A time to kill

Jake stepped on the gas, and they raced across bridges over the countless tributaries of Lake Chatulla. They climbed steep hills covered with layers of dark green kudzu. They flew around corners and dodged pulpwood trucks making their last runs of the day. Jake opened the sunroof, lowered the windows and let the wind blow. Ellen leaned back in the seat and dosed her eyes. Her thick, wavy hair swirled around her face.

"Look, Row Ark, this dinner is strictly business-"

"Sure, sure."

"I mean it. I'm the employer, you're the employee, and this is a business meal. Nothing more or less. So don't get any lustful ideas in your ERA, sexually liberated brain."

"Sounds like you're the one with the ideas."

"Nope. I just know what you're thinking."

"How do you know what I'm thinking? Why do you assume you're so irresistible and that I'm planning a big seduction scene?"

"Just keep your hands to yourself. I'm a wonderfully happily married man with a gorgeous wife who'd kill if she thought I was fooling around."

"Okay, let's pretend to be friends. Just two friends having dinner."

"That doesn't work in the South. A male friend cannot have dinner with a female friend if the male friend has a wife. It just doesn't work down here."

"Why not?"

"Because men don't have female friends. No way. I don't know of a single man in the entire South who is married and has a female friend. I think it goes back to the Civil War."

"I think it goes back to the Dark Ages. Why are Southern women so jealous?"

"Because that's the way we've trained them. They learned from us. If my wife met a male friend for lunch or dinner, I'd tear his head off and file for divorce. She learned it from me."

"That makes absolutely no sense."

"Of course it doesn't."

"Your wife has no male friends?"

"None that I know of. If you learn of any, let me know."

"And you have no female friends?"

"Why would I want female friends? They can't talk about football, or duck hunting, or politics, or lawsuits, or anything that I want to talk about. They talk about kids, clothes, recipes, coupons, furniture, stuff I know nothing about. No, I don't have any female friends. Don't want any."

"That's what I love about the South. The people are so tolerant."

"Thank you."

"Do you have any Jewish friends?"

"I don't know of any in Ford County. I had a real good friend in law school, Ira Tauber, from New Jersey. We were very close. I love Jews. Jesus was a Jew, you know. I've never understood anti-Semitism."

"My God, you are a liberal. How about, uh, homosexuals?"

"I feel sorry for them. They don't know what they're missing. But that's their problem."

"Could you have a homosexual friend?"

"I guess, as long as he didn't tell me."

"Nope, you're a Republican."

She took his empty can and threw it in the back seat. She opened two more. The sun was gone, and the heavy, humid air felt cool at ninety miles an hour.

"So we can't be friends?" she said.

"Nope."

"Nor lovers."

"Please. I'm trying to drive."

"So what are we?"

"I'm the lawyer, you're the law clerk. I'm the employer, you're the employee. I'm the boss, you're the gofer."

"You're the male, I'm the female."

Jake admired her jeans and bulky shirt. "There's not much doubt about that."

Ellen shook her head and stared at the mountains of kudzu flying by. Jake smiled, drove faster, and sipped his beer. He negotiated a series of intersections on the rural, deserted highways and, suddenly, the hills disappeared and the land became flat.

"What's the name of the restaurant?" she asked.

"The Hollywood."

"The what?"

"The Hollywood."

"Why is it called that?"

"It was once located in a small town a few miles away by the name of Hollywood, Mississippi. It burned, and they moved it to Robinsonville. They still call it the Hollywood."

"What's so great about it?"

"Great food, great music, great atmosphere, and it's a

thousand miles from Clanton and no one will see me having dinner with a strange and beautiful woman."

"I'm not a woman, I'm a gofer."

"A strange and beautiful gofer."

Ellen smiled to herself and ran her fingers through her hair. At another intersection, he turned left and headed west until they found a settlement near a railroad. A row of wooden buildings sat empty on one side of the road, and across the street, all by itself, was an old dry goods store with a dozen cars parked around it and music rolling softly out the windows. Jake grabbed the bottle of Chablis and escorted his law clerk up the steps, onto the front porch, and inside the building.

Next to the door was a small stage, where a beautiful old black lady, Merle, sat at her piano and sang "Rainy Night in Georgia." Three long rows of tables ran to the front and stopped next to the stage. The tables were half full, and* a waitress in the back poured beer from a pitcher and motioned for them to come on in. She seated them in the rear, at a small table with a red-checkered tablecloth.

"Y'all want some fried dill pickles, honey?" she asked Jake.

"Yes! Two orders."

Ellen frowned and looked at Jake. "Fried dill pickles?"