something better in mind, a personal lynching. There must have been a sweet one-way conversation between you two up in the cabin. But when you told Beatrice about the 'horrible thing' you'd learned—on Sunday night—she shocked hell out of you by saying she'd known all the time, didn't care. In fact she told you to mind your business, leave them alone. You were ready to explode with anger, you smashed her head in with the lamp.”
“Did I? Why you let your imagination run...?”
“You didn't plan to kill Beatrice, it was a crime of passion, of intense anger, as the books say. You drove back to the cabin, hung Henry, then raced out to White Beach. All told, less than five hours passed, and there you were, in bed, when Mady woke up.”
“I was in bed with that... all night,” Saxton said with a big forced smile. “Now if you're done raving, I'll...”
“Know something,” I said, calmly. “The druggist across the street forgot to turn off a gas burner, returned to his store in the middle of the night. He left at 4 a.m., says he saw you come back to the cottage then.”
“That's a damn lie! He couldn't have....” Saxton's face actually got waxy—like a corpse's.
I laughed. “Maybe it's a lie, maybe it isn't. Merely want to convince you how thin your story is, how nobody can cover
He was silent for a few minutes, sitting back against the couch as though exhausted, then he asked in a hoarse whisper, “How much do you want?”
“Got much cash on you?”
“A few hundred. The banks are shut, but on Monday I'll give... ten thousand. Or do you,, want a check right now?”
“A check? Willie, do I look that simple?”
“I swear on Monday, soon as the banks open, I'll give you ten thousand dollars.”
“You hold your life cheap,” I said, torturing him like a bastard, but enjoying it.
“Fifteen—that's all I can raise.”
“No, it isn't. You got Henry's insurance, via Beatrice's death, and hers, if she had any.”
“That will take months. Look, I can raise twenty thousand, and that's my final offer.”
“You're not in any position to make a final offer. How you got that couple of hundred? And pull out your wallet slowly.”
“In twenties and tens and fives,” he said, taking out his wallet.
“Throw over a hundred and sixty bucks. Just drop—the dough on the floor—near me.”
He counted out five twenties, two fives, and five tens, leaned over and tossed them on the floor. The bills made dizzy circles till they hit. I picked them up with my left hand, looked to see if-they were marked, then shoved them in my pocket.
Saxton said, “I'll get the rest Monday. By noon I'll...”
“There isn't any rest.”
“I don't understand. You said...?”
“I'm not shaking you down, Willie. This represents about what I spent—getting the goods on you. I'm turning you in!”
His sullen mouth dropped open, and a stupid expression covered his face for a second, then he burst out laughing—real roaring laughter. When he finished, he snapped, “You idiot, you don't get a dime now! I detest scandal, but it won't ruin me, and I'd rather that than paying you off for the rest of my life. Have me arrested! There isn't a jury that will convict me for killing a nigger who tricked my sister. And there's nothing to pin poor Beatrice's killing on me. Why I can claim I killed Henry in revenge!” His voice grew more confident. “I'm a big man in this town, people will sympathize with me... important people. I killed a nigger who tricked my sister into marriage and then murdered her... it will be better than any unwritten law! You can't touch me. But to avoid the headlines, I'll give you five thousand to forget it.”
“Back on the pay-off kick, again? I don't want money.”
“Then call the police! Henry murdered Beatrice when she discovered he was a nigger, and I killed him when he told me that. I might even plead self-defense—he tried to kill me too.”
The odd part was, Saxton sounded as though he believed this hog-wash he was inventing. I said, “Know where that yarn will land you—in the loony bin, if you beat the death rap.”
“Why I'll be a hero, no jury would...”
“You just might get away with it, Willie, if you could prove Henry was colored, considering you'd get a blue-ribbon jury with all the trimmings. Only what makes you think Henry Wilson was colored?”
“Come, Ranzino, you just said...”
“I never said nothing. I never knew Henry—the only one time I saw him he was dead. But lots of people in town knew him well, played cards and golf with him, did business with him, liked him. They'll call you crazy when you say he was colored...”
He glanced at his wallet, opened it. I asked, “Looking for something?”
He tore at the wallet with frantic fingers, then looked at me and asked in a rasping whisper, “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“Goddamn it, Ranzino... where is it?”
“In little pieces, floating in the sewer—with the other garbage. I took it when I flattened you at the door. Might as well tell you what I spent that hundred odd bucks for —you're paying for it. Doc Snell is dead. I was pretty sure of that since he only sent one letter, let the deal drop. He was a very old man and he died in a drunken sleep three days after he mailed the letter. Guess you know that, too, probably tried to get in touch with him. Henry Wilson was born 'out of wedlock,' to use a silly term, he hadn't any relations. Also, in the one-store-wide-spot-in-the-road where he was born, they never bothered with birth certificates for colored kids or poor whites. So it boils down to this, there's only
“How much do you want?” Saxton asked shrilly.
“Not a cent. I only want to see your kind get the works—for once. Now we'll call the cops.” We both stood up and he said, “Please, Ranzino, I'll give you big money...” and lunged at me.
I was watching his pigeon-toed feet and I caught him with a left hook that knocked him down. It was a stupid move on his part. He sat on the floor for a moment, shaking his head, then got to his feet slowly. “You win,” he said.
He rubbed the side of his face, I'd hit him too high to do any real damage. I slipped the gun in my pocket. I was afraid he'd try to make me shoot him—then I'd be in a spot—and I could handle him easily with my fists.
He shook his head several times, muttered, “I can't think straight —everything is fuzzy. Before you call the police, can I douse my head under the shower?”
“Sure. Only don't try anything super-clever; this isn't your racket.”
I followed him into the bathroom. He brushed the shower curtains aside with one hand, turned on the cold water. It ran on his head and part of his collar. I stood several feet behind him, in case he tried yanking off the curtain, throwing it around me.
Bent over the tub, Saxton was a comical figure—his broad fleshy can facing me, water splashing on his head, over his clothes. He shut the water off, reached over toward the towel rack beside the tub, came up with a towel... and one of those old big .45s.
For a split second I had to admire him, he'd found a new place to park a gun. His eyes were cold and over-bright as he advanced toward me, his dripping wet face giving him an insane look. He growled, “Keep your hands up high. You Wop scum, thinking you could match your lousy brains with mine. Turn around!”
I turned, and there's always that horrible second of waiting when you know you're going to get conked... wondering if it will be the barrel of the gun or the butt... will your brains be splattered.... But I couldn't make a play—with a .45 even a slug in the shoulder will knock you flat, maybe take off your arm. He was too close to miss or.... I heard the faint swish the gun made through the air. A flash of terribly bright pain swept over me and then I was drowning in heavy mushy darkness.
I must have been out a long time. When I came to I thought I was still up in the clouds... I was naked and hanging from the doorway by my wrists, which were roped to pipes some place on the bathroom wall. I was standing on the floor but Saxton had pushed heavy barbells in front and in back of my ankles, anchoring my feet. I stood there, as though crucified while Saxton took off his coat and shirt, exposing his heavy muscle-bound arms. I pulled at my wrists and only succeeded in burning them with the ropes. Things were still fuzzy from the sock on the head and the entire back of my skull seemed miles away. I mumbled, “You must be a Scoutmaster, Willie, you're good at tying knots... and nooses. Bet you're a whiz at camping and...”
He stood in front of me and started slugging me in the stomach and chest.
Willie didn't know how to hit, thought muscles meant power. His blows weren't love-taps, but except for knocking the air out of me, he wasn't doing much damage. I forced myself to pee on his floor—a bladder full of urine can burst under a punch and then you're in real trouble.
The sight of me relieving myself seemed to drive him into a spurt of wild punching that left him puffing after a few seconds, and he stopped, dropped his hands and glared at me. I gasped, “What you doing, you crazy son of a bitch?”
“You're going to have a hemorrhage, and die, Ranzino. Look very natural, for a person suffering from T.B.,” he said, breathing hard”.
“Won't go, you'll never get away with this,” I said, the words sounding odd because my mouth was open like a fish's, eating air.
“I'll chance it.
