We walked the half-mile from the Tishomingo to Slow Man’s Coney Island eatery in the sweltering aftermath of the thunderstorm. It was hard to believe it could be this steamy in late March. Rain drops glistened from leaves and eaves and shop- and street signs. We all were sweating by the time we had gone a block, and there were four long blocks to go.

The front window of Slow Man’s Coneys was covered in a fog from the steam table directly inside. Slow Man was visible in the fog, dressed in white and handling a spatula to shovel steamed onions from one pile to another and back again. He whacked the spatula on the table, shoveled and whacked and shoveled. The smell got inside my nose and curled around and spit and stung. I was immediately hungry. The Slow Man saw us come inside and he took two handfuls of hot dog buns, pried each one open and laid it flat on the steam table. He stirred a big pot of chili.

“We gots to have us a chat Slow Man,” Sam said. “Why don’t ye lock her up for a spell.”

There was a sign hanging from a nail inside the door that told passers-by Slow Man’s Coneys was Open. The Slow Man held his spatula for a moment, then slapped it down and went around to the door, locked it and flipped the sign around. He pulled down the door shade.

The Slow Man was the same height as Rev. King and Eli, around five feet even. He was thick about the shoulders, however, and slender about the waist, and I pictured his belly looking like rippled mud flats. He wore glasses as thick and opaque as the bottom of a pop bottle. He held his eyes in a perpetual hard squint, and his mouth in a perpetual grimace, all, I judged, from the effort to see through his pop bottle lenses. What hair he had left was in the form of tiny curls.

“Slow Man, this is Thibodeaux,” Sam said. “Thibodeaux, Sheriff Perkins.”

“Josiah Thibodeaux,” I said, offering my hand. “Pleasure, sheriff.”

“Likewise,” the Slow Man said, holding my hand in a grip like a bear sat on it. “Folks call me the Slow Man. Sodee box is in the back. Everbody pull up a chair so’s we can talk while we eat.”

The chairs were wooden school desks. We each got a bottled soft drink, five cents please, and took a coney, ten cents please, and pulled the school desks into a circle.

Sam wore his Tom Mix Stetson and tan duster and, as usual, didn’t take either one off. Sweat ran down the side of his face like water on a melon. He took his “sodee,” an Orange Crush, and gulped it down in an uninterrupted series of pulls and belched one of the larger belches on record.

“Slow Man, Thibodeaux here’s with the Sooner and he wants to interview me on the proud occasion of my sixtieth birthday.”

“Happy sixty,” the Slow Man said.

“Thank ye. It ain’t sposed to be about the rat, jest about me, although he may want to talk with you too since we worked together all that time.”

“I see.”

“But me, I’m jest wonderin,” Sam said.

“Wonderin what.”

“If it’s time to tell the story. Actually we was all wonderin that, except for Thibodeaux here, but we’re in agreement we need to talk it over with ye present.”

The Slow Man sat forward in his school desk and held on to the front edge like it was the steering wheel of a bus. His grimace grew. “It ain’t a good idea, you ask me Sam,” he said

“That’s what I’m doin, askin ye.”

The Slow Man slowly shook his head. “Too dangerous, depty.”

“Getting out of bed is dangerous,” DaVida said. “You could fall down, snap your neck.”

The Slow Man looked at the preacher but spoke to Sam. “You know what I mean Sam.”

“I reckon I knowed what ye mean Slow Man.”

“The witnesses aren’t going to be around forever,” DaVida said. “At least some of the old-timers are already gone. The time will come when it’s just your word against whoever wants to deny it. And we can all think of folks, powerful folks, who would want to deny it.”

The Slow Man slowly nodded his head. “Could be, preacher, could be,” he said. “But I’m gettin on in years too, and I ain’t in no hurry speed up my Great Gettin Up Day.”

“Well ain’t nothin goin to happen to you Slow Man,” Sam said. “Nor to the preacher here. It’s me they’ll be after. I’m the one done the shit, beggin yere pardon preach. And when ol Thibodeaux here does the interviewin, he can quote me on that too Slow Man.”

The Slow Man slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. What’s so special bout this time right now?”

“You. Your ages,” DaVida said. “And here’s Mr. Thibodeaux, who knows how to write and who can tell the story we give him.”

“Look,” I said. “I don’t know if this will help any. But my editor doesn’t want a story about the riot. So in a way, this is a moot point.”

“Moo? Like in cows?” Sam said, winking.

“Moot. Over and done with. I’m supposed to interview Deputy Key about what life has been like since he stopped being deputy. Period. My instructions are, don’t talk about the riot. Other than to say the deputy was deputy and the sheriff was sheriff. Then.”

“That’s the goddamn thang,” the Slow Man said. “Half this damn town in flames and we ain’t sposed to talk bout it.”

“That’s the spirit,” DaVida said.

“It’s jest a fack,” the Slow Man said.

“If we do this right, we’ve got the story right here,” DaVida said.

“Sorry, I don’t think I understand,” I said.

The Slow Man slowly looked from the sheriff to the preacher to me. “Like he interviews the three o’ us, and maybe others. And we drop it over somebody’s transom.”

“Now you’re talking,” DaVida said.

“Actually that’s a term used in publishing,” I said, and watched as the Slow Man’s and Sam’s eyes rolled up. “Over the transom. Unsolicited. Meaning the publisher didn’t ask to see it. The writer just sent it in. Something like that.”

“Sounds like you gettin excited bout our little project here,” the Slow Man said.

“Actually I’m surprising myself,” I said. Scaring myself. “So … I’d interview the three of you. Sometimes individually, sometimes as a group. Whatever seems best at the time. And like one of you said, Rev. King I think it was, maybe there are others I’d also be talking to.”

“You gots to be careful about that,” Slow Man said. “Make this thang too public and we could be in a heap o’ trouble.”

“Yes, yes of course,” I said. “I’d consult with the three of you before I interviewed anyone else. Make sure it’s the prudent thing to do.”

“And we don’t got to decide what to do with it until it’s all done,” the Slow Man said.

“I suppose we could just burn it if we wanted,” I said. “If we decided that’s the best thing to do with it.”

“It’s been burnt up enough,” the Slow Man said. “It’s time to dig what we can out o’ the ashes, like the preacher here said, before that’s all that’s left. Ashes.”

“So you’re for it,” I said to the Slow Man.

“Reckon. You, preach? I knowed you is.”

“My you’re poetic, Mr. Perkins,” DaVida said. “And you do change your mind in a hurry! Yes, it’s time.”

“How about you depty?” the Slow Man said, and the old deputy, he nodded, slowly, that yes, it was time.

Next Chapter: "Unwanted Attention"