he was gonna be late because of his job.”
“Hey, Ron,” Cassie Wheaton said. She was looking at the stern-faced young man.
“Ms. Wheaton,” he said in an oddly subdued tone.
“Have you been down to the courthouse yet?” the lawyer asked.
“No, not yet.”
“They will put you away if you don’t show up with those papers.”
“Mustafa Ali,” Mustafa said introducing himself. “Mission of Heaven services.”
“Hey.”
Socrates noticed that Leanne Northford had moved to the black stool at the other side of the Big Table. She’d stay, he thought, but she wouldn’t welcome the killer or shake his hand.
From Leanne Socrates’ attention went around the room. Most were aware of the famous killer. Darryl was trying to put on a gangster-calm while Marianne Lodz seemed flustered. Antonio, though he might not have known Zeal’s story, could read the threat in the young man’s bearing. Billy Psalms was in the kitchen but Socrates knew that the gambler would watch Ron the way he’d concentrate on a roulette table—wondering at what number would come up, and then the one after that.
Only Luna seemed unaffected by the notorious gangbanger’s presence. She satisfied herself by observing Socrates watching his guests.
3.
    “Help me with this, Socco,” Billy Psalms called as he entered the meeting room laboring under the weight of the two-handled copper cauldron that Socrates had borrowed from Leanne. Antonio and Mustafa rushed over to grab hold of the big pot.
    As soon as they had taken the weight the gambler announced, “Louisiana blue crab gumbo is in the house.”
The guests began taking their seats.
“Darryl,” Socrates said.
“Yeah?”
“Go help Billy with the rest of what he got to bring in.” Darryl’s eyes were on the singer. He wanted to get to a seat by
her side.
“Okay,” he said.
Luna followed the boy out of the room. Socrates watched her
leave, wondering why she made him feel so uneasy. When he looked back at the table he saw that Ronald Zeal was
also troubled. The hard-faced street-fighter was thrumming his
fingers on the table. There between Mustafa and an empty seat
Zeal was sitting lightly like a man about to take flight. Socrates smiled and forgot Luna for a moment. He went to
stand at the center of three spaces, at what might have seemed
like the head of the table.
The Big Table resembled a dark rose petal that had been
gnawed on by insect pests and then trampled underfoot. Longer
than it was wide there was something vaguely oval about its
form. There were light, almost blond highlights along the sides
and at two places in top. It was a sturdy board of wood four and
a half inches thick and hard.
Darryl and Luna came in: him carrying a big bowl filled with
white rice and her with a pewter platter bearing two huge
squares of cornbread.
The seat next to Marianne Lodz was the piano bench.