“Don?t be. It?s the way things happen. You?ll get the hang of
“Okay,” I said, “so we do it your way.”
“That?s cool,” he said. “For now, the Kid?s way is to hang loose, don?t splash the water, don?t wave
your face around a lot, lay back, see what comes along.”
“Is there gonna be trouble here?”
“Anyplace Elroy Luther is, there could be trouble. It comes to him like flies to a two-holer.”
“Well, are you expecting trouble?”
“I just answered that,” the Kid said, and shut up.
“I?m going to mosey around,” I said.
I followed the silver chariot a hundred yards down the road until it ended at an old frame roadhouse, a
big place with a cone-shaped roof, boarded-up windows, and a lot of noise inside.
And there were the dogs. Mean dogs. Not yipping dogs. These were angry, snarling, growling,
scarred, teeth-snapping, gum-showing, slobbering dogs, biting at their cages with yellow teeth. I
could feel the gooseflesh on my arms rising like biscuits in a stove.
In all, I estimated three hundred fifty to four hundred people were packed inside, all of whom had
paid ten dollars a head, man, woman, and child, to the giant at the door. He was bald and blackbearded, wore overalls and no shirt, had arms like a truck tire and curly hair on his shoulders. For
those who were not impressed by his size, there was a .38 police special hanging haphazardly from his
rear pocket.
When the crowd outside the arena had thinned to half a dozen, a tall, pole-thin black man got out of
the front seat of the Lincoln. The rear window glided silently down and he reached in and drew out a
wad of bills big enough to strangle Dumbo. I got a quick look at a handsome black face at the
window. I had imagined Nose Graves to be ugly. If that was Nose Graves, and I was fairly sure it was,
he was the lady-killer type. Older than I?d thought, probably forty-five or so, give or take a couple of
years either way. His bushy hair was graying at the temples and he had a deep scar almost the width
of one eyebrow, another over his ear that carried a gray streak with it. His nose was straight and no
larger than mine. He was wearing gold-rimmed sunglasses. My guess was, Nose Graves probably
wore those glasses to bed.
The window went back up without a sound and the skinny man headed for the rear door of Uncle
Jolly?s. So that was the pitch, then. Longnose Graves was the banker. It was his house.
I sauntered up to the gate. My sawbuck vanished into the keeper?s fist. He cut me about six ways with
his black eyes before jerking his head for me to go in.
Noise, heat, odour, hit me like a bucket of hot water. Tiers had been built up and away from a pit in
