The Racketeer

partying,” I say, scolding my assistant. “We could also do it in the D.C. area, which would probably be more convenient to the families.”
    Nathan says nothing, but I know he’s voting for South Beach.

    Vanessa and I spend the afternoon in a hotel room in Pulaski, Virginia, a half hour southwest of Radford. We go over my notes from Fort Carson and try anxiously to figure out what made Nathan suspicious. To hear him utter the name Malcolm Bannister was chilling enough; now we need to understand why. Malcolm pinched his nose when he was thinking. He tapped his fingers together when he listened. He cocked his head slightly to the right when he was amused. He dipped his chin when he was skeptical. He stuck his right index finger into his right temple when he was bored with a conversation.
    “Just keep your hands still and away from your face,” Vanessa advises. “And speak lower.”
    “Was my voice too high?”
    “It tends to go back to normal when you’re talking a lot. Stay quieter. Not as many words.”
    We argue about the seriousness of his suspicion. Vanessa is convinced Nathan is fully on board and looking forward to a trip to Miami. She is certain no one from my past could recognize me now. I tend to agree, but I’m still stunned by the reality that Nathan uttered my old name. I can almost believe he had a twinkle in his eye when he did so, as if to say, “I know who you are, and I know why you’re here.”

CHAPTER 32
    N athan insists on going with us to his hometown of Willow Gap, so for the second morning we work our way through the mountains as he drives and Gwen gushes about the reactions in Miami. She says to Nathan that Tad Carsloff and other important people down there in the home office watched all of our footage last night and are beyond thrilled. They simply love Nathan on camera and are convinced he is the turning point in the production of our documentary. More important, one of our major investors is visiting Miami and happened to watch the tape from Virginia. The guy is so impressed with Nathan and the entire film so far that he is willing to double down on his money. The guy’s worth a bundle and thinks the movie should run at least ninety minutes. It could lead to indictments within the DEA. It could explode into a scandal like Washington has never seen.
    As I listen to this chatter, I am on the phone, presumably speaking with the home office, but there’s no one on the other end. I grunt occasionally and say something profound, but mainly I’m just listening and brooding and acting as though the creative process can be burdensome. Sometimes I glance at Nathan. The boy is all in.
    Over breakfast, Gwen stressed again that I should say as littleas possible, speak deeply and slowly, and keep my hands away from my face. I’m happy to let her do the talking, something she’s quite good at.
    Gene Cooley is buried behind an abandoned country church in a small, weedy cemetery with about a hundred graves. I tell Slade and Cody I want several shots of the grave and its surroundings, then I step away for another important phone call. Nathan, now quite the actor and full of himself, suggests that he kneel beside the grave while the camera rolls, and Gwen loves the idea. I nod from a distance with the cell phone stuck to my jaw, whispering to no one. Nathan even manages to work up a few more tears, and Slade zooms in for a close-up.
    For the record, Willow Gap has five hundred people, but you’ll never find them. Downtown proper is an overgrown alley with four crumbling buildings and a country store with a post office attached to it. A few folks are moving about, and Nathan becomes nervous. He knows these people, and he does not want to be seen with a camera crew. He explains that most of the residents, including his family and friends, live out from town, off the narrow country lanes and deep in the valleys. They are suspicious people by nature, and I now understand why he wanted to accompany us.
    There is no school he and Gene attended; the kids from Willow Gap are bused an hour away. “Made it easy to quit,” Nathan says, almost to himself. He reluctantly shows us a tiny, empty four-room cottage where he and Gene lived once, for about a year. “It was the last place I remember living with my father,” he says. “I was about six, I guess, so Gene was about ten.” I cajole him into sitting on the broken front steps and talking, to the camera, about all the places he and Gene lived.