Nillmon harldy looks at the old man,
but breaks through the door leading to
the rear of the store which is part of a
series of rooms. The top of the house
looms in the back. “Where’s Gus, Pop?”
he asked the old man. “A nigger just
about ready to git hisself gutted.”
“What nigger?” Pop asks, throwing the
rags in the corner. “What’s his name?”
Nillmon moves toward the house as the
old man hollers, “Gus! Get out here!”
Before Nillmon can ascend a long row
of rickety wooden steps up to a screened
porch, a figure appears in the screenless
doorway. Girlish laughter rises and falls,
and the figure, struggling with arms
around his waist, yells, “What the hell
you want?”
“Call Sheriff Vacy.”
“Where’s this nigger?” Gus asks. His
words are clear and precise.
“Out at Canebrake….A nigger named
Alfonso, a big black sucker.”
The figure of a blonde girl stands now
in the doorway at the top of the steps.
She straightens out her clothing.
Pop limps toward her. “I’m goin call
Vacy,” he mutters. “Gus, I’m callin
Vacy, you hear?”
“Yeah,”Nillmon hollers, “and tell him
we’re pickin up Ed Frickerson.”
“Naw we ain’t.” Gus examines Nillmon’s
pistol. They both take drinks from the
bottle and slam the doors.
“Where’s the nigger at?” asks the old
man, limping out with a bundle of oily
rags. “I’m callin everybody.”
“Canebrake…nigger name Alfonso…”
“It’s me,Gus.”Nillmon approaches.
“Canebrake?”
“Who?”
“You comin?”
“Goddammit, it’s me.” He doesn’t
advance anymore. “A nigger just
bricked my car. I’m goin to get him.”
“There ain’t no niggers livin in them
shacks.”
Gus looks at the bottle, clears his throat
and takes a long swallow. He hands it
to Nillmon who finishes it.
“There is now, and there’s gonna be one
less come sunup.”
“Them Canebrake shacks is haunted,
I’m tellin you. Niggers ain’t live in them
since the flood back in…you member,
Gus?” the old man says, limping toward
the car. Then he whispers, “The time
the nigger woman put hoodoo on
Vacy’s papa…”
“Shut up, Pop!”
The old man mumbles.
Nillmon races the motor and jerks the
cold car off in a cloud of dust. Down
the road, just before they turn off,
Nillmon flings his arm out the window
and the bottle crashes on the road.
They pick up Ed Frickerson about ten
miles later at a town cafe. They get
another bottle and circle the town
picking up two younger men. Then
Nillmon aims the car down the road
toward the levee.The faint red crown
of the sun is the only thing left of day.
“Vacy’s over in Huntsville,” says Ed
Frickerson. He is ruddy-faced,
thick-necked, round-nosed, with a
permanent smile wrinkling down
his whiskered face.
“I’m the goddam deputy, ain’t I, Gus?”
says Nillmon, spitting out the window.
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
After about three miles on the flat
straight road, the light becomes a
filling station.Nillmon runs in. An old
man with one leg is wiping his hands
on greasy rags. “And just whar you
been last two weeks? Drunk?”
As if Nillmon had spoken something
he had been waiting for,Gus, a short
wiry man of about thirty years, freezes.
He pushes the retreating arms away
from his body, tosses his left hand in
the air as a signal, and begins a slow
deliberate descent. Nillmon turns and
walks past the old man.
17
Suddenly he slows the car, leaps out
and looks over the countryside. “I
shoulda taught that sombitch a lesson,”
he mutters to himself.When he puts the
pistol back in the glove compartment,
he brings out the b ottle and takes a
long drink.