I left the capitol and started south, thinking; wondering why I should feel ashamed of myself.
A little more than fifteen years before on a day like this, I'd walked into the First State Bank of Selby and pointed my sixteen gauge shotgun at the cashier. I can't tell you why I did it. I only know it wasn't planned. I'd started for the river to go hunting when I discovered I only had two shells. And all I'd intended when I entered the bank was to draw a dollar out of my savings account.
It was around noon and old Briggs, the cashier, was by himself. I was carrying my gun because I didn't want to leave it in my stripped-down Model-T.
Briggs gave me a funny, tearing look, and half raised his hands.
And then his hands were going higher, and his look was frightened, and I was stuttering something that sounded like:“N-Now- I’m not-I-I don’t mean-I-I-I won’t h-hurt you, Mr. Briggs.”
He toppled down to the floor inside the cage, and his look was frightened and I started to run out on the street and call for help. Instead of that, I scooped up half a dozen packets of bills and shoved them down inside my sweater, and most of them fell out as I ran out the door.
My car was parked around the corner and Sheriff Nick Nickerson was sitting on the running board.
“Been wanting to see you, boy. Think I got ‘er fixed so you can go the U next fall.”
“Gosh,” I said, “thanks, Mr. Nickerson.”
'Writ my nephew up there an' he says you want to make yourself handy around his garage he can swing your board and room an' a little spendin' money.'
'That's swell,' I said. 'I can get enough for the tuition and books.' 'Glad to do it. There ain't nothing around here for a bright young fellow. Seems like the brighter they are the quicker they go to rot.' I thanked him again, and got in the car. And then the alarm in the bank began to clatter and he started running and I drove off. Slowly, dazed. Then faster. As fast as I could go.
About a mile out of town, the car begun to sputter and pop and I knew I was almost out of gas. I turned in at the airport and drove across the field.
Frank Miller was spinning the prop of his little old patched-up three seater. It caught and he ran around and crawled inside; and I was out of my car and crawling right in behind him. Judge Lipscomb Lacy was in the passengers' seats; he weighed more than three hundred pounds and he was spread all over both of them. Frank said, 'What the hell you think you're doin', Red? Judge Lacy's got 'portant business in the city an'-' 'Get goin'.' I said. 'I'll blast you, Frank. I'll-I'll blast you, I swear to God I will.'
I squeezed in, the gun jammed right into Judge Lacy's guts, and I said I'd blast them both, I'd blast him if Frank didn't do what I said and then I'd blast Frank. Judge Lacy's eyes went shut and his face turned green and his head lolled. And Frank said, 'All right, you crazy bastard!' And we were in the air. And down again. Bouncing. Rocking from side to side.
'It won't lift us, Red. Honest to Gawd, it won't.'
'I know,' I said. 'You want I should dump him out?'
'I guess not. He looks awfully sick.'
'What the hell do you want?'
'I don't know.'
The door of the plane opened, a long time later it opened, and there was a big crowd out there. And Sheriff Nick Nickerson reached inside and took the gun out of my hands. 'Come on now, boy,' he said. 'You just come along now an' we'll see about this.' So I got out, and it was all over. All over except for the trial, with a court-appointed lawyer and Judge Lipscomb Lacy presiding… I'd never been ashamed of that. I was not ashamed now. Of that. The garage manager glanced at my requisition card, and turned me over to a young Negro in overalls. He led me back to the rear,
past the motorcycles and the black-and-white trooper cars.
'Yes, sir,' he said, stopping. 'What kind o' car you like, now?'
'I can have any one I want?' I asked.
'We-ell. Don't believe I'd take none of them big babies. That's a mightily nice little coupe right there. No one's got no call on that.'
It was practically new, and a plain unadorned black. Only the license plates identified it as a state car.
'It'll do,' I said. 'What time do I bring it back in?'
'You live here in town, sir?'
'Yes, I do,' I said.
'Well, most of the gen'lemen that lives in town jus' keeps their cars.'
'That sounds like a pretty good arrangement,' I said.
'Yes, sir,' he grinned. 'Hardly no one ever kicks on it.'
I gave him a dollar tip, put my papers up in back of the seat and drove out.
11
Madeline Flournoy's apartment was on the second floor of a two-story brick building in a semi- residential district. A furniture store occupied the first floor. The upstairs entrance was on a side street, and there were no windows on that side. The blank wall of a warehouse rose on the other side of the street.
There was a door at the head of the stairs and another a few steps up the hallway. I hesitated, then remembered the single mail slot downstairs: both doors were hers. I knocked on the first one.
It opened almost immediately.
'Riding or walking?' She didn't seem surprised to see me. 'Where did you park your car?'
'Down the street two blocks on a lot.'
'Come on in.'
She was wearing a pair of shorts, very short, and a gray wool sweat shirt. Her feet and legs were bare. The long curl of her hair was pulled up on top of her head and fastened with a single pin. The crisp brown end of it stuck out even with her forehead like a little brush.
'Now don't look in there,' she said, nodding the brush. And of course I did look in there, into the bedroom with its rumpled bed. 'I just got up.'
'That Doc,' she yawned. 'Nothing's too hard for him as long as someone else has to do it.'
'Up pretty late?' I said.
'Mmm. Come on. I need coffee!'
'Perhaps I should tell you,' I said. 'Doc warned me I wasn't to see you.'
'Pooey on Doc,' she said. 'Trust him to order people around. Who the hell is he to tell us what to do?'
'Well,' I said. 'He's in a pretty good position to tell me what to do.'
'Yeah?' She looked at me blankly. 'Well, he won't know about it. No one ever comes around here during the day. But no one.'
She gave my arm an impatient tug, and I went with her.
There was an areaway to our right almost wholly blocked by a worn plush lounge. She closed the connecting door into the living room, pushed me down on the lounge, and, squeezing past my knees, went into the kitchen.
She came back with two cups of coffee and gave me one. Then she sat down or rather stood on her knees facing me.
'You'd better put your legs up, too,' she said. 'There's hardly room for them that way.'
'This is all right,' I said.
'What you squirming for?' She crinkled her eyes. 'Have to go to the bathroom? It's right there.'
'Thanks, no,' I said.
