“All right,” the policeman said. “Then get out of here. Go on home.” Then, exactly like the other one: “You aint got anywhere to sleep? Okay, but you damn sure got some place to leave from, whether you go to bed or not. Go on now. Beat it.” And then, since he didn’t move: “Go on, I said. What’re you waiting for?”
“The half a dollar,” he said.
“The what?” the policeman said. “The half a—Why, you—” so that this time he moved, turned quickly, already dodging, not much bigger than a small boy and therefore about as hard for a man the size of the policeman to catch in a place as big as this. He didn’t run: he walked, just fast enough for the policeman to be not quite able to touch him, yet still not have cause to shout at him, through the rotunda and out into the street, not looking back at the policeman standing in the doorway shouting after him: “And dont let me catch you in here again neither.”
He was becoming more and more oriented now. There was another depot just down a cross street but then the same thing would happen there; evidently the railroad policemen who just wore clothes like everybody else didn’t belong to the W P and A free-relief laws. Besides, the night was moving toward its end now; he could feel it. So he just walked, never getting very far away because he knew where he was now; and now and then in the vacant side streets and alleys he could stop and sit down, in a doorway or behind a cluster of garbage or trash cans and once more be waking up before he knew he had gone to sleep. Then he would walk again, the quiet and empty city—this part of it anyway—his impeachless own, thinking, with the old amazement no less fresh and amazed for being almost as old as he
Then it was day, not waking the city; the city had never slept, not resuming but continuing back into visibility the faces pallid and wan and unsleeping, hurrying, passionate and gay, toward the tremendous, the unimaginable pleasures. He knew exactly where he was now; this pavement could have shown his print from forty-four years ago; for the first time since he had come out the Parchman gate five mornings ago he was confident, invulnerable and immune.
“Animal crackers,” he said. Because he was there now, safe, mune and invulnerable. “I reckon they done jumped them up ten or fifteen cents too, aint they?” looking at the small cardboard box colored like a circus wagon itself and blazoned with beasts like a heraldry.
“Ten cents,” the Negro said.
“Ten cents more than what?” he said.
“It’s ten cents,” the Negro said. “Do you want it or dont you?”
“I’ll take two of them,” he said. He walked again, in actual sunlight now, himself one with the hurrying throng, eating his minute vanilla menagerie; there was plenty of time now since he was not only safe but he knew exactly where he was; by merely turning his head (which he did not) he could have seen the street, the actual housefront (he didn’t know it of course and probably wouldn’t have recognised her either, but his younger daughter was now the madam of it) which he had entered with his mentor that night forty-seven years ago, where waited the glittering arms of women not only shaped like Helen and Eve and Lilith, not only functional like Helen and Eve and Lilith, but colored white like them too, where he had said No not just to all the hard savage years of his hard and barren life, but to Death too in the bed of a public prostitute.
The window had not changed: the same unwashed glass behind the wire grillework containing the same tired banjos and ornate clocks and trays of glass jewelry. “I want to buy a pistol,” he said to one of the two men blue- jowled as pirates behind the counter.
“You got a permit?” the man said.
“A permit?” he said. “I jest want to buy a pistol. They told me before you sold pistols here. I got the money.”
“Who told you we sold pistols here?” the man said.
“Maybe he dont want to buy one but just reclaim one,” the second man said.
“Oh,” the first said. “That’s different. What sort of pistol do you want to reclaim, dad?”
“What?” he said.
“How much money have you got?” the first said. He removed the wadded paper from the bib of his overalls and took out the ten-dollar bill and unfolded it. “That all you got?”
“Let me see the pistol,” he said.
“You cant buy a pistol for ten dollars, grandpaw,” the first said. “Come on. Try them other pockets.”
“Hold it,” the second said. “Maybe he can reclaim one out of my private stock.” He stooped and reached under the counter.
“That’s an idea,” the first said. “Out of your private stock, he wouldn’t need a permit.” The second man rose and laid an object on the counter. Mink looked at it quietly.
“Hit looks like a cooter,” id. . It did: snub-nosed, short-barrelled, swollen of cylinder and rusted over, with its curved butt and flat reptilian hammer it did resemble the fossil relic of some small antediluvian terrapin.
“What are you talking about?” the first said. “That’s a genuine bulldog detective special forty-one, the best protection a man could have. That’s what you want, aint it—protection? Because if it’s more than that; if you aim to take it back to Arkansaw and start robbing and shooting folks with it, the Law aint going to like it. They’ll put you in jail for that even in Arkansaw. Even right down in Missippi you cant do that.”
“That’s right,” Mink said. “Protection.” He put the bill on the counter and took up the pistol and broke it and held the barrel up to the light. “Hit’s dirty inside,” he said.
“You can see through it, cant you?” the first said. “Do you think a forty-one-caliber bullet cant go through any hole you can see through?” Mink lowered the pistol and was in the act of closing it again when he saw that the bill was gone.
“Wait,” he said.
“Sure, sure,” the first said, putting the bill back on the counter. “Give me the pistol. We cant reclaim even that one to you for just ten dollars.”
