Page 95 of Big Britches

“You still are. Tuttle Barksdale bleeds blue, you know? No doubt he’s working hard to stir something up. Best you get organized. This place is a wreck.”

Silas sighed, long and loud. “Goddamn. I’m fucked.”

“Relax. I’ll talk to Daddy. He’ll make some calls, pull some strings.”

“I swear to God, Mason, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll cut your grass for-free, for-ever… your Daddy’s grass, and all of Morehead, too.”

Mason Barksdale. Son of a bitch.

“No need,” Mason said. “Elijah Fowler already does that for all of us. I don’t share the same aversion to skin color as you, my friend. When I asked you to squash this little love affair, I meant for you to break them up, not remove one of them from the goddamned country. It hurts far more when the one you love is near, yet unattainable.”

Son of a bitch.

Titus squeezed the edge of the shelving unit nearly tight enough to splinter it.

“I suggest you dismantle this little import/deport racket you’re running pronto.” Mason continued, a tad more forcefully. “I mean it, Silas. Clean up this mess now. Spoon’s future planning committee head can’t afford to be connected to such shady goings on. If you’re serious about the position, you’ll do as I say.”

Titus knew his father was a smart man. But it never failed to astonish him just how insightful Truman was.

“I’m not exactly sure how to make this problem go away,” Silas said.

“It’s easy. Offer him his job back. Tell him he can keep his green card, as long as he stops this business with Titus. He’s scared. I’m sure he’ll comply.”

“Well,” Silas said. He held the syllable long, his inflection climbing in pitch. “It’s not that easy.”

Mason’s voice went cold and direct. “Yes it, Silas. I need you to put this racist bullshit in a box and store it away. Maybe you can take it back out one day when you’re old and no one gives a shit. But right now, you need this–we need this–to go away.”

“Please don’t be mad, Mason, but I might have–”

Titus tensed. His rigid hold on the shelving unit was now coursing through his entire body, turning him to stone, stiff and unyielding.

“Silas Compton–do not tell me you got violent with that man.”

“I was trying to provoke him. I needed leverage.”

“What exactly did you do?”

Silas exhaled, exasperated. “I tried forcing him into physical contact. I might have told him he could keep his job for either a blow job or a fist fight–his choice.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Titus had heard enough. “SILAS,” he shouted, pausing as if entering the building. “Silas Compton!”

Silence.

Titus stormed down the hallway. When he reached the light, he turned, his frame filling the doorway of the small office. Silas was there, seated behind a desk cluttered with piles of papers. Mason was in a chair to the right. Both were clearly surprised.

Mason recovered quicker. “Big Britches,” he said, standing and extending his hand with a smile. “It’s been a long time.”

“Save it. I’m not here for you.” He pointed at Silas. “I’m here to talk to this asshole.”

“Talk?” Mason asked. “From the looks of it, I’d say you’re here to do more than talk. Your face is so red, Titus–scarlet, really. My guess is you’re either gonna kill him or have a stroke.”

“Now, hold on,” Silas said, rising.

“I see through you, Mason. Actually, I see through both of you. There’s not much difference at all.”

“That so?” Mason said, provoked. He approached Titus unafraid, his eyes narrowing to cold little slits. “And what, may I ask, is that? What is it that me and my good friend, Silas, here have in common?”