The waitress wore a gold chain on her rhinestone glasses, and her ears stuck out through lank black hair like a horse mane. With alarm she watched Dyer attacking his red meat, the knife blade and fork tines grating on the porcelain. “How you folks doin this evenin?” she ventured. “Ever’thin all right?” Unnerved by the attorney’s glare, she fled.
Watson Dyer stabbed at his roast beef, forked it away. He made no mention of the carver. Lucius felt too roiled to eat. Rob was muttering, “It’s all my fault. I’d better go tell his boss.”
“Do it, then,” snapped Lucius.
“Save your breath.” Dyer spoke through a crude mouthful of meat, not looking up. The management, he said, had already expressed gratitude to a valued customer for reporting an outrage by a loudmouth nigger who had never learned his place; their dinner would be complimentary, the culprit fired. He forked another mouthful and chewed swiftly, processing his food while going through his papers.
Dyer briefed them in a rapid-fire manner. Two days hence, a public hearing on the Watson claim would be held in Homestead. He had been assured by colleagues in the judicial system that the claimants might be awarded lifetime use and historical status for the house. Time was short. What he needed at once was full power of attorney, which would give him the authority to make decisions without prior consultation with the family. “It’s quite customary in these matters,” he assured them, pushing a form toward Lucius for his signature. “Authority to act swiftly might be critical.”
Lucius felt rushed. “My signature has to be notarized, isn’t that true?”
“I happen to be a notary,” Dyer said, impatient, already digging in his briefcase for his seal.
Something seemed wrong or missing here but Lucius, still shaken by the episode with the carver and anxious to be done with the whole business, said to hell with it and scrawled his signature.
Rob whistled in alarm. “Oh boy,” he said.
“I want this witnessed by all Watson heirs here present. No exceptions,” Dyer added, turning to Rob. “Not even you.” Extending his pen, he contemplated Rob’s shock with open pleasure.
Rob rose in a lurch of plates, overturning his water glass. He glared at his brother before telling Dyer, “I won’t sign a fucking thing.” The attorney grasped his upper arm and held him by main force. “Hold your horses, Robert.” When Rob stopped struggling, Dyer released him and placed another document beside his plate, rapping it sharply with his knuckle. “Read this first,” he said. Rob glanced at the new document, dropped it on the table, rose again, and headed for the door, where he paused briefly to remonstrate about the carver-in vain, it appeared, for after a brief arm-waving dispute he disappeared.
Dyer addressed his baked potato, which he ate in stolid silence. “How much do you know about him?” he asked finally. “Or should I say, how much do you want to know?”
“His life is his own business.”
“But you suspected something, right?” Dyer put down his fork to make a note. “Why did you never tell me he was Robert Watson?”
“I didn’t know that when we last spoke-not that I would have told you anyway without his permission.”
“Any idea why he changed his name?”
“Why is that any of your concern?” He shrugged. “He hated his father. Took his mother’s name when he ran away.”
“He’s still running away.” Dyer handed him the copy of the prison record, which Lucius glanced at and tossed back. “You knew this, didn’t you?”
“I learned today.”
Dyer grinned his rare thin grin. “Not interested in how I found out?”
“Now that I know you better, I can guess. Cheap Golden Dinner? You lifted his fingerprints? Swiped his spoon?”
Dyer nodded, a bit cross. “His fork.” He returned Rob’s record to his briefcase. “The law knows he’s somewhere in the area. The federals may be in town already.”
“I wonder who tipped ’em off.” Disgusted, Lucius rose. Dyer said comfortably, “A licensed attorney and God-fearing American fully cognizant of his civic duty had no choice.”
“You pledged allegiance to your flag and to the republic for which it stands, is that correct? One nation indivisible-”
“No need to get snotty just because you’re drunk.” He looked coldly at Lucius’s whiskey. “Fundamentalist Americans are proud to pledge allegiance. Proud to worship the Father and the Son Who is Jesus Christ Our Lord and also abstain from intoxicating spirits.” He pointed his forefinger at Lucius’s eyes as his face clotted. “I hate to hear a feller American speak sarcastically about our flag. I really hate that.”
“Same way you hate ‘niggers’?” Lucius sat up straight, took a slow breath. “If Rob will witness your power of attorney, you’ll set aside your bounden duty to turn him in: is that your offer?”
Dyer scraped his plate. “There may be questions. I’ll need to know where I can find him. Out at your place, maybe?” Dyer leaned back in his chair and suppressed a belch. “You’re already subject to arrest and prosecution for harboring a fugitive, by the way.” He handed his half brother a card. It had no address on it, only a phone number. “If he leaves town, I’ll expect a call. Confidential, of course. All you have to do is call and then you’re out of it.”
“God, what a prick you turned out to be.” He tossed his card back at Dyer. “You’re fired.”
“It’s not that easy.” Watt Dyer wiped his mouth, drank down his water, and rose to follow him, forgetting the napkin balled tight in his fist. Hearing a frightened “Sir?” behind him, he tossed it back over his shoulder without turning. Overtaking Lucius in the lobby, he took hold of the back of his upper arm. “Better think that over, Professor,” he said, propelling Lucius forward ever so slightly as if he meant to run him through the door. “For your brother’s sake.”
“Our brother, you mean? Go sign your own damn papers, Wattie.”
Releasing him, Dyer said in a thick voice, “Let me tell you something, Brother. You don’t want me for an enemy.” His moon face looked swollen again, and those skin shivers appeared at the mouth corners. “I’ll expect a call,” Watt Dyer said and kept on going.