Kill 'Em and Leave by James McBride

Author:James McBride
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2016-04-04T16:00:00+00:00

He steps inside the tattered screen door of Brooker’s soul food restaurant in Barnwell, South Carolina, like he owns it. And in a way, he does. He’s an old-timer. Miss Iola, working behind the counter, looks up and waves. She runs the joint with her sister, and she called him the night before at home and told him the deal:

“Liver tomorrow,” she said. “Come before it gets gone.”

That’s all he needed to hear. “I come every time,” he jokes. “She doesn’t have to call twice.”

Miss Iola smiles as he approaches the counter. He’s a heavyset man, in a collar shirt, with thick glasses. He looks like a lawyer, or an accountant, or a salesman, and he’s the only white guy in a room of black folks. Not a safe place to be. That’s what a lawyer told him just before he went to prison: “The blacks in prison will kill you.” But they didn’t kill him. In fact, many of the men respected him. Some even asked for his advice. A couple asked for his autograph, which had never happened to him before. He moved among those black folks like he moves among them in this diner today, with ease and comfort, because he’s home. He knows these people. Some are his neighbors. He goes to church with a few. His name is David Cannon. He’s James Brown’s accountant. James Brown’s Money Man.

Cannon takes his tray from the counter and moves to a simple picnic table in the crowded room. The normal buzz of eating goes right on. He places his tray on the table and checks its contents: Collards. Yams. Mac and cheese. A bit of chicken. Sweet lemonade. And, of course, that delicious liver. “Best liver in Barnwell,” he says, unfolding his paper napkin.

“When did you come here last?” I ask. I’d met Cannon many times before, but this is the first time I’ve seen him in public. He has to wear an ankle monitor that prevents him from leaving home at certain hours.

But he’s gone. I’m sitting right across the table from him, but he’s not listening. His eyes are closed. His head is bowed in prayer.

Cannon prays aloud, thanking God for his food, his health, for his wife, Maggie, and his freedom. And while he’s praying, I’m peeking out of one eye and worrying about my own skin. Because I’ve spent quite a bit of time with this guy, and I like him. He’s a straight talker, a Christian, a good old boy, a dues-paying member of the Republican Party, the only guy James Brown trusted with his money—and that says a lot, because Brown trusted practically no one with his chips. But Brown died with millions in assets and left most of his money not to his offspring, or their families, but to poor children. And some of those family members didn’t like it. They rallied, smelling big cheese. They needed a flunky. Somebody to blame. There, big as day, sat David Cannon, the perfect villain.

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