Song of Solomon

who had tried to maintain silence, was himself completely silent now. He moved to his razor strop while Hospital Tommy tried to keep his customer in the chair. Porter, Guitar, Freddie the janitor, and three or four other men were exploding, shouting angry epithets all over the room. Apart from Milkman, only Railroad Tommy and Empire State were quiet—Railroad Tommy because he was preoccupied with his razor and Empire State because he was simple, and probably mute, although nobody seemed sure about that. There was no question whatever about his being simple.

Milkman tried to focus on the crisscrossed conversations.

“It’ll be in the morning paper.”

“Maybe it will, and maybe it won’t,” said Porter.

“It was on the radio! Got to be in the paper!” said Freddie.

“They don’t put that kind of news in no white paper. Not unless he raped somebody.”

“What you bet? What you bet it’ll be in there?” said Freddie.

“Bet anything you can lose,” Porter answered.

“You on for five.”

“Wait a minute,” Porter shouted. “Say where.”

“What you mean, ‘where’? I got five says it’ll be in the morning paper.”

“On the sports page?” asked Hospital Tommy.

“Or the funny papers?” said Nero Brown.

“No, man. Front page. I bet five dollars on front page.”

“What the fuck is the difference?” shouted Guitar. “A kid is stomped and you standin round fussin about whether some cracker put it in the paper. He stomped, ain’t he? Dead, ain’t he? Dead, ain’t he? Cause he whistled at some Scarlett O’Hara cunt.”

“What’d he do it for?” asked Freddie. “He knew he was in Mississippi. What he think that was? Tom Sawyer Land?”

“So he whistled! So what!” Guitar was steaming. “He supposed to die for that?”

“He from the North,” said Freddie. “Acting big down in Bilbo country. Who the hell he think he is?”

“Thought he was a man, that’s what,” said Railroad Tommy.

“Well, he thought wrong,” Freddie said. “Ain’t no black men in Bilbo country.”

“The hell they ain’t,” said Guitar.

“Who?” asked Freddie.

“Till. That’s who.”

“He dead. A dead man ain’t no man. A dead man is a corpse. That’s all. A corpse.”

“A living coward ain’t a man either,” said Porter.

“Who you talking to?” Freddie was quick to get the personal insult.

“Calm down, you two,” said Hospital Tommy.

“You!” shouted Porter.

“You calling me a coward?” Freddie wanted to get the facts first.

“If the shoe fits, put your rusty foot in it.”

“You all gonna keep that up, you have to get out of my shop.”

“Tell that nigger somethin,” said Porter.

“I’m serious now,” Hospital Tommy went on. “There is no cause for all this. The boy’s dead. His mama’s screaming. Won’t let them bury him. That ought to be enough colored blood on the streets. You want to spill blood, spill the crackers’ blood that bashed his face in.”

“Oh, they’ll catch them,” said Walters.

“Catch ’em? Catch ’em?” Porter was astounded. “You out of your fuckin mind? They’ll catch ’em, all right, and give ’em a big party and a medal.”

“Yeah. The whole town planning a parade,” said Nero.

“They got to catch ’em.”

“So they catch ’em. You think they’ll get any time? Not on your life!”

“How can they not give ’em time?” Walters’ voice was high and tight.

“How? Just don’t, that’s how.” Porter fidgeted with his watch chain.

“But everybody knows about it now. It’s all over. Everywhere. The law is the law.”

“You wanna bet? This is sure money!”

“You stupid, man. Real stupid. Ain’t no law for no colored man except the one sends him to the chair,” said Guitar.

“They say Till had a knife,” Freddie said.