Thankfully the dock was deserted, with the exception of Ron, who was out of sight but making noises with a tool in his room. Adam fidgeted a bit, and said, "Well, I'm a lawyer, and I represent Sam Cayhall."
The smile grew and revealed two rows of strong yellow teeth. "Got your work cut out for you, don't you?" he said with a laugh and slapped Adam on the back.
"I guess so," Adam said awkwardly as he waited for another assault. "I'd like to talk about Sam."
Lettner was suddenly serious. He stroked his chin with a beefy hand and studied Adam with narrow eyes. "I saw it in the papers, son. I know Sam's your grandfather. Must be tough on you. Gonna get tougher, too." Then he smiled again. "Tougher on Sam as well." His eyes twinkled as if he'd just delivered a side-splitting punch line and he wanted Adam to double over with laughter.
Adam missed the humor. "Sam has less than a month, you know," he said, certain that Lettner had also read about the execution date.
A heavy hand was suddenly on Adam's shoulder and was shoving him in the direction of the shop. "Step in here, son. We'll talk about Sam. You wanna beer?"
"No. Thanks." They entered a narrow room with fishing gear hanging from the walls and ceilings, with rickety wooden shelves covered with food - crackers, sardines, canned sausages, bread, pork and beans, cupcakes - all the necessities for a day on the river. A soft drink cooler sat in one corner.
"Take a seat," Lettner said, waving to a corner near the cash register. Adam sat in a shaky wooden chair as Lettner fished through an ice chest and found a bottle of beer. "Sure you don't want one?"
"Maybe later." It was almost five o'clock.
He twisted the top, drained at least a third of the bottle with the first gulp, smacked his lips, then sat in a beaten leather captain's chair which had no doubt been removed from a customized van. "Are they finally gonna get old Sam?" he asked.
"They're trying awfully hard."
"What're the odds?"
"Not good. We have the usual assortment of last minute appeals, but the clock's ticking."
"Sam's not a bad guy," Lettner said with a trace of remorse, then washed it away with another long drink. The floor creaked quietly as the dock shifted with the river.
"How long were you in Mississippi?" Adam asked.
"Five years. Hoover called me after the three civil rights workers disappeared. Nineteen sixtyfour. We set up a special unit and went to work. After Kramer, the Klan sort of ran out of gas."
"And you were in charge of what?"
"Mr. Hoover was very specific. He told me to infiltrate the Klan at all costs. He wanted it busted up. To be truthful, we were slow getting started in Mississippi. Bunch of reasons for it. Hoover hated the Kennedys and they were pushing him hard, so he dragged his feet. But when those three boys disappeared, we got off our asses. Nineteen sixty-four was a helluva year in Mississippi."
"I was born that year."
"Yeah, paper said you were born in Clanton."
Adam nodded. "I didn't know it for a long time. My parents told me I was born in Memphis."
The door jingled and Ron entered the shop. He looked at them, then studied the crackers and sardines. They watched him and waited. He glanced at Adam as if to say, "Keep talking. I'm not listening."
"What do you want?" Lettner snapped at him.
He grabbed a can of Vienna sausage with his dirty hand and showed it to them. Lettner nodded and waved at the door. Ron ambled toward it, checking the cupcakes and potato chips as he went.
"He's nosy as hell," Lettner said after he was gone. "I talked to Garner Goodman a few times. It was years ago. Now, that's a weird bird."
"He's my boss. He gave me your name, said you'd talk to me."
"Talk about what?" Lettner asked, then took another drink.
"The Kramer case."
"The Kramer case is closed. The only thing left is Sam and his date with the gas chamber."
"Do you want him executed?"
Voices followed footsteps, then the door opened again. A man and a boy entered and Lettner got to his feet. They needed food and supplies, and for ten minutes they shopped and talked and decided where the fish were biting. Lettner was careful to place his beer under the counter while his customers were present.
Adam removed a soft drink from the cooler and left the shop. He walked along the edge of the wooden dock next to the river, and stopped by the gas pump. Two teenagers in a boat were casting near the bridge, and it struck Adam that he'd never been fishing in his life. His father had not been a man of hobbies and leisure. Nor had he been able to keep a job. At the moment, Adam could not remember exactly what his father had done with his time.
The customers left and the door slammed. Lettner lumbered to the gas pump. "You like to trout fish?" he asked, admiring the river.
"No. Never been."
"Let's go for a ride. I need to check out a spot two miles downriver. The fish are supposed to be thick."
Lettner was carrying his ice chest which he dropped carefully into a boat. He stepped down from the dock, and the boat rocked violently from side to side as he grabbed the motor. "Come on," he yelled at Adam, who was studying the thirty-inch gap between himself and the boat. "And grab that rope," Lettner yelled again, pointing to a thin cord hooked to a grapple..
Adam unhitched the rope and stepped nervously into the boat, which rocked just as his foot touched it. He slipped and landed on his head and came within inches of taking a swim. Lettner howled with laughter as he pulled the starter rope. Ron, of course, had watched this and was grinning stupidly on the dock. Adam was embarrassed but laughed as if it was all very funny. Lettner gunned the engine, the front of the boat jerked upward, and they were off.
Adam clutched the handles on both sides as they sped through the water and under the bridge. Calico Rock was soon behind them. The river turned and twisted its way through scenic hills and around rocky bluffs. Lettner navigated with one hand and sipped a fresh beer with the other. After a few minutes, Adam relaxed somewhat and managed to pull a beer from the cooler without losing his balance. The bottle was ice cold. He held it with his right hand and clutched the boat with his left. Lettner was humming or singing something behind him. The high-pitched roar of the motor prevented conversation.
They passed a small trout dock where a group of clean-cut city slickers were counting fish and drinking beer, and they passed a flotilla of rubber rafts filled with mangy teenagers smoking something and absorbing the sun. They waved at other fishermen who were hard at work.
The boat slowed finally and Lettner maneuvered it carefully through a bend as if he could see the fish below and had to position himself perfectly. He turned off the engine. "You gonna fish or drink beer?" he asked, staring at the water.
"Drink beer."
"Figures." His bottle was suddenly of secondary importance as he took the rod and cast to a spot toward the bank. Adam watched for a second, and when there was no immediate result he reclined and hung his feet over the water. The boat was not comfortable.
"How often do you fish?" he asked.
"Every day. It's part of my job, you know, part of my service to my customers. I have to know where the fish are biting."
"Tough job."
"Somebody has to do it."
"What brought you to Calico Rock?"
"Had a heart attack in '75, so I had to retire from the Bureau. Had a nice pension and all, but, hell, you get bored just sitting around. The wife and I found this place and found the marina for sale. One mistake led to another, and here I am. Hand me a beer."