A Man in Full: A Novel by Tom Wolfe

Author:Tom Wolfe [Wolfe, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary, General Fiction, Fiction
ISBN: 9781429960694
Google: FJ5ZEdy0A2sC
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-03-31T22:00:00+00:00

Roger Too White—the old nickname was really burning up his brainstem tonight—sat in his Lexus, brooding. He could probably make it unscathed to the church, which was just over a block away, but the bad boys would descend upon the Lexus like... like — like... He couldn't even imagine what the bad boys here in this part of Southeast Atlanta would be like. He had a vision of a window bashed in until the remains looked like crushed ice and holes in the steering column and on top of the dashboard where there used to be air bags...

Wes Jordan was the one who had dispatched him here, and Roger was beginning to wonder who the hell Wes thought he was working for, him or Fareek Fanon. André "Blaq" Fleet was having a rally, or whatever it should be called, up there in that church, the Church of the Sheltering Arms’ Reverend Isaac Blakey, pastor. The Mayor was alarmed that Ike Blakcy was implicitly endorsing Fleet by letting him have this meeting in his church. Down here in Southeast Atlanta the ministers were the political leaders, like the party district leaders or ward chairmen in other cities, and Ike Blakcy was one of the best. He represented many votes. Wes wanted Roger Too White to record the meeting with a device that had been somehow secured inside a folded newspaper, which was at this moment resting on the passenger seat next to him. When Wes had described it—"This is a public meeting, and so it's practically begging to be recorded"— it had all seemed natural enough. But now that he was here, with his fancy car and his fancy clothes, Roger wasn't so sure anymore about how natural it was, being here with a hidden recording device; or how healthy. When he got dressed for this little escapade, he had thought it would be wise to dress down, be casual and inconspicuous. Hence the suede shoes and the tennis collar and the knit necktie and the twill pants and the tweed hacking jacket. Casual. Inconspicuous. Sure. What planet had he been beamed down from? While he had been sitting there, in the gloaming of dusk, gazing out on the little lots with water standing and chunks of concrete sticking up out of the water and white plastic containers and forty-ounce plastic bottles of King Cobra malt liquor floating in it, and the askew tilts of decaying little houses reflected in it, a few people had walked by, presumably to go to the meeting: older people, not bad boys, and even among them dressing up meant wearing a shirt with a collar. Dressing down ... he didn't even want to find out. But if he didn't attend, if he didn't take the hidden recording device with him, he would have the scorn—not the anger but the scorn—of Wes Jordan to contend with. That he knew he couldn't stand, and so with a big sigh he picked up the folded newspaper and the

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