The Racketeer

or distant glances as he listens to my voice. And, thankfully, no “You kinda remind me of a guy I once knew.” Nothing, so far.
    I tell the waitress I really want a beer, a tall draft, and Nathan hesitates before saying, “The same.” The success of this long-shot mission could well depend on alcohol. Nathan was raised in a culture of hard drinking and meth addiction. Then he spent five years in prison, clean and sober. I’m assuming he’s back to his old habits now that he’s out. The fact that he owns his own bar is a good indication.
    For a hillbilly who was never taught how to dress, he looks okay. Washed jeans, a Coors Light golf shirt some salesman left at the bar, and combat boots. There is no jewelry and no watch, but he does have an incredibly ugly prison tattoo inside his left forearm. In short, Nathan is not flashing around money with his appearance.
    The beer arrives and we tap glasses. “Tell me about this film,” he says.
    Out of habit, I nod, pause, tell myself to speak slowly, clearly, and as deeply as possible. “I’ve been making documentaries for ten years now, and this is the most exciting project I’ve seen.”
    “Look, Mr. Baldwin, what is a documentary film exactly? I watch some movies and all, but I don’t think I’ve seen too many documentaries.”
    “Sure. They’re typically small, independently produced films that you don’t see in the big movie houses. They’re not commercial. They’re about real people, real problems, real issues, no big movie stars and all that. Really good stuff. The best win awardsat film festivals and get some attention, but they’re never going to make a lot of money. My company specializes in films that deal with the abuse of power, primarily by the federal government, but also by big corporations.” I take a sip, tell myself to go slow. “Most are about an hour long. This one might run for ninety minutes, but we’ll decide that later.”
    The waitress is back. I order a chicken sandwich, and Nathan wants a basket of wings.
    “How’d you get into the bar business?” I ask.
    He takes a gulp, smiles, says, “A friend. The guy who owned the bar was going under, not from the bar, but from other properties. Recession got him, I think. So he was trying to unload Bombay’s. He was looking for some fool to take the deed and assume the debts, and I said what the hell. I’m only thirty, no job, no prospects, why not take a chance? So far, though, I’m making money. It’s kinda fun. Lots of college girls hanging around.”
    “You’re not married?”
    “No. Don’t know how much you know about me, Mr. Baldwin, but I just finished a five-year prison sentence. Thanks to the federal government, I ain’t had too many dates recently; just now getting back in the game. Know what I mean?”
    “Sure. The prison time arose out of the same incident in which your brother was killed, right?”
    “You got it. I pled guilty and went away for five. My cousin is still in prison, Big Sandy over in Kentucky, a bad place. Most of my cousins are either locked up or dead. That’s one reason I moved to Radford, Mr. Baldwin, to get away from the drug business.”
    “I see. Please call me Reed. My father is Mr. Baldwin.”
    “Okay. And I’m Nathan, or Nate.” We tap glasses again as if we’re suddenly much closer. In prison we called him Nattie.
    “Tell me about your film company,” he says. I anticipated this, but it is still shaky ground.
    I take a gulp and swallow slowly. “Skelter is a new companybased in Miami, just me and two partners, plus a staff. For years I worked for a bigger production company in L.A., an outfit called Cove Creek Films, you may have heard of it.” He has not. He just glanced at the rear end of a shapely young waitress. “Anyway, Cove Creek has won a ton of awards and made decent money in this business, but last year it blew up. Big fight over creative control and which projects to do next. We’re still in the middle of some nasty litigation that looks like it will drag on for years. There’s an injunction in federal court in L.A. that prohibits me from even talking about Cove Creek or the lawsuit, pretty crazy, huh?” To my relief, Nathan is rapidly losing interest in my film company and its problems.
    “Why are you based in Miami?”
    “I went there a few years ago working on a film about bogus government defense contractors and fell in love with the place. I live on South Beach. Ever been there?”
    “No.” Except