'Say there, Pops,' called out old Mr. Ed. 'Bring this old feller one more toot, okay?
The two elderly black men behind the bar eyed each other nervously.
They didn't like this a bit. Not that they cared about crazy old white boys, but such a situation could get them in trouble with Sheriff Leon and his deputies, who tended toward extravagant solutions for simple problems. The place could get busted up bad; they could get busted up bad.
On the other hand, they were of a generation where disobedience to a commanding white person was unthinkable. It simply was not conceptualizable, so they greeted the paradox with utter sullenness and desperation.
One tottered over, filled the old boy's glass with the white lightning, of a very fine vintage: 2:00 p.m. that afternoon. He'd never seen a man, white or black, drink so. Should be blind, as the stuff was about 600 percent alcohol. It wasn't designed for refinement, but to hit with a sledgehammer after the first swallow and blot out a man's terrible pain for a whole night. This old geezer had had enough to blot out the whole damn prison farm's pain.
'Sir, the deputies in this here town don't cotton to no strangers. You could git yourself into a tub o' trouble.'
'Oh, I'm the sort of fellow who gets along with everybody. If they show up, I'll buy ' a drink, and we'll have a laugh or two about it.
I've many an entertaining story and have traveled the world, so nothing in Mississippi frights me much. Whyn't you and the other grand pappy pull up chairs? Be pleased to buy each of you a slug of your own damned hooch.'
'Sir, they wouldn't cotton to no Negroes and white mens sitting at the same table, neither.'
'Now, don't that beat all. I say we're all on this earth together, and the sooner we learn to git along, the better off we'll all be. Bet your damn blood is just as red as mine.'
'Sir, I?'
But the door opened and five white men, large, armed and grim, entered.
'Willie, you knows it's well past curfew for Negroes here tonight,' said the blond one.
'Sir, I tried to ' to the gintleman that?' 'Boys, boys, boys,' said Mr.
Ed, 'it was me that insisted that these fine gents stay open and serving. Is there a fine? By God, boys, I will be proud to pay it up.
Whyn't y'all take a load off and come over and share a tot. Mighty fine.
Burns on the way down, and burns way down afterward. Fire in a bottle.'
'Sir, I don't know what you think you're doing, but we have rules in this town.'
'I'm sorry? Don't hear so good now.'
'Rules, goddammit. We don't like strangers coming in and riling our colored folks. We don't like strangers buying liquor after hours in colored joints. We don't like curfew violators, outside Northern agitators, commies, Jews, Catholics, bleeding hearts nor other race traitors. We charged with keeping law and order down here in this powder keg, and goddamn we do it right dad gum good.'
'Well, fellows, I sure ain't no commie. I actually may be Catholic, but it was so long ago, I don't remember. I certainly haven't been to confess?'
'Sheriff, the old bastard's funning on us. He ain't showing no respect at all. Let me clock him a good '.' With that, the blond one flicked his wrist so his club came into his hand, and he smacked it hard against the palm of his other hand.
'I'm sure this old boy don't need no beating on his old head,' said the sheriff. 'Sir, you just stand up and raise your hand. We'll search you, we'll cuff you and take you off, and get to the bottom of all this.'
'Sir, the bottom of all what? Here I sit, in a public place, drinking quietly. Surely that's no?'
Whap!
The young deputy pounded the table with his club, making the jar jump and rattle. The report of the percussion filled the air sharply, seeming to bring dust off the ancient rafters.
'You keep your goddamn mouth shut, pappy, when the boss here is talking.
You in a heap o' trouble.'
'Sir, we're done playin' here. You get on up and cooperate, or you will be a sorry pappy.'
'Why, sir, I meant merely?'
'Goddamn you, sir!' the sheriff exploded, 'this is not no time for palaver. You get yourself up!'
He loomed, eyes abulge, face grave, leaning forward in a stance of sheer aggression, his hands twitching.
'Okay, fellas,' said Mr. Ed.
He rose.
His coat parted.
They saw his revolvers in two strapped-down holsters.
A long moment of silence came.
'Sir, you will with opposite hands remove them two guns or by God we will shoot you down like a diseased animal.'
'See, I'm thinking you all the ones going to put down the guns.'
'Who are you?'
'You no never mind that. It ain't yours to know. You only have to know that the night of reckoning has done come.'
'He is talking through his hat, sheriff. One old goddamned big talking old geezer.'
'Shut up, Opic. Them guns are tied down old-timey gun-boy style.'
'Now fellows,' said Ed, 'here're the two things that can happen. First off, I'm thinking I want your guns out, opposite hand, on the table.
Then you strip bare-ass naked, not no skivvies, but buck bare as the day you born. Then you go down, lie in the street while I figure what to do with you 'I'll the prison's burned flat then flooded over and all them Negro fellows you done been beatin' on are free and clear.'
'It ain't never happening like that, old man.'
'Then, boys, seems to me we are at where we were going the whole time.
Palaver's over. Nothing left to say. You throw down and die like men or I will simply shoot and move on.'
'You are a goddamned big-talking fool, old man.'
Ed was done talking.
Opic drew first, and possibly a tenth of a second later the sheriff made his play.
It didn't matter.
Smooth is fast. Ed was so smooth and fast with both hands the revolvers were simply there, as if by will. It was not a physical act but a metaphysical one. His big hands flew, his fast-twitch muscles twitched, his dexterity was simply unrecognizable by human standards.
He fired five times in less than two-fifths of a second, the reports hung together like a single loud repercussion, as dust jerked from the old rafters above and the jars on the shelves rattled. This was well off his world-record speed, but it was fast enough by a far piece.
He knocked three down dead, Opic first (left ventricle), then Darius (throat), then a boy called Festus (solar plexus). They fell like tenpins bowled hard, with a thump to the floor, heaving more dust up as their heavy bodies yielded to gravity, each dying on the way down as the blood emptied from organs and spurted under arterial pressure into geysers. Skeeter fell slower, but fell just the same.
The sheriff had been shot last because he was slowest. He sat down, holding his gut.
'You have killed me, damn you, sir.'
'I have, sir, for your evil ways.'
At that point a small sound announced the presence of another gunman behind, as the deputy Ray stepped clear to fire. But Ed had heard him long ago back in there raging around like a bull, and simply pivoted his right gun hand under his arm and with circus-freak twistiness fired at the sound, after complex, nearly instantaneous deflection calculations in a brain that had fired several million revolver bullets in its time.
The bump of Ray hitting the bar, then pulling jars down with him in a shower of shattering glass clatter, ended that drama quick enough. Ed didn't even look around.
