Two weeks before the election, he invited some friends to his camp for steaks and drinks. They gathered on a covered patio at the edge of a small lake and sat in wicker rockers under a rattling ceiling fan. Rudd Kilgore, his chief deputy, chauffeur, and primary bagman, poured bourbon and kept an eye on the grill. Lance Malco was accompanied by Tip and Nevin Noll. Rex Dubisson came by himself.
Copies of the Rudy campaign’s recent mailing were passed around. Lance was irritated by the fact that the slick brochure included a color photo of Red Velvet, his flagship club, and the narrative said bad things about it. For Lance, it was the first sign of open warfare from Jesse Rudy.
“Just keep your cool,” Fats drawled, a black cigar wedged between two fingers, a bourbon in the other hand. “I don’t see any movement in Rudy’s direction. Boy’s broke and I guess he’s borrowing money, but it won’t be enough. We got everything teed up.” He looked at Dubisson and asked, “How much cash you got?”
“We’re okay,” Rex said. “Our last mailing goes out tomorrow and it’s pretty rough. He won’t be able to respond.”
“You said that last time,” Lance said.
“I did.”
“I don’t know,” Lance said, waving the brochure. “This is getting some attention from the do-gooders. You’re not worried?”
“Of course I’m worried,” Rex said. “It’s politics and anything can happen. Rudy’s run a good campaign and worked his ass off. Keep in mind, guys, I haven’t run a hard race in eight years. This is something new for me.”
“You’re doing a good job,” Fats said. “Just keep listening to me.”
“What about the black vote?” Lance asked.
“Well, there ain’t much of it, as you know. Less than twenty percent, if they go vote. I got the preachers lined up and we’ll deliver the cash Sunday before the election. They tell me there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Can you trust them?” Rex asked.
“They’ve always delivered in the past, haven’t they. The preachers will haul their people to the polls in church buses.”
“Rudy looks strong on the Point,” Rex said. “I was over there last weekend and got a rather cool reception.”
Lance said, “I know the Point as well as Rudy. That’s his base and he might carry it, but it’ll be close.”
“Give him the Point,” Fats said, blowing smoke. “There’s fourteen other boxes in Harrison County and I control them.”
“What about Hancock and Stone?” Lance asked.
“Well, first of all, there are four times more votes in Harrison than the other two combined. Hell, ain’t nobody to speak of in Stone County. The votes are in Biloxi and Gulfport, boys, you know that. Y’all need to relax.”
“We’re okay in Stone County,” said Dubisson. “My wife’s from there and her family has influence.”
Fats laughed and said, “You just keep hitting him with the mail and the radio and leave the rest to me.”
* * *
Three days later, the district was blanketed with another flood of brochures. The color photo was of an ailing white woman in a wheelchair, with an oxygen tube stuck to her nose. She appeared to be about fifty years old, with long stringy gray hair, and lots of wrinkles. In bold black print above the photo, the caption, in quotation marks, read, “I Was Raped By Jarvis Decker.”
She said her name was Connie Burns, and she described what happened when Decker broke into her home in rural Georgia, tied her up, and left two hours later. After the ordeal and the nightmare of the trial, her world completely collapsed. Her husband left her; her health deteriorated. There was no one to support her, and so on. She was now living in a nursing home and was unable to afford her medications.