Fury in the Family

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I was tired, hot, cramped. I’d been punching the coupé over the flat, broiled Louisiana countryside all the way up from New Orleans. The scenery had been a succession of pine and dead cotton fields, sun-baked villages, an occasional weathered house or filling station. Once or twice the road had wandered through dank, green swampland.

Now, in the distance, standing black against the sky on its steel stilts, I could see the huge water-tank that marked Maceton. I’d be glad enough to get to Maceton and out again. I was here for a good reason: money.

At noon that day, I had jostled through the New Orleans crowds and entered the Plantation Building on Canal Street. I’d barged in Ansel Mace’s office without letting the receptionist stop me. I’d got the maple door of Ansel Mace’s private office open, the brunette receptionist tugging at my sleeve and telling me what awful fates befell people who slammed in on the revered presence of Ansel Mace that way.

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