The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) by James S. Gardner

giving the eulogy was given to Rigby. He delivered the first part in Isindebele. He concluded by quoting Scott Holland's famous sermon in English. “It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was, I am I and you are you and the old life we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.” After the service ended, the mourners waited in line to shake Rigby's hand.
    After the ceremony, Mabota's wives buried him under a flame tree in a sitting position facing the setting sun. The approach of the rainy season had only teased the farmers, but it rained that day. People said it was Sam looking out for friends. Whatever or whoever brought the rain, it caused a bursting forth of new life. Green grass shoots and wild flowers escaped hibernation. The scarred landscape was replenished as Sam's journey was concluded.
    A sad silence lay on the rolling green hills of the Croxford farm. Three months after the funeral, Rigby continued to visit Sam's grave. He would sit quietly under the flame tree sipping his whiskey. From time to time, his mind would cast off in an unavoidable direction. His daydreaming returned to Max Turner. When he thought about Max, he fondled the spent cartridge he carried in his pocket. It was the bullet that should have killed the lion.
    ***

Palm Beach
    M ax Turner enjoyed using his mansion in Palm Beach to interview prospective attorneys. He loved seeing his guests swoon over his art collection. He especially enjoyed showing them a painting some unscrupulous art dealer had sold him at a horribly inflated price. Their jaw-dropping gasps were almost orgasmic for Max. If they weren't connoisseurs of art, he would take his guests down to his wine cellar where he would give them a lesson in the cost of rare French Burgundies.
    Today, he would conduct the interview in the privacy of his den. The black walnut-paneled room was decorated with glassy-eyed animal heads and African art. Pictures of his jet and the Liti-Gator were mixed in photographs of Turner shaking hands with politicians.
    He reviewed the prospect's résumé: Jesse Spooner graduated in the middle of his law-school class. Played football; all SEC cornerback. Considered turning pro, but opted for law school. Mother still works in the high-school cafeteria in Belle Glade. Father: unknown. Yes, Spooner would do. More importantly, he was black, which made him a perfect fit.
    Max straightened himself as Jesse Spooner was led into his den by an English butler. He rose and a smile crept across his face. “Jesse, thanks for coming. I thought it would be fun to have our little chat here, rather than my office.” He shook Jesse's hand with a tighter grip than necessary and sat back down. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
    “A beer would be great, Mr. Turner.”
    “See to it, Earl,” Turner said, motioning to his butler.
    “Right away, sir,” Earl responded.
    Spooner's eyes grew wide as he took in his surroundings. “Wow! This trophy room's bigger than my apartment. That lion is huge. They don't look that big on the Discovery channel. Did you shoot it, Mr. Turner?”
    “I insist that you call me Max. That lion was a man-eater. And yes, I did shoot him. Unfortunately, not before it killed one of my trackers. May God rest his soul. We were hunting in Mozambique. It was a year ago, but it's still hard for me to talk about it. Anyway, enough about me, we're here to discuss your future. And I'd like that future to include Turner and Turner. Let's start with your questions. I know you must have questions.”
    “Only one. Why me? You've got over fifty attorneys working for your firm. Most of them attended the best law schools in the country. My mother says you want to hire me because I'm black.”
    “Your mother's a damn smart woman. I won't sit here and tell you color has nothing to do with our interest in you. Sometimes, black folks are more comfortable being represented by a