Savage Night

"And? Surely you were aware of that,"

"Why, no." I shook my head. "I thought it was like the doctor-"

"Tell me, Mr. Bigelow. What do you think the doctor's reaction would have been if there had been a quantity of amytal in the wine? What do you think would have been the end result of the ensuing course of events?"

I stared at him. What did I think? Jesus Christ, I didn't have to think!

He nodded slowly.

"Yes. He tried to-uh-frame you… that's the expression, isn't it? You are here by the grace of God, and, I might say, due to my innate distrust of and dislike for the man. Here, instead of in custody on a charge of attempted murder-or worse."

"But-for God's sake!" I said. "How-?"

"Winroy is not notably an early riser. Neither is he inclined to show consideration to others in the matter of quiet. So, when I heard him moving about early this morning-moving with attempted but not too successful stealth-I was disturbed. I got up and listened at my door. I heard him creep out of his room and enter yours. When he came out and went downstairs, I investigated. I-I hope you don't think it was presumptuous of me to enter your room, but my thought was that he might have harmed-"

"I don't. That's all right," I said. "Just-"

"He was too obvious about it. If he'd used any subtlety at all, but… It was a box of amytal, Mr. Bigelow. He'd emptied six of the capsules and left the empty ones in the box with the full ones. And he'd placed the box behind the window curtain, where anyone who suspected wrongdoing would have no difficulty in finding it. Well, I suspected. I saw what he must intend. I went into his room and examined his wine with a result which you are, of course, aware of. I might have simply called him to account, but it seemed best to thwart him. To make him appear so painfully ridiculous that any future similar attempt would be knocked in the head at the outset… You see that, do you not?"

I saw it. Jake wouldn't pull another stunt like that.

"I disposed of the amytal capsules in the toilet along with the wine. Then, I washed the bottle out, and refilled it to its former level from a bottle I had. I am not what is ordinarily thought of as a drinking man, but a small glass of wine, sometimes, when I am turning through a book-"

"He had to take a drink of it," I said. "He'd want to have at least a little of the amytal in him. It's a wonder he didn't-"

"Notice the taste?" Kendall chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Well, I don't imagine he's accustomed to drinking amytal and liquor, so he'd hardly know what taste to expect. And I imagine it did taste rather peculiar to him. It's much better wine than he's accustomed to drinking."

I looked down at the table. "Gosh," I said. "I hardly know what to say. Except thanks. I don't like to think what would have happened if-"

"Then don't. And I enjoyed doing it, Mr. Bigelow. I can't remember when I've had such an interesting experience."

"What do you think?" I said. "Do you think I should move out?"

"What do you think?"

I hesitated. Was he or wasn't he? If he was tied up with The Man, I'd better not be thinking about moving. But if he wasn't, well, moving would be the first thing I'd think of.

"I've been trying to make up my mind," I said. "I'd hate to. People would naturally wonder about it, and it's reasonable there-the price, I mean. And with us working together and the bakery so nearby, it's-"

"I don't believe I'd move, if I were you."

"Well," I said. "I certainly wouldn't want to."

"I hope you don't. I very much hope so. Of course, I wouldn't want you to let me influence you against your better judgement."

"Sure. I understand."

"I admired you a great deal at your first encounter with Winroy. Your complete self-possession. Your self-control, nerve, in the face of an alarming and awkward situation. Frankly, I was a little envious of you; you shamed me. I had just about arrived at a point where I was ready to move myself. In other words, I was going to allow this drunken lout, a convicted gangster, to dictate to me. That would have been wrong of me, Mr. Bigelow. Very wrong. But I needn't tell you that, of course. I can't tell you how disappointed I'd be, if you should-well, it sounds rather harsh but I'll say it. If you should turn tail and run."

"I'm not going to," I said. "I'm going to stay, all right."

"Good. Excellent. We shall stand shoulder to shoulder in this matter. You may depend on my fullest support, moral and otherwise. In case of difficulty, I believe you will find that my word carries far more weight in this community than Winroy's."

"I'm sure it does," I said.

"Well-" He raised his glass. "By the way, am I mistaken or did Sheriff and Mrs. Summers drive you home?"

"I ran into them downtown this morning," I said. "I went to church with them."

"Splendid! Those seemingly small things-they mean a great deal in a town like this… Another drink?"

I shook my head. I wanted one, but I didn't think I'd better take it.

He might get the idea that I needed the stuff to keep going.

We went back to the house, and he and I had dinner together alone. Fay was in her room, I guess, still too upset and sore to eat.

We finished eating, and he went to the bakery. And I went right along with him, We came back at seven for sandwiches and coffee and so on-what they usually feed you for Sunday night supper wherever you are. Then we returned to the bakery, and I stuck with him until he knocked off at ten o'clock.

I was afraid to be there in the house with Ruth when all the others were out of the way. I hoped she got the idea fast that I didn't know her from now on.

Sunday is a big night in a bakery, Kendall explained. On Saturday there's practically nothing to do, since most retail outlets are closed the following day. But on Sunday you're baking for Monday, and with almost everyone run out of stuff over the weekend, it's the busiest day of the week.

He had plenty to do out on the floor, and most of the time I was by myself in the stockroom. I kept busy, as busy as I could. It would have looked funny to loaf around for seven or eight hours. He gave me a set of his whites to wear-we were about the same size-and I went all through the stock, getting familiar with it and taking inventory of everything but the bulk stuff.

"You can inventory that tomorrow," Kendall said, when he dropped in on me during a lull. "You'll need someone to help you weigh it, and give you the tare-the weight of the various containers. That would have to be deducted from your gross weight, understand, to give you the net."

I nodded, and he went on:

"These bulk items, they're the things that have given us trouble. Not at all surprising, either, with everyone chasing in and out of here, tossing their batches together by guess and by golly. Now here"-he tapped a heavily insulated barrel-"is a plaster-of-Paris compound-"

"Plaster of Paris," I said. "You put that stuff in-in-?"

"In bread. A few ounces in a large batch of bread does wonders for the texture, and of course it's completely harmless. A very little more than a few ounces, well, you'd have something resembling paving blocks." He smiled, his eyes gleaming behind the glasses. "Your dough would be wasted unless, say, you cared to pelt our friend Winroy in the head with it."

"I see," I laughed. "Yeah."

At ten o'clock we dressed out together. Quite a few of the other workmen were changing clothes at the same time, but he didn't introduce me, as I kind of thought he should. We started up the stairs to the street. And the locker room,had been plenty quiet a moment before, but the minute we left you could hear the talk starting up.

"By the way," he said, as we walked home. "I was very favorably impressed by your industry tonight, Mr. Bigelow. I felt justified in beginning your pay instead of waiting until tomorrow."

"Well, thanks," I said. "Thanks very much, Mr. Kendall."

"Not at all, Mr. Bigelow."

"About"-I hesitated-"about my name, Mr. Kendall. It seems kind of funny for you to be mistering me. Wouldn't you rather call me Carl?"

"Would you prefer that I did?"

"Well, I-it would be all right," I said.

"I'm sure it would. But I think we might well leave things as they are." He paused to knock out his pipe on the gate-post; then we went on up the walk together. "Man is forced to give up so much of his dignity by the mere exigencies of existence. It seems to me that he should cling sturdily to the few shreds that are left to him."

"I see," I said. "I just didn't want you to feel-"

"Moreover, as a somewhat more than casual student of human nature, I believe you resent being called by your first name, at least on short acquaintance. I think our reactions are much the same in that respect."

The house was quiet, dark except for the hall lights. We said good night, whispering, and he went to his room and I went to mine.

I took out my contact lenses. I took out my teeth, and stood in front of the mirror massaging my gums. They ached; they always did. There was something wrong with the jawbones- they were soft and they weren't shaped right. I'd never had a set of teeth that didn't make my mouth hurt. Not too bad, understand. Just a steady nagging ache that chewed away at you a little at a time.

I put the teeth back in, and went to bed.

It was after midnight when she slipped into my room. She said that Jake had come home early and gone straight to bed, and that if he knew what was good for him he'd stay there.

It was funny, her ordering him around. We were going to kill him, yet she was going right ahead scolding and fussing, threatening what she'd do if he didn't behave himself.

"Damn him, anyway," she whispered angrily. "I was never so scared in my life, Carl."

"Yeah," I said. "It gave me quite a jar, too."

"Why in the world do you suppose he did it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Like the doctor said probably, so mixed up and screwed up he doesn't know what he's doing."

"Yeah, but… but gosh! Whew, I was scared!"

I didn't tell her about Kendall. I had nothing to gain by it, and a hell of a lot to lose. She might say something or do something that would tip him off. Or she might… well, I didn't like to think about that but I had to: The fact that she might not be on, or stay on, the level with me.

Kendall had saved my neck this morning. He couldn't have done it if Jake had been wise to him. And if I needed help from Kendall in the future and Jake was wise to him…

You see? Kendall was The Man's ace in the hole… dammit, he just about had to be. But he was mine, too, up to a point. As long as I kept my nose clean with The Man Kendall was on my side… he didn't have to be,' he could be leading me on, trying to get me to tip my hand. I couldn't open up with him. I couldn't lay it on the line with her.

The only person I could trust was Charlie Bigger, Little Bigger. And that sawed-off son-of-a-bitch, I was beginning to have some doubts about him.

Talk about Jake being on a spot. Compared to me,Jake didn't have anything to worry about.

… It was a pretty chilly night, and she'd gotten into bed with me. We lay close together, whispering when we had anything to say, her head pillowed on my arm.

"I'd better start getting used to doing without you," I said. "We can't keep this up, baby. If there's something we have to talk over, sure; we'll risk it. Otherwise, we stay out of the clinches."

"But… but it'll be months, Carl! You mean we've got to wait all that time until-"

"Maybe not. I guess not," I said. "Like I said, there'll be times we have to get together. But we'll have to hold 'em down, Pay. The more we're together, the more chances that someone will find out about it."

"I know, honey. I know we have to be careful."

"Another thing"-I suddenly remembered something. "Those amytal capsules. Why in the name of God did you buy them, kid?"

"Well… he uses so damned many of them, and they cost so much if you go to a doctor and get a prescription-"

"Don't try to save dough that way again," I said. "The stuff is poison. You buy it without a prescription, and he' accidentally takes an overdose-"

"Whew!" she shivered. "Why-why someone else might slip him a load and I-I'd-"

She left the sentence unfinished.

At last she snickered softly. I gave her a pat… and took a long deep breath.

"Something funny?"

"That Ruth! Every time I think about it I want to burst out laughing."

"Yeah," I said. "That's a riot, all right."

"Ugh. It makes me kind of sick to think about it. What in the world would anyone-what could he be like, Carl?"

"I wonder," I said.

14

I was up and dressed early the next morning, but I didn't go downstairs right away. I'd started to when I remembered about Ruth, about being alone with her-and I would have been alone with her at that hour. So I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. Smoking and fidgeting. Feeling pretty queasy and nervous about getting started in school-Christ, imagine me in school!-but wanting to get it over with.

I waited, listening for Kendall's door to open. Then, I waited a few seconds more, so it wouldn't look like I had been waiting for him, and headed for my door.

He knocked on it, just as I turned the knob.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Bigelow," he said. "All ready to begin your college career?"

"Yes, sir. I guess I am," I said.

"Such enthusiasm," he laughed sympathetically. "A little nervous, eh? A feeling of strangeness and unreality? Well, that's natural enough. Do you know, I have half a notion to-uh-"

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you regard it as-uh-presumptuous if I accompanied you? I am rather well acquainted with the faculty, and possibly as my-uh-er-protкgк you might feel somewhat more-"

"I wish you would," I said. "I can't think of anything I'd like better."

"Really?" He seemed pleased as all get out. "I-I feel very flattered, Mr. Bigelow. I was going to suggest it last night, but I was afraid it might seem an intrusion."

"I wanted to ask you," I said. "But it seemed like a pretty nervy thing to do."

"Tsk, tsk," he beamed. "We must be less-uh-diffident with one another from now on. How about breakfast, eh? I seem to have an unusually hearty appetite this morning."

I didn't know. I'd been practically sure yesterday, but now he had me wondering again.

He could be both things. The nice, dignified, little old guy and the other, too. You can do that, split yourself up into two parts. It's easier than you'd think. Where it gets tough is when you try to get the parts back together again, but… He didn't need to be pretending. Most of the time I'd never pretended I'd really like a guy or want to help him along, but I'd go right ahead and-and do what I had to.

Well, anyway, I was damned glad he was going with me. It seemed funny, with all the other things I had to worry me, that I'd been uneasy about getting enrolled in a hick college. But I just couldn't help it. I guessed maybe it went back to the days when Luke and me and the rest of us had been crop tramps, and maybe you'd get two days in a school one week and three days a month in another. You never knew a thing about the lessons, and you smelled kind of bad and maybe you had a head full of lice, and you'd get put way off somewhere by yourself. You couldn't see worth a damn and your teeth had screwed up your hearing, and there was nothing you could do that someone didn't laugh at you or lay into you. And…

Skip it. Forget it. I was just trying to explain why I felt like I did.

Ruth served breakfast to us, and the way she kept trying to catch my eye I had a notion to take it out and hand it to her.

If she hadn't been kind of awed by Kendall, I think she might have suggested walking to the college with me. Shy as she was, much as she hated to show herself on that crutch.

She seemed to have it that bad.

I wondered whether there wasn't some safe way of getting Pay to give her the gate. And I guessed there was, probably, but I knew I wasn't going to do it. I'd tell her where to head in if I got the chance-if I had to.

But I wouldn't get her fired.

Kendall finally finished eating-I'd just been dragging my breakfast out, waiting for him-and we got started. I hadn't thought much about what courses I would take. I didn't know the score on those things, naturally, and I'd just supposed that you wouldn't have much say-so about your studies.

Kendall said it wouldn't be that way.

"That would be somewhat the case if you were a regular member of the freshman class or if you were majoring in a specific subject. But since you'll be classified as a special student-you're attending as a matter of self-improvement and for, I assume, the prestige value of college study-you have a great deal of latitude as to subjects. Now if you wouldn't- uh-if you would like my suggestions-"

"I certainly would," I said.

"Something, then, which would not point up any shortcomings in your past schooling. Something that is not predicated upon earlier studies in the same field… English literature. One can appreciate Pope without ever having read a line of Dryden. Political Science-more a matter of common sense than doctrinaire. History-merely another branch of literature… How does that sound to you, Mr. Bigelow?"

"Well-it sounds pretty-"

"Impressive? Impressive is the word." He chuckled, pleased with himself. "With such a course, no one could doubt your seriousness as a student."

Impressive wasn't the word I'd been thinking of. I'd been about to say it sounded pretty damned tough.

"Whatever you say," I said. "If you think I can get by in those things."

"You can and shall… with perhaps some slight assistance from me. You may depend upon it, Mr. Bigelow, I would not suggest subjects for you in which you could not-uh-get by."

I nodded, I didn't think I'd have much trouble getting by either.

With someone like Kendall to steer me-someone who knew the ropes-I couldn't miss.

I imagine I could have got the enrollment over in thirty minutes, and! did get my registration over and my fees paid in about that time. But Kendall wasn't through when that was done. He introduced me to the president and the chancellor and the dean of men-and they were all polite and respectful to him. Then, he took me around and introduced me to each of the instructors I'd have.

When noon came we still had one more guy to see, so we ate in the school cafeteria and looked him up after lunch. By the time we got through with him it was two o'clock, and Kendall said there wasn't much point in starting any classes that day.

"Let's see, now"-he glanced at his watch as we left the campus-"why don't you use the rest of the afternoon to pick up any books or supplies you need? Then, after dinner, around six-thirty, say… Would that be agreeable, Mr. Bigelow? I was thinking we might set your working shift at, loosely, six-thirty to eleven."

"Couldn't I come in earlier than that?" I said. "I won't need more than an hour or so to do my shopping, and after today I'll be out of my class at three. I'd like to come in earlier, Mr. Kendall. For a while, anyway."

I sounded plenty sincere-like maybe Dick Doordie, fighting through to fortune-and that's just how I felt. Until Ruthie cooled off, I had to have some place to hang out.

"Well-uh-of course, there wouldn't be any more money for you, but…"

"I don't care about that," I said. "I just like to be doing something, learning something."

He turned his head slowly and looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask who the hell I was kidding. And when he finally got around to speaking, he seemed so pleased he was all choked up.

"Mr. Bigelow, I-I can't tell you how glad I am that you came to Peardale. My only regret is that we could not have met-that the circumstances of our association could not have been-uh-"

He broke off, blowing his nose, and we walked a block before he said anything more.

"Well, we must take things as we find them, eh? We must look on the bright side. You are industrious, you have fortitude, the will-to-do, and now you are doing all that can be done to round out your education… A powerful triumvirate, my s-Mr. Bigelow, flawed and shadowed as it may be. When you consider someone like poor Ruth, whose sole assets virtually are ambition and a quick mind-and handicapped as she is they are doubtful assets indeed-your own situation seems one of great good fortune."

"I'm not complaining," I said. "You say Ruth's pretty smart?"

"Brilliant. Far from worldly-wise, of course, but an exceptionally keen intelligence. An honor student at the college. she's very well thought of there, incidentally. If you should encounter some difficulty with the curriculum, I'm sure she'd be glad to-"

"I wouldn't want to bother her," I said. "She gets embarrassed so easily. I don't want to pester you either, of course, but if I do have any trouble I'd rather talk it over with you. I feel more-well, more at home with you."

"Hem!" He swelled up like a poisoned pup. "Splendid- uh-that is to say, excellent! A pleasure, Mr. Bigelow."

We separated down near the middle of town. He headed for the bakery, and I picked up my school supplies, taking a fast gander at Jake's barber shop as I passed it. It was a two-chair joint, but a cloth was draped over the front chair. Jake was dozing in the rear one, his head drooped forward on his chest.

I finished my buying, and had some coffee in a drugstore. Going out the door, I ran head on into Sheriff Summers.

"Howdy there, son." He stood back from me a little. "Thought you'd be in school today."

"I've been there most of the day," I said. "Mr. Kendall went with me to see that I got off on the right foot, and we met so many of his friends I was all day in registering."

"Well, well. Kendall went with you, eh? Didn't think nothin' short of a three-ring circus could get him away from that bakery."

"I'm on my way to work there now," I said. "I've just been picking up some things I need at school."

"Swell. Good boy." He clapped me on the back. "Uh-kinda hopin' I might run into you. Bessie's been-I mean, how about eatin' with us this Sunday?"

"Well"-I hesitated-"I… If you're sure it wouldn't be any trouble for you, sheriff."

"Nothin' like it," he said heartily. "Tickled to death to have you. How'd it be if we meet you at church and go right from there?"

I said that would be fine.

"We'll be lookin' forward to it, then. I'm doggone glad you're gettin' lined up so well, son, after that-after all that mess at the beginning. Just keep up the good work, huh?"

"Thank you," I said. "I certainly intend to, sheriff."

I passed Jake's shop again on the way to the bakery. And there he was, standing right up against the glass, staring straight out at me.

I could feel him watching me all the way up the street.

I put my books in my locker at the bakery, and changed clothes. I went up the stairs, whistling, feeling about as happy as a guy like me could feel. I knew I had plenty to worry about, and it wasn't any time to be getting cocky and careless. But the way things had gone today-getting squared away at school and the sheriff warming up to me and,.. and everything-I just couldn't worry much.

Kendall spotted me the moment I hit the floor, and he was all business now.

"Come along, Mr. Bigelow," he said, herding me toward the stockroom. "I'll get you started off, and then I'll have to leave you."

We entered the stockroom, the main one, and he handed me the batch cards. There were fourteen of them-cardboard oblongs a little wider than a cigarette package and about three times the length. Each one listed the quantity and kind of ingredients wanted for a dough batch: bread, cake, piecrust, doughnuts and so on.

"Read them all, all right, Mr. Bigelow? Everything clear to you? Let me see you set up the sponge on that whole-wheat bread mix."

I picked out the card, and shoved the others into my pocket. I looked at the list of ingredients and started for the substoreroom. Then, I remembered and picked up a pail instead.

"That's right," he smiled briskly. "The flour's just there for the record; they can draw that themselves. Pretty hard to over or under-draw on sacked flour. All you're concerned with is the sponge. Sugar, first, remember. Then-"

I remembered.

I scooped sugar from a barrel and weighed it on the scales. I dumped it into the pail, and weighed in salt and powdered milk. I wiped the scales clean, dribbled some of the plaster-ofParis compound on them, and emptied it into a glassine bag. I tucked the bag into the pail, up against the side of it. Then I carried the pail into the cold-storage room.

I'd worked up a light sweat, but it was gone the second I stepped inside. He stood watching me, holding the door open.

There was another set of scales in there. I weighed lard onto them and dumped it into the pail. I punched a depression in the lard with my fist, measured a pint of malt syrup into the depression, and carried the pail outside. Kendall let the door slam shut, nodding approvingly.

"Very good, Mr. Bigelow. Just drop the batch card in at the side, there, and you have it done… Now about that door-you can't be too careful about that. Be very sure it's off the latch when you go in, or better still block it open slightly. One of those barrel scrapers should do the job."

"I'll be careful, all right," I said.

"Please do. You'll be here alone most of the time. You could be locked in there several hours before you were discovered, and it would be of very little use to discover you even after a much briefer lapse of time. So… Oh, yes. Speaking of doors."

He motioned to me, and I followed him into the substoreroom. He led me to the street door-the one he'd hinted I might use as a private entrance-pulling out a key ring.

"I've had a key made for you"-he took it off the ring. "We receive flour and other supplies through this door, so regardless- uh-So you'll doubtless find use for it. We'll just see how it works, now, and-"

It didn't fit too well, apparently. Kendall had to twist it back and forth and push up on the knob before the door finally opened.

"Well," he frowned. "I suppose we'll have to make it do for the time being. Perhaps with use-"

His mouth came shut, tightening with distaste. I looked across the street where he was looking-staring-and I saw Jake Winroy duck his head quickly and speed up that sagging, lopsided lope of his by a notch or two.

He passed out of viewing range.

Kendall slammed the door, jerked on the knob, testing it, and handed me the key.

"I don't know"-he shook his head-"I don't know that I've ever met anyone I so thoroughly detested. Well, we can't waste our valuable time on him, can we? Any questions? Anything that's not clear to you? If not, I'll get back to the floor."

I said I thought I had everything down pat, and he left.

I went back to the main stockroom.

I lined up all the sponge pails in a row, measured the dry ingredients into each of them, and carried them into the coldstorage room. I measured in the lard and malt, tucked in the batch cards, and set the pails just outside the entrance to the baking room.

I came back into the stockroom, studying the cards for the sweet doughs.

I was kind of breathless. I didn't need to, but I'd been rushing my head off. Not out here, but in there. In the cold-storage room.

I lighted a cigarette, telling myself I'd better take it easier. I wouldn't last long, rushing. Hard work-steady hard work- well, I'd given my lifetime quota on that a long time ago.

Aside from that, it would be easy to screw things up if I hurried too fast. I didn't know the job good yet. Working with all those different ingredients and measurements, a guy wouldn't have to be even pretty careless to get a little too much of one thing and not enough of another. And there wouldn't be any way of spotting the mistake until the stuff came out of the ovens-as hard as brick-bats maybe or as tough as shoe leather.

I glanced at the cold-storage room, and I shivered a little. So it was cold. What of it? I didn't need to stay in there, like I'd done on the sponges, wrapping up everything at one time. I could stay in, say, for five minutes, come out and go back in again for another five. Why stay in there, freezing my tail off, trying to do everything at once?"

I knew why, and I made myself admit it. The goddam place kind of gave me the creeps. I wanted to get through in there as fast as I could. It was so damned quiet. You'd hear a noise and sort of start, and then you'd realize that you'd gulped or one of your muscles had creaked and that was the noise you'd heard.

The door was so thick and heavy that you seemed locked in even when you knew you weren't. You kept looking at the scraper to see if it was still in place. And everything was kind of greasy and damp in there-everything seemed about the same shade-and you could look two or three times and still not be sure.

If you could have propped the door wide open-but you couldn't do that. Kendall had warned me about keeping the door open any more than was necessary. It would be a hell of a cold-storage room if you did that much.

I coughed, choked back another cough. The bug wasn't active again, I was sure of that, but I was glad I hadn't had to produce a health certificate.

I dropped the cigarette butt, stepped on it, and looked at the cards for the sweet doughs. They were more complicated than the others, the sponge mixes, and the extra-refined flour had to be weighed out with the other ingredients. They didn't just draw what they wanted as they did on the bread.

If I took my time on this stuff-and I'd damned well better- I probably wouldn't have it ready a hell of a lot sooner than I had to.

I took the scraper out of my pocket. I pulled the cold-storageroom door open, and went inside. I laid the scraper handle against the jamb, letting the door settle against it. Then I turned my back on the damned thing and got busy.

There were eight batches in all. I decided to do two, and go out and get the dry stuff ready for them. Then, I'd come back and do two more, and so on until I was through. And if! didn't like it in here, I knew what to do about it. There was an easy way to save time. I could snap out of the creeps and stop checking on the door every ten seconds.

I got busy, I put two pans on the work table, leaned their batch cards against them, and began pouring and dumping and weighing. And the creeps stayed right with me, but I didn't give in to them. I never looked once at the door.

The work went pretty fast. It didn't seem to, but according to my watch it did. I finished the first two batches-the wet part of them-took them out and set up the dry stuff, and came back in again.

I did another two and another two. And started on the fourth pair. The last two I had to do.

I got them done, and somehow they seemed to take longer than the others. It seemed like I'd never get through with them. Finally, though, they were ready, and I tucked the batch cards into the slits at the end of the pans.

Then, I picked them up and turned around and pushed against the door.

I pushed-pretty easy at first. Easy because I couldn't bring myself to push hard. I just sort of leaned against it, because if I did more than that-if I pushed hard and it didn't..

I put a little more steam into it, just a little. And then a little more… and a little more.

And then suddenly I wasn't pushing, hard or any other way. I was throwing myself at it, giving it every thing I had. And I was still holding onto those mixes, why the hell I don't know, and they were slopping all over me and the floor. And I hit that door like I was going to drive straight through it. And I bounced and skidded and slipped. And I did a belly whopper to the floor.

The wind went out of me like a popped balloon, I gagged and retched but nothing came up. I lay on the floor, writhing, squeezing my head between my hands, trying to squeeze the pain away. And after a while I could breathe again, and I could get my eyes to focus.

I looked. The door was closed tight.

The scraper wasn't there, and it hadn't slipped inside. Someone had taken it away.

15

I laughed. I got ahold of the table and pulled myself up. I laughed and laughed, brushing at the crap on my clothes, feeling it cling and stick and stiffen against my fingers.

Because what was the sense to it anyway? How in the hell could you win? You were right on the beam-playing all the angles, doing things twice as well as you thought you could and getting some breaks thrown in. Everything was swell, and you were a bright boy and a tough boy.

And a punchy booze-stupe without enough guts to string a uke could come along and put the blocks to you.

He could do it because he didn't have anything. Nothing to lose. He didn't need to be smart, to cover his tracks. You had to cover them for him. He could make one dopey move after another, and all you could do was duck and keep your mouth shut. He didn't need guts. He could run from you, but you couldn't run from him. He could pick you off any way, any time, and if he got caught…? I had to choose between times and ways, and if I got caught…? Not responsible? Not a chance. If you beat the law there was still The Man.

I laughed and choked and coughed. It was such a hell of a good joke, me feeling sorry for Jake.

That was my first reaction-that it was the damnedest funniest thing in the world and it was a relief to get it all over. It hadn't made any sense from the beginning. I'd go right on looking for whatever I was looking for, and I wouldn't stand any better chance of finding it than I ever had.

So it was funny. It was a relief.

Then that cold really began to gnaw into me, and I stopped laughing and I wasn't relieved any more.

It was too simple, too clear-cut and easy. I'd been swimming in muck all my life, and! could never quite sink in it and I could never quite get to the other side. I had to go on, choking to death a little at a time. There wouldn't be anything for me as clean and easy as this.

I looked at my watch. I got up and started walking back and forth, stamping my feet, rubbing my hands and slapping them against my body.

Four-thirty. It seemed like it ought to be hours later than that, I'd done so much that day and got started so early, but it was only four-thirty… Kendall would knock off at a quarter of six to go to the house for dinner, and he'd come in after me. And then I'd get out of here.

No one would come in before then. There wasn't any reason for them to, and-and they just wouldn't. And Kendall wouldn't dress out without me, and go on to the house by himself.

Either way, see, would make it easy for me, and that was against the rules. I wouldn't be found soon enough to really help, or late enough to… to do any good.

Four-thirty to five-forty-five. An hour and fifteen minutes. That would be the score. No more, no less. Not enough to kill me; too much, a hell of a lot too much, to leave me unharmed, Just the right amount to knock me on my ass.

I should have given up, just relaxed and stopped trying to do anything about it. Because whatever I did or didn't do, I wasn't going to change a thing. I'd still be just so sick, almost completely screwed up, not quite stripped of everything I had. Right at the time when I needed everything I had and! couldn't be screwed up at all.

No, I couldn't change a thing. But I had to try.

Relaxing, giving up, those were against the rules, too.

I walked back and forth, stamping and slapping and pounding, hugging my arms across my chest, sticking my hands between my crotch and clasping my legs on them. And I kept getting colder and stiffer, and my lungs began to feel like I was breathing fire.

I climbed up on the table, trying to warm my hands against the light in the ceiling. But there was a wire guard around it, and it was just a little globe, and it didn't do any good.

I climbed back down and started walking again. Trying to think… A fire? Huh-uh. Nothing to burn, and it wouldn't do anyway. It wouldn't even be smart to smoke. The air wasn't too good now.

I looked along the rows of shelves, looking-for anything. I studied the labels on the thick jugs: Extract of Vanilla, Extract of Lemon… Alcohol 40 per cent… But I knew better than that, too. You'd feel warmer for a few seconds, and then you'd be colder than ever.

I began to get sore. I thought, for Christ's sake, what kind of a dope are you, anyway? You're suppose to be smart, remember? You don't just take things. You don't like something, you do something about it. Locked up, not locked up. It's still the same, isn't it, except for the air. Suppose.

Suppose you were riding that manifest out of Denton, the fast meat train that balls the jack all the way into El Reno. It's November and all the goddamned reefer holes are locked, so you're riding the top, in the goddamn cold wind. And you can't die, and you'd better not get down. Because you remember that kid in the jungle at St. Joe, the color of the weeds he was lying in,' taking on the boesfora dime ora nickelora cart of coffee or… So?

I remembered. I didn't invent the trick but it's a good one:

You crawl down inside your cotton sack, the sack you pick cotton into. It's nine feet long and made out of canvas, and you kind of flap the end over itself so that just a tiny bit of air comes in. And you breathe practically the same air in and out, but you warm up fast. After a while your lungs start itching and smarting and your head begins to hurt. But you stay there, keeping your mind on warm things, warm and soft, and safe…

I didn't have a cotton sack now, of course, or anything in the way of a big piece of cloth. But if I could get inside of something, pull something over me, and put my breath to work… well, it would help. I took a long careful look around the room.

Egg can? Too small. Lard barrel? Too big; it would take too long to dig the lard out. Mincemeat…?

The keg was only about a fourth full. I squatted down, trying to measure myself against it, and it was pretty small-not really what! ought to have. But it was the only thing I did have.

I turned it upside down, then got my arms around it and banged it up and down, dumping the sweet-smelling, semifrozen slush on the floor. I scraped the inside with a scoop, and I knew! could scrape all night and not get it completely clean. So I gave up and got it over me.

I sat down on the floor with my arms at my sides, and stuck my head and shoulders into it. Then, I sat up and let it slide down over me. It only came down to my hips, and little gobs of that goo kept letting go and trickling down onto me. But that had to be it-it and me was all I had. So I breathed hard and tried to concentrate on… on warmness and softness, comfort and safety.

I got to thinking about the farm that guy had up in Vermont, where he grew all those things. And I remembered how he'd said that he didn't have any demand any more except for just the one thing. I closed my eyes, and I could almost see them, the long rows of them. And I grinned and laughed to myself, beginning to feel kind of good and pretty warm. And then I thought, I began to see:

… the goats were going up and down the rows, walking sideways on their hind feet. And every time they came to one they'd raise their tails and cut loose with the fertilizer. And each time they came to the end of a row they'd stand on their heads and howl. They had to do it. They knew it wasn't going to get them anything because there was nothing there to get, but they kept right on. Moving sideways and backwards-because that was the way the rows were laid out. And at the end they stood on their heads, howling…

I stopped thinking about it.

There was no warmth in it.

I brought my mind back to Kendall, him and Fay. Wondered what I'd better tell them. And I knew I'd better not tell the truth.

She might blow up-jump Jake about it or give it away to someone else. She might scare off. If she got sore or shaky, if she thought Jake could take the ball away from me.

And Kendall. If he was on the level, he'd have Jake in jail so fast it would make his head swim. He'd gotten a bang out of the other, the frame-up, because nothing had come of it and he'd outsmartedJake. But if he thoughtJake had tried to kill me, and if he was on the level, he couldn't let it slide. He'd have to crack down to protect the bakery.

If he was with The Man-that would be worse yet. The Man already thought! might have a few rocks in my head. He'd been sore about me dragging in Fay and why in hell had I done that, anyhow? I could have got along without her… He probably had a hunch that! might have seen through that Fruit Jar frammis and didn't trust him as much as! had to trust him. And if he thought I couldn't do any better than this, get it thrown into me by the guy I was supposed to throw it into.

No, it had to be an accident. That would be bad enough.

… I twisted my wrist and looked down. Five-twenty. About twenty-five minutes to go. An hour and fifteen minutes plus the time before I'd got locked in. It wouldn't be enough for a guy in good health. He'd have the sniffles and a sore throat, and that would be about the size of it. With me, though, it would be exactly enough. I couldn't have timed it better if I'd been trying to knock myself out.

Twenty-four mintues…

Ruth. As long as I'd know I was going to use Fay, why had I made a play for Ruth?

And Fay; getting back to Pay. It wouldn't have been any wonder-I wouldn't have blamed The Man much-if he'd given Fruit Jar that knife instead of me.

Sure, Pay could be a big help. Sure, she could make things a lot easier for me. So what? She could do something else, too. If she was smart enough to see it. Because how can you really trust a dame who'll help kill her own husband?

The Man had told me what she could do; he'd pointed out the spot where I could go down and never come up. He'd just mentioned it once, then he'd let it lay and gone on. Pay was already in or as good as in, and there was nothing to do but like it. But he wouldn't have been The Man if he had liked it. Brother, he must have thought I was a goof!

Me-Little Bigger-putting the one rope in the world around my neck that would hang me!

I didn't have a record, none that they could pin on me. I could line up before every cop in the country and there wasn't a one that could say, yes, that's our Bigger boy. No one could say it and prove it.

No one could, now.

But if I could be caught in the act of trying to kill Jake Winroy-if they had that much to go on, and could work back from it.

All those rewards, all for Fay. Forty-seven thousand dollars for Fay… and no half-blind runt with a mouth like a dog's behind to get in her hair.

… I got out just about on schedule. Kendall found me around ten minutes of six, and he and one of the bakers got me home. By six-thirty I was in bed with two hot-water bottles, feeling sort of drowsy and dopey from something the doctor had given me.

It was the same doctor-Dodson-that Fay had called for Jake. But he wasn't at all crusty and tough with me like he'd been with him and her. My own moth… you couldn't have wanted a guy to be nicer.

He pulled the blankets back up over my chest, and tucked them under my chin.

"So you're feeling fine, huh? No pain at all… Never mind. I don't want you talking with that throat."

I grinned at him, and my eyelids began to droop shut. He turned and gave Pay a nod.

"I want this boy to rest. He is to have complete quiet, understand? No nonsense. No disturbance such as occurred here yesterday."

"I"-Fay bit her lip, blushing-" I understand, doctor."

"Good. See that your husband does. Now, if you'll get that bedpan I spoke to you about a quarter of an hour ago-"

She went out.

The doctor and Kendall moved over near the door.

And I wasn't quite asleep yet, I was just drifting off. And I got a little of what they said.

"… all right?"

"This time. Stays in bed, and… Ought to be up by…"

"… relieved to… strong personal interest…"

"Yep. This time.., wouldn't bet a nickel on…".

"… pessimist, Dod. Why a next…"

"… teeth out… lens. No, better do it my…"

"… don't mean he…?"

"… everything. Straight across the board… nothing really right… no good to begin…"

That was the last I heard.

16

I was in bed until Friday. Or, I should say, I didn't leave the house until then, because I didn't stay in bed all the time. When I had to vomit or use the toilet I went to the bathroom, and I made sure that everything was flushed down good.

I told everyone that I felt all right-that I was just sort of weak and tired. And aside from all that blood and phlegm, which began tapering off about Thursday, there didn't seem to be a hell of a lot wrong with me. I didn't have much pain. Like I said, I was just weak and tired. And I had a funny feeling that a lot of me had been taken away.

What there was of me was all right, but there wasn't much of me any more.

Pay spent a lot of time in my room. And that was okay, of course, since she was supposed to take care of me. We had plenty of time to talk.

She said that Jake had been in the house and in bed every night by eleven o'clock. As she put it, he was behaving like a perfect lamb.

"How about that, anyway?" I asked her, making it sound casual. "I mean, how come he lets you boss him around? What's he afraid of?"

She shrugged. "Gosh, I don't know, honey. Afraid I'll leave him, I guess."

"It's not doing him a hell of a lot of good for you to stay."

"No?" She laughed huskily, slanting her eyes at me. "Now how would you guess a thing like that?"

I let the talk drift off onto other things-what a funny little guy Kendall was and who in the hell could have seduced Ruthie-and after a while I let it drift back to Jake again.

"This board money doesn't amount to anything," I said, "and I don't see how he can make any dough in that shop of his. How do you keep going?"

"You call this going?"

"It takes dough. Quite a bit with Jake hitting the whiz so hard."

"We-el, he does have some business, Carl. Me"-she guffawed and put her hand over her mouth-"I'd be afraid I'd get scalped. But everyone knows him and knew his folks, and he has some trade. On Fridays and Saturdays, you know, when all the shops are busy. And he's usually hanging around there, at night, staying open, when the other shops are closed."

One day-Wednesday, I think it was, when she brought my lunch up-I asked her if Jake had ever mentioned going back to jail.

She shook her head firmly. "For ten years? He couldn't take it when he was being paid off heavy-when he knew he'd be taken care of when he got out. They wouldn't play with him any more, would they, Carl? If he was willing? He'd just do his time and they'd get him when it was over?"

I nodded. "If they couldn't arrange to get him inside… Why in hell did he do it anyway, Pay? I know the cops probably shot him a big line about how they'd protect him and no one would dare touch him because it just wouldn't be good business, but-"

"And how! I hated to lose out on that payoff money, but I didn't think-no one seemed to think that-"

"Jake must have known how it would be. Hell, look at the way he started slipping. Hitting the jug and letting himself go. Look at the way he blew up when he spotted me."

"Yeah. Well-" She shook her head again. "Why do we do anything? He was going nuts in jail. He felt like he'd been the fall guy for the rest of the crowd, and the money he was getting wasn't doing him any good. So-"

That was about the size of the matter. I knew it. I'd been briefed on every phase of the deal, just what had happened and why and how it had happened.

But I wanted her to tell me, anyway.

"Why doesn't he turn himself into custody? Stay in the jug until after the trial is over?"

"Why?" She frowned at me, puzzled.

"That's what I said. If he's so sure I'm-someone's going to bump him off to keep him from talking, why-?"

"But, honey. What good would that do? They'd get him afterwards."

"Yeah, sure," I said. "That's the way it would be, all right."

Her frown deepened a little.

"Honey… You're not-not getting nervous, are you?"

"About him?" I forced a laugh. "Not a chance. He's in the bag and I'm all set to sew it up."

"How? Tell me, Carl."

I hadn't meant to tell her so soon. The safest way would have been to keep itto myself right up to the last minute. But-well, I'd got her a little worried with all that questioning. And it looked to me like I'd better show her I was right on the ball before she got more worried.

"Here's the deal," I said. "We'll pick a weekend night when Ruth's gone home to her folks, and-"

She, Pay, would set Jake up. She'd meet him downtown earlier and see that he didn't get too much to drink. Then she'd go on home, after she had him good and teased up, to get ready for what she'd promised to give him.

"Make him believe it," I said. "Make him want it so bad he can taste it. Know what! mean?"

"I know. Go on, Carl."

"Okay. You go on home. He gives you a few minutes, and then he follows you. I'll be watching at the door of the bakery, and! follow him. I catchup with him at the steps, pop his neck and drop him off on his head. I beat it back to the bakery, and you discover him. You heard him stumble, see, like he's always stumbling on those steps. That's it."

"How will you-his neck-?"

"It's easy. You don't have to worry about that."

"Well, gosh. It-it sounds so… so simple!"

"You want it hard?"

"Well, no-" Her frown went away and she laughed. "When do we do it, Carl?"

"I'll let you know. Not for weeks yet."

"Gee," she said, wonderingly. "Imagine me thinking you might be getting a little sca-worried!"

"Are you kidding?" I said.

"Gee," she said, again. "You tough little bastard, you!"

… Kendall was in to see me at least twice a day. He fussed around over me like I was a two-year-old kid, feeling my forehead and asking me if I didn't want this or that or the other, then kind of scolding me about smoking too much and not taking better care of myself.

"You really must, Mr. Bigelow. So much depends on it," he'd say.

And I'd say, "Yes, sir, Mr. Kendall. I understand."

It seemed that quite a few guys had got themselves locked into the cold-storage room at one time or another, and he took it for granted that I'd done the same. He also took it for granted that I'd opened that side door of the bakery for some reason, and left it unlocked.

And, of course, I didn't correct him. I didn't point out that he'd done it himself when he was trying out the new key.

Kendall usually managed to be around when the doctor came to see me, but he and the doc didn't do much talking after the first couple visits. Kendall didn't want to be told that I was in bad shape, and Dodson apparently wasn't a guy to pull his punches. So, after the first couple visits, when Kendall argued with him and kept calling him a pessimist, the doctor got sort of grim and clammed up. About all he'd say was I'd be all right this time-but. "But," he'd say, and let it go at that.

And Kendall would be pretty red-faced and huffy, and almost glare at him until he got out of my room.

"A pessimist," he'd say, huffily. "Always looking on the dark side of everything… You are feeling better, aren't you, Mr. Bigelow?"

"Sure, Sure, I feel fine, Mr. Kendall," I'd say.

Thursday evening, he asked me about a dozen times if I was feeling better and if I was sure I should get up the next day.. after that he got pretty quiet for a time. And when he spoke again it was about that little cabin he had up in Canada.

"It might be just the thing for you, Mr. Bigelow. In case, that is, that your health should worsen and you should not-uh-be able to carry out your plans here."

"I'm all right," I said. "I'll be able to carry them out, Mr. Kendall.

"I'm sure of it. It would indeed be tragic if you could not. But, in case… It would be ideal for you, Mr. Bigelow. You could take my car, and living would be very cheap and-I assume you have some money but I would be very happy to help-"

"I have most of what I got from my filling station," I said. "But it's awfully nice of you to offer-"

"Not at all. You're more than welcome to any help I can give you… What do you think about it, Mr. Bigelow, as a more or less pleasant solution to an unpleasant eventuality? You'd have complete quiet, the most favorable conditions for rest and study. The nearest town is forty miles away, accessible enough by car but far enough distant to insure your privacy. How does it sound to you, anyway?"

It sounded swell. I'd never heard of a better place to knock a guy off-as I was going to be knocked off if I fell down on the job here.

"That sounds nice," I said. "But I don't imagine I'll be going. I'm staying right here and going to school and-and do everything else I planned."

"Of course. Certainly," he nodded, and stood up to go. "It's just something to think about."

I thought about it.

It was almost one o'clock in the morning before I could get to sleep.

The next day, the day after that night, rather, was Friday. And I was still awfully weak and wrung out, but I knew I'd better not lie around any longer. Fay would start to worrying again. Kendall would start to wondering whether I could carry on or not. And if he had any doubts, it wouldn't be long until The Man had them.

I got up early, so that! could take my time about dressing, and ate breakfast with Kendall. I left the house when he did, and headed for the college.

That first morning-Monday morning-I hadn't paid any attention to the other students. I'd seen them, of course; some of them were passing us or we were passing them all the way to the school. But they hadn't made any impression on me. I mean, I hadn't been bothered by them. Kendall had been so free and easy that I'd felt the same way.

This morning, it was different. I felt like a jerk.

There was a regular parade of students going toward the college, and I was right in the middle of it. But somehow I wasn't part of it. I was always by myself, with the others in back or ahead of me, nudging each other when they thought I wasn't looking; laughing and whispering and talking. About my clothes, about the way I looked, about-everything. Because nothing about me was right.

I went to my first class, and the instructor acted like he'd never seen me before. He wanted to know if I was sure I was in the right class and why I was starting to school so late in the term. And he was one of those goofs who keep asking you questions without listening to your answers; and I had to explain, over and over, while the others sat grinning and watching me.

Finally, it sank in on him. He remembered about Kendall introducing me, and he halfway apologized for his forgetfulness. But things still weren't squared away. I'd been absent for three days, so I had to go to the dean of men for an okay before I could be admitted to classes.

I got it-a cut slip,! think they called it-and got back just about thirty seconds before the class was over. I was just sitting down in my seat when the bell rang.

Everyone got a big bang out of it. You'd have thought it was the funniest thing that ever happened.

In one class, I guess! must have moved a dozen times before I found a seat that didn't belong to someone else. I'd just get sat down when some dope would trail up and say it was where he sat. And, yeah, I think they were making a game out of it, trying to make me look dopier than! felt, but all I could do was keep moving until the instructor woke up and assigned me to a desk.

The third class, the one just before lunch, was the worst one. It was English literature, and everyone was taking turns at reading a few paragraphs aloud. So it came my turn, and the way! was looking down and talking at the same time, my teeth slipped a little bit. And everything I said sounded sort of like baby talk. The snickers and giggles got louder and louder, and finally the instructor told me to sit down.

"Very amusing, Bigelow," he said, giving me a glare that would have frosted an orchard. "Is Mr. Kendall acquainted with your talent for mimicry?"

I shrugged and smirked-what the hell could I do or say? And he frowned and nodded for another student to start reading. A little bit later-although it didn't seem like a little bit-the noon bell rang.

I stopped by his desk on the way out, and explained about the teeth. He was pretty nice about it, said he was sorry he'd misunderstood the situation and so on. So that was taken care of: he wouldn't knock me to Kendall. But…

I walked down the corridor to the building entrance, and everyone seemed to be laughing and talking about me. And part of it was imagination, of course, but not all of it. It was a small college, and I guess the students were pretty hard up for kicks, and news traveled fast.

I headed toward the house, wondering why in hell I bothered when I know I wouldn't be able to eat anything. I tried to keep to the side streets, dodging people whenever I could and cursing myself for doing it.

She ducked out of an alley just as I was ducking across it. Looking back, now, I'd say that she'd been waiting for me to pass.

I said. "Oh, hello, Ruth," and started to go on.

She said, "C-carl. Wait a minute."

"Yeah?" I said, I paused, waiting.

"I k-now you're mad at me about something, but-"

"Mad?" I said. "I don't even know you're alive."

"Y-yes," she said, "I know that, too. I didn't want to talk to you about that. All I wanted to say was about… about school. D-don't mind the way they act. Just go ahead, and after a while you get used to it."

She smiled, tried to. She nodded her head, and pivoted on her crutch.

And I knew that I should let her go like that, a clean hard break. But I couldn't do it. I stepped in front of her.

"I know you're alive, Ruthie," I said. "I know it plenty."

"N-no… I mean, it's all right, Carl. I-I guess, I just-"

"I've been trying to give you a break. I'm no good for you. I'm no good, period. But-"

"You are, too!" Her eyes flashed. "You're nice!"

"And there's Mrs. Winroy," I said. "I think she might be a little suspicious. If she thought there was anything going on between us, she'd probably fire you fast."

"Oh," she said, and her voice quavered a little. "I d-didn't… has she said anything? I couldn't lose my job, Carl! If I-"

"You'll have to watch it, then," I said. "That's why I've acted the way I have, Ruthie. It's the only reason. I like you a lot."

She stood blushing and trembling, the splayed hand gripping the brace of the crutch.

"That's the way it is, Ruth. Keep it in mind. I think you're pretty swell. If I don't show it, it's because I can't."

She nodded, looking like she was a dog and I owned her.

"Now, you can do me a little favor," I said. "If you want to. I'm feeling a little rocky, but I don't want to go back to the house and have everyone worrying over me, so-"

"Shouldn't you, Carl? I mean, don't you think you should stay in bed for another day?"

"I'm all right,"! said, "but! don't think I feel up to school this afternoon. If you'll tell Kendall, or anyone else that asks, that I'm eating lunch at the cafeteria-don't let on, you know, that everything isn't okay-"

"It will be, Carl. You'll get used to it."

"Sure, I will," I said. "But I've had enough for today. I think I'll just loaf around town for a couple of hours, get myself pulled together before it's time to go to work."

She hesitated, frowning sort of troubled. "You're not… not awfully discouraged, Carl? You don't intend to drop out of school, and-?"

"Not a chance," I said. "Peardale's stuck with me, and I'm sticking with it. I just don't feel up to it this afternoon."

She went on, then, on down the alley, and I went on up the street to a nice quiet bar I'd spotted the day! was with Kendall. I settled down in a rear booth, and I didn't move out of it until three o'clock.

I wouldn't have cared much if the sheriff or someone had spotted me there; they'd have had a hard time making anything out of the fact that I was taking things easy my first day out of bed. But no one came into the place that! knew. Hardly anyone came in at all, for that matter. So I just sat there, feeling more relaxed and rested the longer I sat, thinking and smoking and drinking.

I felt pretty good by the time! left.

What there was of me felt pretty good.

I got through my shift at the bakery. I put in a full eight hours there the next day, Saturday, and I got through them all right, too. So I got by all right. Just barely.

Because, like I said, there just wasn't a whole lot left of me.

I wondered what would happen if something tough came up, something really hard to take. Something that I couldn't handle in my own way, a little at a time, like I did the job.

And then it was Sunday, and I began to find out.

17

Sheriff Summers belched, and leaned back in his chair. "Fine dinner, Bessie," he said. "Can't remember when-ughahh- I et so much."

"At breakfast," said Mrs. Summers, wrinkling her forehead at him. "More coffee, Carl? I think, from the sound of things, that His Highness will have to settle for some baking soda and water."

"Aw, now, Bessie. Why-?"

"No, sir. Not another drop. And kindly stop picking at the meringue on that pie!"

The sheriff grinned sheepishly, and winked at me. "Ain't she a terror though, son? 'Bout the bossiest one woman you ever seen, I'll bet."

"I don't think I'd say that," I laughed.

"Certainly you wouldn't. Only His Highness is capable of it."

"He's just being polite." The sheriff winked at me again.

"But you're not, are you? Quiet. Carl and I do not care to talk to you, do we, Carl?"

"No, ma'am," I said, smiling.

And he and she laughed and smiled at me.

It was a nice day, any way you looked at it. Cool but sunny, just enough breeze to ripple the green-brown leaves of the trees. And it had got off to a good start. Kendall had let me set up most of my Sunday batches the day before and leave them in cold storage, and he'd insisted that I take all of today off. He'd really insisted, not in the way people do when they expect you to talk 'em out of it.

I was beginning to feel almost as much at home with the sheriff and his wife as I had with that old couple out in Arizona.

Sheriff Summers said he guessed he'd take a little nap, and Mrs. Summers told him by all means to go ahead. He went up to the front of the house where his bedroom was. She and I sat at the table a while longer, drinking coffee and talking. Then she took me outside to show me the yard.

Their house was one of those rambling old cottages which never seem to go out of date no matter how old they are. The yard was almost a half block wide and a block deep, and she'd tried to doll it up with flower beds and a rock garden in the rear.

I told her how I'd fixed up my little place in Arizona, and she said she could just see it and it sounded wonderful. We went from that to talking about the yard here, and hell, it had all kinds of possibilities. So I gave her a few suggestions, and she was tickled pink.

"That's marvelous, Carl! Will you come over and help me some time-some weekend, perhaps-if I pay you?

"No, ma'am," I said. "Not if you pay me."

"Oh. But really-"

"I'd enjoy doing it. I like to see things looking nice. I started to do a little work on the Winroy place-there's quite a few things, you know, that need-"

"I do know. Yes, indeed!"

"But I haven't felt like it was appreciated-more like I might be butting in. So I fixed the gate and let the other things slide."

"Those people. I'll bet they never even said thank you, did they?"

I shook my head. "For that matter, I guess I wanted to do the work more on my own account than theirs. The gate was the worst off, but those front steps have me worried too. Someone could get killed on those steps."

It was true. They were in lousy shape, and someone could get killed on them without any help. But I felt ashamed of myself for mentioning it. It was just that I always had to keep pointing so hard at one thing that 'everything coming out of me- everything I said or did-pointed at the one thing, also.

"Well," I said. "Speaking of work, I think it's time I was getting busy on those dinner dishes."

We'd been sitting on the back steps while we talked. I stood up and held out my hand to her.

She took it, and drew me back down on the steps.

"Carl-"

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"I-I wish I could tell you how much I-" She laughed sort of crankily, as though she was scolding herself, "Oh just listen to me! I guess I've gotten like Bill, completely out of the habit of handing out bouquets. But… you know what I mean, Carl."

"I hope I do," I said. "I mean, I enjoy being with you and the sheriff so much I hope you-"

"We do, Carl. We've never had any children, no one but ourselves to think about. Perhaps that's been the… well, no matter. What can't be cured must be endured. But I've thought-I seem to have had you on my mind ever since last Sunday, and I've thought that if things had been different, if we'd had a son, he'd have been just about your age now. H-he-he'd be like… if he was like I've always pictured him… he'd be like you. Someone who was polite and helpful and didn't think I was the world's biggest bore, and-"

I couldn't say anything. I didn't trust my voice… Me, her son! Me!… And why couldn't it have been that way, instead of the way it was?

She was talking again. She was saying that she'd been "so angry at the way Bill acted last Sunday."

"It was all right," I said. "He has to be pretty careful in the job he's got."

"Careful, fiddlesticks!" she snapped. "It was not all right. I was never so angry in my life. I gave that man fits, Carl! I told him, 'Bill Summers, if you're going to be swayed by those Fields-someone who is obviously malicious and petty- instead of believing the evidence of your own eyes and ears, I'm-"

"The Fields!" I turned and looked at her, "What Fields? The only Fields I know are dead."

"I'm talking about their son, him and his family. The relatives she lived with when she went back to Iowa. Bill wired them, you know, at the time he wired-"

"No," I said, "I didn't know, And maybe you'd better not tell me about it, Mrs. Summers. As long as the sheriff didn't, I don't think you should."

She hesitated. Then she said, softly, "You mean that, don't you, Carl?"

"I mean it," I said.

"I'm glad. I knew you'd feel that way. But he knows that I planned to tell you, and he doesn't object at all. The whole thing was so completely ridiculous in the first place! Even if he couldn't see the kind of young man you were at a glance, he had those wonderful wires about you from that judge and the chief of police and-"

"I don't understand," I said. "I don't know why this son would say anything against me. I couldn't have thought any more of a mother and father than I did of them. Why, Mrs. Fields wrote me right up to the time she died, and-"

"I imagine that was a large part of the trouble.Jealousy. And you know how kinfolk can be when it comes to elderly people. No matter what you do, how much you do, they're always convinced that you've abused the old folks. Imposed on them or swindled them or worse."

"But I-I just don't see how-"

"Honestly, Carl! Without ever having met you, I knew it was preposterous. They sent a five-hundred-word telegram back here, and it was simply filled with the worst possible… And, of course, Bill didn't just swallow it whole, but he didn't feel that he could disregard it completely. So-Oh, I suppose I shouldn't even have mentioned it. But it was so unfair, Carl, it made me so angry that-"

"Maybe you'd better tell me about it," I said. "If you don't mind."

She told me about it. I listened, sore at first, and then just sick. And I got sicker and sicker.

They-this Fields character-had said that I'd stolen his mother and father blind all the time I was working for them, and then I'd gypped her out of the station, paid her about half what the place was worth. He said I'd just moved in on his folks and taken over, and they'd been too scared of me to complain. He said-he hinted-that I'd actually killed Mr. Fields; that I'd made him do all the hard heavy work until he keeled over from heart failure. He said I'd planned to do the same thing to the old lady, but she'd taken what I offered her so I'd let her go "completely broken in health." He said…

Everything. Every lousy thing that a smalltime stinker could think of to say.

It was a lie, of course, every word of it. I'd worked for those people for peanuts, and I'd have stolen from myself quicker than I would have from them. I'd paid Mrs. Fields more than anyone else had offered when she put the place up for sale. I'd even done a big part of the housework for Mrs. Fields. I'd made Mr. Fields stay in bed, and I'd waited on him and done the other work besides. He'd hardly been out of bed for a year at the time he died, and she'd hardly stirred a hand, and.

And this character said things like that about me.

It made me sick. These people-those two people I'd cared more about than anything in the world, and… And this was the way it turned out.

Mrs. Summers touched my arm. "Don't feel badly, Carl. I know you were just as good and kind to those people as you could be and what he says doesn't change the facts."

"I know," I said. "I-" I told her how much I'd thought of the Fields and how I'd tried to show it, and she sat nodding sympathetically, murmuring an occasional, "Of course," and, "Why, certainly you did," and so on.

And pretty soon it seemed like I wasn't talking to her, by myself. I was arguing with myself. Because I knew what I'd done, but I wasn't sure why I had done it. I'd thought I was, but now I didn't know.

He was lying, of course; the way he'd put things had been a lie. But a lie and a truth aren't too far apart; you have to start with one to arrive at the other, and the two have a way of overlapping.

You could say I had moved in on the Fields. They hadn't really needed any help, and if they'd been younger and less good-hearted they probably wouldn't have given me a job. You could say that I had made them work hard. Two people could get by fine on the little business their station was doing, but three couldn't. And I'd saved them all the work I could, but still they'd had to work harder than they had before I came. You could say that I had stolen from them-just being there was stealing. You could say I had cheated Mrs. Fields on the price. Because all I had I'd got from them, and the place was worth a lot more to me than it would have been to an outsider. You could say…

You could say that I'd planned it the way it had turned out; maybe without knowing that I was planning it.

I couldn't be sure that I hadn't. All I could be sure of was that I'd been fighting for my life, and Fd found the perfect spot- the one place-to take cover. I'd had to have what they had. In a way, it had been me or them.

Those six years I'd spent with them… Maybe they were like all the other years.Just crap. Nothing to feel kind of proud of or good about.

"Carl… Please, Carl!"

"I'm all right," I said.

"You're sick. I can see it. Now, you're coming right into the house with me and I'm going to fix you a cup of coffee, and you're going to lie down on the lounge until-"

"I think I'd better go home," I said.

I stood up and she stood up with me. And she looked almost as sick as I probably did. "Oh, I wish I hadn't told you, Carl! I might have known how upset you'd be."

"No, it's-I just think I'd better be going," I said.

"Let me call, Bill. He can drive you."

"No, I'd rather you didn't," I said. "I-I want to walk around a little first."

She argued about it, looking and sounding like she might burst out crying any second. But finally she walked to the gate with me, and I got away.

I walked toward the house, the Winroys', my eyes stinging behind the contact lenses; and it didn't seem sunny or pleasant any more.

I could hear Ruthie out in the kitchen. No one else seemed to be around. I went out there, reached the whiskey out of the cupboard and took a long drink out of the bottle. I put it back in the cupboard, and turned around.

Ruthie was staring at me. She'd taken her hands out of the dishwater and was starting to reach for a towel. But somehow she never made it. She stared at me, and her face twisted as though a knife had been twisted in her; and she took a swing and a step on the cruch. Then her arms were around me and she was pressing me to her.

"C-carl… oh, darling. What's the-"

"Nothing," I said. "Just a little sick at my stomach."

I grinned and pulled away from her. I gave her a little spank on the thigh, and I started to say, I did say, "Where's-?" But I didn't get a chance to finish the sentence. I heard Fay coming up the front steps, that firm I'm-really-something walk of hers. And by the time she got the front door open, I was in the hallway.

I winked and jerked my head over my shoulder. "Just borrowed a drink of your whiskey, Mrs. Winroy. Had a sudden attack of stomach sickness."

"It's perfectly all right, Carl." She gave me back the wink. "Sick at your stomach, huh? Well, that's what you get for eating with cops."

"That's it," I laughed. "Thanks for the whiskey."

"Not at all," she said.

I started up the stairs. About halfway up, I suddenly turned around.

I wasn't quite sick enough to catch her at it; she was already entering the dining room. But I knew she'd been looking at me, and when I got to my room I found out why.

The back of my coat. The two white soapsuds prints of Ruthie's hands.

18

Fay was an actress. The Man had been right about that. I didn't know how much she'd been acting up until how, but she could have been doing it all the time. She was good, what I mean. A whole week had passed since she'd seen those handprints, and if I hadn't known that she had seen them, I'd never have guessed that there was anything wrong.

She'd come up to my room that night, that Sunday, and we'd kicked the gong around for almost an hour; and she'd never let on. We'd been together again on Wednesday-and I mean, together-and there still wasn't any indication that she knew. She'd never done or said anything to show that she was hell-hot sore.

She was waiting. She was going to let it all slide, convince me that she hadn't seen anything, before she made her move.

She waited a whole week, until the next Sunday night and…

That week.

I'd thought that school couldn't be any worse than it'd been that Friday, but it was. Maybe it just seemed worse because there was so much more of it and so much less of me.

That wire Mrs. Summers had told me about. This trouble with Fay. Ruthie. Kendall. Jake.

Jake was at the house for almost every meal. A couple of mornings he even ate breakfast with Kendall and me. He was still hitting the jug pretty hard, but he didn't seem to sag so much.

He seemed to be getting bigger, and I was getting littler. Every day there was a little bit less of me.

I said he was hitting the bottle pretty hard. But he wasn't even in it with me. I had to nail down my breakfast every morning with a few drinks before I could go to school. And I had to have more in the afternoon before I could get to work, and at night…

Thursday night I took a bottle up to my room with me, and I got half cockeyed. I got a notion in my head to go over and wake Kendall up and tell him I was too sick to go on. I'd tell him I wanted to take him up on that business of going to Canada in his car, and I knew he'd argue a little but not much, because if a guy was that far gone, there wasn't much use in trying to use him. So he'd let me do it, and I'd go there, and in a few days someone from The Man would show up and…

But I couldn't get that drunk. It would have been too easy, and there was still a little hope left in me.

I had to go on waiting and hoping, losing more of the little that was left of myself.

It didn't seem possible that I'd slipped so far, that so much had gone wrong in such a short length of time. I guess I'd been walking on the edge of a cliff for a longtime, and it didn't take a very big breeze to start me sliding.

It was almost a relief to slide.

Well…

I got through the week. Sunday came again, and I kind of wanted to go to church and see Mrs. Summers again but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I got to thinking why about her-why I wanted to please her and make her face light up-and all I could think of was that I might be trying to pull something on her like I had on Mrs. Fields.

I spent almost the whole day at the bakery; not just my shift but the day. I was actually there longer than Kendall was, and you had to go some to beat him.

Finally, though, it was ten o'clock, and I hadn't done anything but loaf for a couple of hours. So when he suggested knocking off, I didn't have any excuse for staying.

I showered and changed clothes. We walked home together.

He said I was doing fine. "I've been able to turn in a very good report on you, Mr. Bigelow," he said.

"Swell," I said.

"Studies going satisfactorily? Nothing I can help you with? After all, we mustn't lose sight of the fact that your job is only a means to an end. If it interferes with your school-the reason for your being here-why-"

"I understand," I said.

We said good night and I turned in.

I woke up a couple of hours later when Fay crawled into bed with me.

She'd taken off her nightgown, and she snuggled up close to me, warm and soft and sweet-smelling.

A little moonlight sifted past the edge of the window shades. It fell across the pillows, and I could see into her eyes. And they didn't tell me a thing, as they should have. And because they didn't, they told me a lot.

I knew she was ready to spring it.

"Carl-" she said. "I-I've got something to tell you."

"Well?"

"It's about Jake. H-he-he's going to go back to jail until after the trial."

My guts sank into my stomach like a fist. Then a little laugh came out of me and I said, "You're kidding."

She rolled her head on the pillows. "It's the truth, honey, if he's telling me the truth. Is it-is it bad?"

"Bad," I said. "Is it bad!"

"I don't mean he's going right away, honey. Tonight's the first time he's mentioned it, and the way he hates jail it'll probably take him a week to work himself up-"

"But," I said, "what-why is he doing it?"

"Gosh, I just don't know, honey."

"You told me he couldn't take jail. You told me he'd never go back. He knew it wouldn't change a damned thing."

"You told me that, too, honey. Remember?" She squirmed lazily against the sheets. "Scratch my back, will you, baby? You know. Down low there."

I didn't scratch it. If I'd got a grip on her hide right then, I'd have pulled it off of her.

"Fay," I said. "Look at me."

"Mmmm?" She tilted her head and looked. "Like this, Carl?"

"Jake's been getting his nerve back. He's in a lot better shape than he was when I came here. Why this sudden notion to go back to jail?"

"I told you, honey, I don't know. It doesn't make sense."

"You think he means it?"

"I'm pretty sure he means it. Once he gets an idea in his head, like he did about you, you know, he never lets go."

"I see," I said.

"Is it ba-we can do it, now, can't we Carl? Let's kill him now and get it over with. The quicker it's done the sooner we can be together. I know you'd probably rather go on like this as long as you can, but-"

"Why?" I said. "Why do you think I'd rather?"

"Well, you would, wouldn't you? You're having a good time. You and your dear sweet little-t-trashy little-"

I said: "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Never mind. The point is I'm not going to go on like this any longer. Even if you do want to."

She wouldn't come all the way out with what was eating on her, and anyway I already knew. It would only lead to a brawl, and things were bad enough as they were.

"I'll tell you why I'd rather wait," I said. "I was told to. And the guy who told me wasn't talking to exercise his lungs."

"W-what do-" Her eyes shifted nervously. "I don't see what difference it makes if-"

"I told you. I spelled it out for you."

"Well, it doesn't make any difference! I don't care what anyone says. We can do it now just as well as not."

"All right. It doesn't make any difference," I said. "You said it doesn't, so that settles that."

She looked at me sullenly. I reached across her to the reading stand and got a cigarette lighted.

I let the match burn until the flame was almost to my finger tips. Then I dropped it, squarely between her breasts.

"Oooof!" She slapped and brushed at the match, stifling the instinctive scream into a gasp. "Y-you!" she whispered. "Wwhy did you-?"

"That's the way acid feels," I said. "Just a little like that. I imagine they'd start there and work up."

"B-but I-I haven't-"

"You're in with me. If I get it, you get it. Only you'd be a lot more interesting to work on."

That was wrong, to throw that kind of scare into her. I shouldn't make her think she had nothing to lose by pulling a doublecross. But… well, you see? For all I knew, she was already pulling one. Or on the point of doing it. And if I could make her see what it would cost her…

"You're sure about it?" I said. "You didn't misunderstand him, Fay? If you did, you'd better tell me."

"I-I-" She hesitated. "W-well, maybe I-"

"No lies. If that's the way it is I've got to know."

Her head moved shakily. "T-that's the way it is."

"I see," I said.

"I-I'll talk to him, Carl! I'll rn-make him-he'll listen to me. I'll try to make him change his mind."

"You talk him into it," I said. "Then you try to talk him out of it. Huh-uh, baby. You're not that good."

"B-but I-what makes you think I-?"

"Don't kid me," I said. "How was it supposed to be, anyway? Jake's a nice boy, so they give him plenty of privileges in the jug, huh? He'll be safe and you can go right on seeing each other, and he won't be missing a thing. Is that it?"

She bit her lip. "M-maybe he doesn't mean it, Carl. Maybe he knows I didn't intend to-"

"Maybe," I nodded. "Maybe a couple of times. But like you said he's got the idea, and he doesn't let go of his ideas."

"B-but if… Oh, Carl, honey! W-what will they-?"

"Nothing," I said, and I lay down again and pulled her into my arms. "I'll straighten it out. We should have waited, but as long as we can't-"

"You're sure it'll be all right? You're sure, Carl?"

"I'm sure," I lied. "I'll fix it up. After all,Jake could have got the idea by himself. They won't know that he didn't."

She sighed and relaxed a little. I kept on soothing her, telling her it would be all right, and after a while I got rid of her. She slipped back to her room.

I uncorked a pint I had, and sat on the edge of the bed drinking. It was around daylight when I went to sleep.

… I called The Man from a booth in that quiet little bar I'd found. He answered right away, and the first thing he asked me was where I was calling from. He said that was good, splendid, when I told him. And, dammit, it was; it was as good as I could do. So many drunks phone from bars that no one pays any attention to the calls.

But I knew he didn't think it was good. He didn't think I should be calling him at all.

He told me he'd call me back. I hung up and had a couple of drinks while he went to another phone.

"All right, Charlie-" his voice came over the wire again. "What's on your mind?"

"Our-that merchandise," I said. "It looks like it was going off the market. We'll have to act fast to get it."

"I don't understand," he said.

"You'd better speak plainly. I hardly think that our conversation can be completely camouflaged and comprehensible at the same time."

"All right," I said. "Jake's talking about going to jail until after the trial. I'm not sure whether he means it or not, but I thought I'd better not take any chances."

"You want to do it now, then. Soon."

"Well"-I hesitated-"I can't do it after he's in jail."

"That isn't what we agreed on, Charlie."

"I know," I said, "but I-"

"You said he'd been talking about it. To whom?"

"To Mrs. Winroy."

"I see. And does she still have your fullest confidence, Charlie? You'll recall, I believe, that I had some few small doubts about her myself."

"I think she's telling the truth," I said.

"Why does she say Jake's going to jail?"

"She doesn't say. Jake didn't tell her."

"Strange." He paused. "I find that slightly puzzling."

"Look," I said. "I know it doesn't seem right, but Jake's halfway off his rocker! He's running around in circles."

"A moment, please. Am I wrong or wasn't it Mrs. Winroy's job to keepJake available? You were very sure she could do that, weren't you? And now the opposite has happened."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Why, Charlie?"

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know whether he's really going to do it."

He was silent for a long time. I'd about decided he'd hung up. Then, he laughed softly and said:

"You do whatever you think is necessary, Charlie. As soon as you think it's necessary."

"I know how you feel," I said. "I haven't been here very long, and… I know it would look better if I could have waited."

"Yes. And there's the matter of publicity, having the story kept alive for weeks. Or perhaps you've forgotten that in the press of your other affairs?"

"Look," I said. "Is it all right or not? I want to know."

He didn't answer me.

That time he had hung up.

I picked up my books off the bar and went on to school. Cursing Fay, but not putting much heart into it. It was my fault for bringing her into the deal.

The Man hadn't wanted her in. If she hadn't been in andJake had got this jail idea on his own, I wouldn't have been held responsible. As it was…

Well, a lot depended on how things worked out. If it all went off all right they'd go easy on me. No money, of course. Or, if I had the guts and was stupid enough to ask for money, a few bills and a beating. They'd leave me here-that would be my payoff. I'd be left here to rot, with no dough but the little I had and no way I could get any more. Just barely scraping by on some cheap job, as long as I could hold a job and then…

The Man would get a kick out of that. Hell-the hell-he knew you didn't have to dig for it, too.

And if the job didn't go right…

It didn't make much difference. I couldn't win.

19

It was Sunday when Fay had given me the bad news.

We set Jake up for Thursday night.

So there were four days there, between the first thing and the second. Four whole days. But it didn't seem that long. It seemed like I'd walked out of the bar, after I'd talked to The Man, and stepped straight into Thursday night.

I was through, washed up. I wasn't living; I was just going through the motions.

Living is remembering, I guess. If you've lost interest, if everything is that same shade of gray, the kind you see when you look into light with your eyes closed, if nothing seems worth storing away, either as bad or good, reward or retribution, then you may keep going for a while. But you don't live. And you don't remember.

I went to school. I worked. I ate and slept. And drank. And… Yes, and Ruthie. I talked to her a few times on the way to and from school. I remembered-yes, I did remember her. I remember wondering what would become of her. Wishing I could help her some way.

But aside from Ruthie, nothing.

Except for the few minutes I was with her, I moved straight from Monday into Thursday. Thursday night at eight o'clock.

I snapped out of it then, and came back to life. You have to at a time like that whether you want to or not.

It was a slow night on the job, one of the slowest in the week. I was all caught up on my work, and no one had any reason to come into the stockroom.

I stood in the outer storeroom with the light turned off, watching the other side of the street.

Fay went by, right on the dot at eight.

I studied my watch, waiting. At eight-fifteen, Jake went by.

I unlocked the door and stepped out.

It was a good dark night. He was moving in a beeline for the house, not looking to right or left.

I sauntered down the side of the street the bakery was on, until he'd passed the intersection. Then I crossed over and followed him, walking faster because he'd got quite a way ahead of me.

I was about fifty feet behind him when he started across the parallel street to the house. Just about the right distance, allowing for the time he needed to open the gate. He fumbled with it, unable to find the catch, and I slowed down to where I was barely moving. At last he got it open, and I..

I froze in my tracks.

He-this guy-was a drunk, I found out later, He'd come out of that little bar catercornered to the house and wandered across the road, and I don't know how the hell he'd managed it but somehow he'd fallen over inside the fence. He was lying there whenjake came along, inside and up against the fence. As Jake opened the gate, he rose up and sort of staggered toward him. And Jake let out a yell.

And that front yard was suddenly as bright as day.

Two big floodlights struck it from the vacant lots on each side of the house. Cops-deputy sheriffs, rather-swarmed up from everywhere.

I stood frozen for a second, unable to move. Then I turned around and started walking back to the bakery.

I'd gotten almost to the corner when I heard a yell from the sheriff rising above the other yells. "Wait a minute, dang it! This ain't the right-"

I kept right on going, and I was crossing the street to the bakery before the shout came. "You there! Halt!"

I didn't halt. What the hell? He was almost two blocks away. How should I know he was hollering at me?

I went right on into the bakery, locking the door behind me. I went into the main stockroom, closed the connecting door, and sat down at my work table.

I picked up the batch cards for the night, and began checking them off against my perpetual inventory.

Someone was banging on that outside door. I stayed where I was. What the hell again? I couldn't let anyone in that door this time of night. Why, it might be a robber, someone trying to steal a sack of flour!

The banging stopped. I grinned to myself, flipping through the cards. I was alive again. I'd have laid down for them, but since I couldn't do that, I'd make them lay me.

The door to the baking room slammed open. Kendall and the sheriff and a deputy came in, the sheriff in the lead.

I stood up. I went toward him, holding out my hand.

"Why, how are you, sheriff?" I said. "How is Mrs. Sum-"

He swung his hand, knocking mine aside so hard that it almost spun me around. His fingers knotted in my shirt, and he yanked me clean off the floor. He shook me like a dog shakes a rat. If ever I saw murder in a mug it was his.

"You snotty little punk!" He shook and swung me with one hand and began slapping me with the other. "Think you're cute, huh? Think it's smart to go around so danged nice an' lovey-dovey, gettin' people to trust you and then-"

I didn't blame him for being sore. I guess no one can ever be as sore at you as the guy who's liked and trusted you. But that hand of his was a hard as a rock, and Kendall couldn't get past the deputy to stop him like he was trying to do.

I passed out.

20

I wasn't out very long, I guess, but it was long enough for Dr. Dodson to get there. I came to, stretched out on the floor with my head on some flour sacking and the doc bent over me.

"How are you feeling, son?" he said. "Any pain?"

"Of course, he's in pain!" Kendall snapped. "This-this creature beat him within an inch of his life!"

"Now, wait a minute, dang it! I didn't-"

"Shut up, Summers. How about it, son?"

"I-I feel all right," I said. "Just kind of dizzy, and-" I coughed and began to choke. He raised my shoulders quickly, and I bent over, choking and coughing, and blood spilled down on the floor in a little pool.

He took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped my mouth with it. He lowered me back to the floor again, and stood up, staring at the sheriff.

The sheriff looked back at him, sullen and sheepish.

"Kinda lost my temper," he mumbled. "Reckon you would've, too, doc, if you'd been in my place. He was all set t'do Winroy in, just like the note said he'd be, and then this danged drunk gets in the way an' he comes saunterin' back here, just as pretty as you please, and-"

"You know," the doctor cut in, quietly. "You know something, Summers? If I had a gun I think I'd blow that fat head of yours right off your shoulders."

The sheriff's mouth dropped open. He looked stunned, and sort of sick. "Now, now looky here," he stammered. "This- you don't know who this fella is! He's Charlie Bigger, Little Bigger, they call him. He's a killer, an'-"

"He is, eh? But you took care of him, didn't you?"

"You want to know what happened or not?" Sheriff Summers' face turned a few shades redder. "He-'

"I'll tell you what happened," Kendall spoke up coldly. "Carl stepped out for a little walk, as he has my permission to do when his work is caught up. In fact, I've encouraged him to do it since his illness. He was in the vicinity of the Winroy house when this ruckus broke out, and having something better to do with his time than gawk and gape at matters which did not concern him-"

"The heck they didn't concern him! How come the note said he-"

"-he came back here," said Kendall. "A few minutes later, Summers came storming into the bakery with this-uh- hireling and started babbling some nonsense about Carl's having tried to murder someone and failing to stop when he was ordered to. Then he rushed in here and attacked him, beat him into unconsciousness. I've never seen such savagely inexcusable brutality in my life, Dod!"

"I see," the doctor nodded, and turned to the sheriff. "Well?"

Sheriff Summers' lips came together in a thin hard line. "Never mind," he grunted. "You want it that way, you have it that way. I'm takin' him to jail."

"On what charge? Taking a walk?"

"Attempted murder, that's what!"

"And what are your grounds for such a charge?"

"I already told-!" The sheriff broke off, his head lowered like a mad bull. "Never you mind. I'm takin' him in."

He started toward me, the deputy hanging back like he was pretty unhappy, and Kendall and the doc stepped in his way. In about another ten seconds, I think he'd have had a knockdown drag-out fight on his hands. And there wasn't any sense in that, so I got up.

I felt all right, everything considered.Just a little smaller and weaker than I had felt.

"I'll go," I said.

"We can settle it; you don't need to go," the doctor said, and Kendall added, "No, he certainly does not need to!"

"I'd rather go," I said. "Sheriff Summers and his wife have been very nice to me. I'm sure he wouldn't be doing this if he didn't think it was necessary."

There was some more argument from Dodson and Kendall, but I went. We all went.

We got to the courthouse just as the county attorney was going up the steps, and the deputy took us into the c.a.'s office while he and the sheriff stood in the corridor talking.

The sheriff had his back to the door, but the county attorney was facing it, and he looked weary and disgusted. All the time the sheriff was talking, he just stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, frowning and shaking his head.

Finally, they came inside, and he and the sheriff started to ask a question at the same time. They both stopped, one waiting for the other, then they started again, both at once. They did that about three times, and the doctor let out a snort and Kendall sort of half smiled. The county attorney grimaced and leaned back in his chair.

"All right, Bill," he sighed. "It's your headache, anyway."

Sheriff Summers turned to me.

"What's your name? Your right name?"

"You know what it is, sheriff," I said.

"It's Charlie Bigger, ain't it? You're Little Charlie Bigger."

"Suppose I said, yes," I said. "Then what? I'd like to accommodate you, sheriff, but I don't see how that would help."

"I asked you what your-!" He broke off as the county attorney caught his eyes. "All right," he grunted. "What was you doin' sneaking along behind Jake Winroy tonight?"

"I wasn't sneaking anywhere. I was walking."

"You always go for a walk at that time o'night?"

"Not always. Often. It's a slack time for me."

"How come you was walkin' toward the Winroy place instead of the other way?"

"These work clothes. Naturally, I wouldn't want to walk up toward the business district."

"I got a note about you. It had you right down to at. Said you was gonna do just what you-what you tried to do."

"What was that?" I said.

"You know what. Kill Jake Winroy!"

"Kill him?" I said. "Why, I didn't try to kill him, sheriff."

"You would have! If that danged drunk-"

Dr. Dodson let out another snort. "Anonymous notes! What next?"

"He was there, wasn't he?" The sheriff whirled on him. "How come I got that note if-"

"I believe it has been established," the county attorney sighed, "that he is in that vicinity almost every night at approximately that time."

"But Winroy ain't! It ain't been established how I-"

Kendall cleared his throat. "Since you seem to be unwilling to accept the note as the work of some crank who has observed Mr. Bigelow's movements and who profited by an unfortunate but by no means extraordinary coincidence-"

"It's too danged extraordinary for me!"

"As I was saying, then, the note can only be explained in one way. This shrewd and crafty killer"-he smiled apologetically at me-"the most elusive, close-mouthed criminal in the country, went around town confiding his plans… Something wrong, sheriff?"

"I didn't say he done that! I-I-"

"I see. It's your theory, then, that he wrote you-or I believe it was printed, wasn't it?-he sent you the note himself. So that you'd be on hand to apprehend him."

Doc Dodson burst out laughing. The county attorney tried not to laugh, but he couldn't quite hold it back.

"Well," he said, bringing his hands down on the desk. "Bill, I think the best thing we can do is-"

"Now, wait a minute! He could have had someone workin' with him! They could've given him away!"

"Oh, come now." Kendall shook his head. "He's a stranger here. I live with him and work with him, and I can assure you he has no intimates aside from me. But perhaps that's what you had in mind, sheriff? You think I was involved in this matter."

"I didn't say so, did I?" The sheriff glared at him helplessly. "I-anyway, that ain't all I got on him. I got a wire from the kin of some folks he used to live with. They said he swindled and abused these old people, and-"

"I believe you got two other wires about me, also," I said. "From a chief of police and a county judge. What did they say about me?"

"I-well-why'd you run away tonight?"

"I didn't do any running, sheriff."

"Why didn't you stop when I hollered? You heard me."

"I heard someone, but they were a couple of blocks away. I didn't know they were hollering at me."

"Well-uh-why--?"

He paused, trying to think of something else to ask me. He wet his lips, hesitating. He slanted a glance at Kendall and Dodson and the county attorney, and in his mind's eye, I guess, he was also looking at his wife, wondering how he was going to explain and excuse himself to her.

The county attorney yawned and massaged his eyes. "Well," he said, "I suppose we'll have an army of city cops moving in on us now. Ordering us around and telling us how to run our business like they did last time."

"Now, I-I-" The sheriff gulped. "I don't reckon we will. My boys ain't letting out anything."

"He'd probably like that," said Dr. Dodson. "Likes to get his picture in the papers. If I didn't think you'd suffer enough without it, I'd file a complaint against you with the county commissioners."

"You will, hey?" The sheriff jumped to his feet. "Hop right to it! Go ahead and see if I give a dang."

"We'll see," Dodson nodded, grimly. "Meanwhile, I'm going to take this boy to my clinic and put him to bed."

"You are, huh? He ain't going anywhere."

"Very well. He needs rest and medical attention. I've said so. These gentlemen are my witnesses. And I'll tell you something, Summers-" He slammed on his hat. "Don't betoo surprised if you find them testifying against you on a charge of murder by criminal neglect."

"Pshaw." The sheriff's eyes wavered. "How come he gets around like he's been doin' if he's so sick? You can't tell me-"

"I could but I doubt that you'd understand… Coming, Phil?"

Well…

I went to the clinic.

The doctor checked me over from head to foot, shaking his head and grunting now and then in a kind of baffled way. Then he gave me a shot glass of some yellowish stuff, and three hypodermic injections, one in each hip and the other right over my heart; and I went to sleep.

But Sheriff Summers still hadn't given up. He posted a deputy on my door at the clinic that night. And the next morning, around eleven, he came in and threw some more questions at me.

He didn't look like he'd got much sleep. I'd have bet dough that Mrs. Summers had eaten him out to a fare-you-well.

He was still at it, going through the motions of playing cop, when Kendall showed up. Kendall spoke to him pleasantly. He suggested that they take a little walk, and they left together.

I grinned and lighted a cigarette. Kendall was starting to earn his money, if he hadn't already earned it. It was the first real chance he'd had to get the sheriff alone.

The next thing he'd do, now…

The rest and the stuff the doctor had given me seemed to have perked me up quite a bit. And I guess a guy always fights best just before he's through fighting. I didn't think I could beat The Man-no one ever beat The Man-but I figured I could give him plenty of trouble. It might be a year or two before he could hunt me down, and if I could hold out that long… well. Maybe I could find the place or the thing or whatever it was I'd always been looking for,

I had almost five hundred dollars-more in the bank in Arizona, but I might as well forget about that. With five hundred bucks and a good car-and there was a drop in Philly where I could turn that car fast for another one-well, it was worth a try. I couldn't lose anything.

… It was almost two o'clock when Kendall came back. And! was sure of what he was going to say, but he led into it so gradually that I almost got unsure.

Mrs. Winroy had gone to New York, he said. Her sister had taken sick and she'd had to leave suddenly.

"Poor woman. I've never seen her quite so agitated."

"That's too bad," I said, wanting to laugh so bad it hurt me. She'd probably worry herself to death before they could get to her. "When is she coming back?"

"She wasn't able to say. I gathered, however, that it might be quite some time."

"Well," I said, "that's certainly too bad."

"Yes. Particularly with nothing better than Winroy to depend on. I wanted to talk to him-straighten out our accounts since Mrs. Winroy isn't available, but Ruthie hasn't seen anything of him since lunchtime and he's not at his shop. I suppose, now that the last restraining influence is gone, he intends to get drunk and stay drunk."

I nodded. And waited. He went on.

"An awkward situation. Poor Ruthie; it's really a tragedy in her case. There's no other place she can get a job, and, with Mrs. Winroy gone indefinitely, she can't stay there. I'd like to help her, but-uh-a man my age, giving financial assistance to a girl who obviously could not repay it I'm afraid it would do her more harm than good."

"She's dropping out of school?"

"I'm afraid there's no alternative. She seems to be bearing up very well, I'm happy to say."

"Well," I said. "It looks like we-like you'll have to be finding another place to live."

"Uh, yes. Yes, I suppose I will. Uh-er-incidentally, Mr. Bigelow, the sheriff is satisfied to-uh-abandon this Winroy matter. I've brought your clothes from the bakery, your pay to date also since it seemed doubtful in view of your health, and-uh-the situation in general-that you would care to continue there."

"I see," I said. "I understand."

"About Sheriff Summers, Mr. Bigelow. His attitude is by no means as compromising as I would like to have it. I suspect that he would need only the slightest pretext, if any, to-uh-cause you serious embarrassment."

I thought it over; rather I appeared to be thinking it over. I laughed, kind of hurt, and said, "It looks like I'm out of luck all the way around, Mr. Kendall. No place to live. No job. The sheriff all set to make trouble. The-I don't suppose the college will be exactly happy to have me around either."

"Well-uh-as a matter of fact-"

"It's all right," I said. "I don't blame them a bit."

He shook his head sympathetically, clucking his tongue a few times. Then he looked up sharply, eyes sparkling, and came out with it. As though it had just then popped into his mind.

"Mr. Bigelow! This may turn out to be a stroke of good fortune in disguise! You can go up to my place in Canada for a few months, use the time for studying and rebuilding your health. Then, when all this business is forgotten-"

"Gosh," I said. "You mean you'd still be willing to-?"

"Certainly, I would! Now, most of all. Of course, we'll have to see what the doctor has to say about you, but-"

… The doctor didn't like it much. He fussed quite a bit, particularly when he found out that I wanted to leave town that day. But Kendall fussed right back, calling him a pessimist and so on. Then he took him to one side, explaining, I guess, that I didn't have much choice about leaving. So…

We drove to the house in Kendall's car, me driving since he didn't like to. He asked me if I'd mind driving Ruthie to her folks' farm on my way, and I said I wouldn't mind at all.

I stopped in front of the house, and we stood at the side of the car for a few minutes, talking but not getting much said.

"By the way, Mr. Bigelow," he said, hesitantly, "I know I've seemed inexcusably dictatorial during our all too brief acquaintance. I'm sure there must have been a great many times when you must have felt like telling me to mind my own business."

"Oh, no," I said. "Not at all, Mr. Kendall."

"Oh, yes." He smiled at me. "And I'm afraid my reasons were extremely selfish ones. Do you believe in immortality, Mr. Bigelow? In the broadest sense of the word, that is? Well, let me simply say then that I seem to have done almost none of the many things which I had planned on doing in this tearful vale. They are still there in me, waiting to be done, yet the span of time for their doing has been exhausted. I… But listen to me, will you?" He chuckled embarrassedly, his eyes blinking behind their glasses. "I didn't think myself capable of such absurd poeticism!"

"That's all right," I said, slowly, and a kind of chill crept over me. "What do you mean your span-"

I was looking straight into him, through him and out the other side, and all I could see was a prim, fussy old guy. That was all I could see, because that was all there was to see. He wasn't working for The Man. He never had been.

"… so little time, Mr. Bigelow. None to waste on preliminaries. Everything that could be done for you had to be done quickly."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I said. "For Christ's sake, why-"

"Tsk, tsk, Mr. Bigelow. Fret you with the irremediable? Place yet another boulder in yOur already rocky path? There is nothing to be done about it. I am dying and that is that."

"But I… if you'd only told me!"

"I only tell you now because it is unavoidable. As I have indicated in the past, I am not exactly a pauper. I wanted you to be in a position to understand when you heard from my attorneys."

I couldn't say anything. I couldn't even see the way my eyes were stinging and burning. Then he grabbed my hand and shook it, and his grip almost made me holler.

"Dignity, Mr. Bigelow! I insist on it. If you must be mawkish, at least wait until I… I-"

He let go of me, and when my eyes cleared he was gone.

I opened the gate to the yard, wondering how I could have been so wrong. But there really wasn't much to wonder about. I'd picked him because I didn't want to pick the logical person. The person who could do everything he could, and who had a lot better reason for doing it… Ruthie.

I wasn't particularly quiet going into the house, so I guess she heard me, even if she didn't let on. The drapes to the living room were pulled back and her bedroom door was open, and I stood watching her, braced against the end of the bedstead, as she pulled on her clothes.

I looked her over, a little at a time, as though she wasn't one thing but many, as though she wasn't one woman but a thousand, all women. And then my eyes settled on that little foot with its little ankle, and everything else seemed to disappear. And I thought:

"Well, how could I? How can you admit you're screwing yourself?"

She put on her brassiere and her slip before she took notice of me. She let out a gasp and said, "Oh, C-Carl! I didn't-"

"About ready?" I said. "I'll drive you out to your folks."

"C-Carl, I-I-"

She came toward me, slowly, rocking on her crutch. "I want to go with you, Carl! I don't care what you've-I don't care about anything! Just so I can be with you."

"Yeah," I said. "I know. You were always afraid I'd go away, weren't you? You were willing to do anything you could to keep me here. Help me with the school, sleep with me… be Johnny-on-the-spot if I needed you for anything. And you couldn't leave either, could you, Ruthie? You couldn't lose your job."

"Take me, Carl! You've got to. take me with you!"

I wasn't sure yet. So I said, "Well, go on and get ready. We'll see."

Then, I went upstairs to my room.

I packed my two suitcases. I turned back a corner of the carpet and picked up a carbon copy of the note I'd sent to the sheriff.

For, naturally, I had sent the note. I'd meant to tell Ruthie about the carbon afterwards so that she could take credit for the tip and claim the rewards.

I hadn't had anything to lose, as I saw it. I couldn't help myself, so I'd tried to help her. The person who might wind up as I had if she didn't have help.

I hesitated a moment, turning the slip of paper around in my fingers. But it was no good now. They'd muffed their chance to catch me in the act of attempting to kill Jake Winroy, and I figured there was at least one damned good reason why they'd never get another one.

I figured that way, but I wanted to make sure. I burned the carbon in an ashtray, and crossed the hall tojake's room.

I stood at the side of his bed, looking down. At him and the note Ruthie had written.

It was stupid; no one would believe that Jake had tried to attack her and she'd done it in self-defense. But, well, I could understand. The whole setup had been falling apart. Ruthie had to do it fast if at all. And I guess if a person is willing to do a thing like that, then he's stupid to begin with and it's bound to crop out on him sooner or later.

It was all wrong. The Man wouldn't like it. And getting me for him wouldn't help her any. She had to latch onto me now, of course; and you get stupider and stupider the farther you go. But excuses didn't cut any ice with The Man. He picked you because you were stupid; he made you stupid, you might say. But if you slipped up, you did it. And you got what The Man gave people who slipped.

It was done, though, and me, I was done, too. So nothing mattered now but to let her go on hoping. As long as she could hope…

I took one last look at Jake before I left the room. Ruthie had almost sawed his throat out with one of his own razors. Scared, you know, and scared not to. Angry because she was scared. It looked a lot like the job I'd done on Fruit Jar.

21

I'd never seen the place, just the road that led up to it; and I'd only seen that the one time years before when that writer had driven me by on the way to the train. But I didn't have any trouble finding it again. The road was grown high with weeds, and in some places long vines had spread across it from the bare-branched trees on either side.

The road sloped up from the Vermont highway, then down again, so that unless you were right there, right on top of them, you couldn't see the house and the farm buildings. Ruth looked at me pretty puzzled a time or two, but she didn't ask any questions. I ran the car into the garage and closed the doors, and we walked back toward the house.

There was a sign fastened to the gate. It said:

BEWARE OF WILD GOATS

"The Way of the Trespasser is Hard"

And there was a typewritten notice

tacked to the back door:

Departed for parts unknown. Will supply forwarding address, if, when, and as soon as possible.

The door was unlocked. We went in,

I looked all through the house, by myself mostly because the stairs were steep and narrow and Ruthie couldn't have got around so good. I went through room after room, and he wasn't there, of course, no one was there, and everything was covered with dust but everything was in order. All the rooms were in order but one, a little tiny one way off by itself on the second floor. And except for the way the typewriter was ripped apart, even that one had a kind of order about it.

The furniture was all pushed back against the wall, and there was nothing in the bookcases but the covers of books. The pages of them and God knows how many other pages- typewritten ones that hadn't been made into books-had been torn up like confetti. And the confetti was stacked in little piles all over the floor. Arranged into letters and words:

And the Lord World so loved the god that It gave him Its only begotten son, and thenceforth He was driven from the Garden and Judas wept, saying, Verily I abominate onions yet I can never refuse them.

I kicked the piles of paper apart, and went downstairs.

We moved in, and stayed.

There was case after case of canned goods in the cellar. There was a drum of coal oil for the lamps and the two stoves. There was a water well with an inside pump at the sink. There wasn't any electricity or telephone or radio or anything like that; we were shut off from everything, as though we were in another world. But we had everything else, and ourselves. So we stayed.

The days drifted by, and I wondered what she was waiting for. And there was nothing to do… except what could be done with ourselves. And I seemed to be shrinking more and more, getting weaker and littler while she got stronger and bigger. And I began to think maybe she was going to do it that way.

Some nights, afterwards, when I wasn't too weak and sick to do it, I'd stand at the window, staring out at the fields with their jungle of weeds and vines. The wind rippled through them, making them sway and wiggle and squirm. And there was a howling and a shrieking in my ears-but after while it went away. Everywhere, everywhere I looked, the jungle swayed and wiggled and squirmed. It shook that thing at me. There was something sort of hypnotic about it, and I'd still be weak and sick, but I wouldn't notice it. There wouldn't be a thing in my mind but that thing, and I'd wake her up again. And then it was like I was running a race, I was trying to get to something, get something, before the howling came back. Because when I heard that I had to stop.

But all I ever got was that thing. Not the other, whatever the other was.

The goats always won.

22

The days drifted by, and she knew that I knew, of course, but we never talked about it. We never talked about anything much because we were cut off from everything, and after a while everything was said that we could say and it would have been like talking to yourself. So we talked less and less, and pretty soon we were hardly talking at all. And then we weren't talking at all. Just grunting and gesturing and pointing at things.

It was like we'd never known how to talk.

It began to get pretty cold, so we shut off all the upstairs rooms and stayed downstairs. And it got colder and we shut off all the rooms but the living room and the kitchen. And it got colder and we shut off all the rooms but the kitchen. We lived there, never more than a few feet away from each other. It was always right close by, that thing was, and outside… it was out there too. It seemed to edge in closer and closer, from all sides, and there was no way to get away from it. And I didn't want to get away. I kept getting weaker and littler, but I couldn't stop. There was nothing else to think about, so I kept taking that thing. I'd go for it fast, trying to win the race against the goats. And I never did, but I kept on trying. I had to.

Afterwards, when the howling began to get so bad I couldn't stand it, I'd go outside looking for the goats. I'd go running and screaming and clawing my way through the fields, wanting to get my hands on just one of them. And I never did, of course, because the fields weren't really the place to find the goats.

23

I couldn't eat much of anything. The basement was loaded with food and whiskey, but I had a hard time getting any down. I'd eaten less and less ever since that first day when I'd raised up the trap door that was set flush with the kitchen floor and gone down the steep narrow steps.

I'd gone down them, taking a lantern with me, and I'd looked all along the shelves, packed tight with bottles and packages and canned goods. I'd circled around the room, looking, and I came to a sort of setback in the walls-a doorless closet, kind of. And the entrance to it was blocked off, stacked almost to the ceiling with empty bottles.

I wondered why in hell they'd been dumped there instead of outside, because it would be stupid of a guy to drink the stuff upstairs, where he naturally would drink it, and then bring the bottles back down here. As long as he was up there, why hadn't he…?

24

I said we never talked, but we did. We talked all the time to the goats. I talked to them while she slept and she talked to them while I slept. Or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, I did my share of talking.

I said we lived in the one room, but we didn't. We lived in all the rooms, but they were all the same. And wherever we were the goats were always there. I couldn't ever catch them but I knew they were there. They'd come up out of the fields and moved in with us, and sometimes I'd almost get my hands on them but they always got away. She'd get in my way before I could grab them.

I thought and I thought about it, and finally I knew how it must be. They'd been there all along. Right there, hiding inside of her. So it wasn't any wonder I could never win the race.

I knew they were in her, where else could they be, but I had to make sure. And I couldn't.

I couldn't touch her. She didn't sleep with me any more. She ate a lot, enough for two people, and sometimes in the morning she vomited.

It was right after the vomiting started that she began walking. I mean, really walking, not using the crutch.

She'd tuck her dress up around her waist, so that it wouldn't be in the way, and walk back and forth on one knee and that little foot. She got to where she could walk pretty good. She'd hold her good foot up behind her with one hand, making a stump out of the knee. it came just about even, then, with that little baby foot and she could get around pretty fast.

She'd walk for an hour at a time with her dress tucked up and everything she had showing, but you'd never have known I was there from the way she acted. She..

Hell, she talked to me. She explained to me. We'd been talking all the time, and not to the goats either, because of course there weren't any goats, and…

She walked on the little foot, exercising the goats. And at night they sat on my chest howling.

25

I stayed in the basement as much as I could. She couldn't get me down there. She wasn't good enough on that little foot and knee to come down the stairs. And somehow I had to hang on.

The last race was over, and I'd lost them all, but still I hung on. I seemed to be right on the point of finding something… of finding out something. And until I did I couldn't leave.

I found out one evening when I was coming up out of the basement. I came even with the floor and turned sideways on the steps, putting down the stuff I'd brought up. And I'd brought a pretty big load because I didn't want to come up any more often than I had to; and I was kind of dizzy. I leaned my arms on the floor, steadying myself. And then my eyes cleared, and there was the little foot and leg right in front of me. Braced.

The axe flashed. My hand, my right hand, jumped and kind of leaped away from me, sliced off clean. And she swung again and all my left hand was gone but the thumb. She moved in closer, raising the axe for another swing.

And so, at last, I knew.

26

Back there. Back to the place I'd come from. And, hell, I'd never been wanted there to begin with.

"… but where else, my friend? Where a more logical retreat in this tightening circle of frustration?"

She was swinging wild. My right shoulder was hanging by a thread, and the spouting forearm dangled from it. And my scalp, my scalp and the left side of my face was dangling, and… and I didn't have a nose… or a chin… or…

I went over backwards, then down and down and down, turning so slowly in the air it seemed that I was hardly moving. I didn't know it when I hit the bottom. I was simply there, looking up as I'd been looking on the way down.

Then there was a slam and a click, and she was gone.

27

The darkness and myself. Everything else was gone. And the little that was left of me was going, faster and faster.

I began to crawl. I crawled and rolled and inched my way along; and I missed it the first time-the place I was looking for.

I circled the room twice before I found it, and there was hardly any of me then but it was enough. I crawled up over the pile of bottles, and went crashing down the other side.

And he was there, of course.

Death was there.

28

And he smelled good.

About the Author

James Meyers Thompson was born in Anadarko, Oklahoma, in 1906. He began writing fiction at a very young age, selling his first story to True Detective when he was only fourteen. In all, Jim Thompson wrote twenty-nine novels and two screenplays (for the Stanley Kubrick films The Killing and Paths of Glory). Films based on his novels include: Coup de Torchon (Pop. 1280), Serie Noire (A Hell of a Woman), The Getaway, The Killer Inside Me, The Grifters, and After Dark, My Sweet.