XVIII

On the night when Shine told Jinx and Bubber the story of the battle of Jericho, he had no sooner left Pat’s than another argument was on. Hitherto, Jinx and Bubber’s nocturnal enmity had always ended at least without catastrophe; tonight catastrophe descended upon them, and the thing which each sought to divert by the very extravagance of his quarrel was by the same extravagance rendered inevitable. Tonight they came to blows.

Jinx started it.

“There now, you dumb Oscar,” he said to Bubber with great relish, in a voice that carried throughout Pat’s barroom.

“There now whut, jackass?”

“Didn’ I tell y’?”

“You ain’t tole me nuthin’⁠—and if you did, it ’twasn’t nuthin’ nohow.”

“I tole you⁠—” Jinx spaced his words for emphasis, “that nex’ thing we knowed she’d have ’im goin’ in d’ main door of d’ church⁠—and whut ’d you say? ‘Aw no. Ain’ no gal go’n’ do nuthin’ like that to that boogy. Hard boogy, he is.’ Thass whut you said. Yea. And look. He comes in and tells us ev’ything d’ damn preacher said. Don’ leave out nuthin’.”

“That don’ prove he went in d’ main door,” argued Bubber with overacted patience. “He could ’a’ come down through d’ skylight f’ all I know.”

“Like a big black angel, I s’pose?” said Jinx and grinned with surrounding laughter.

“Yea⁠—or a long-laigged, speckle-face giraffe,” retorted Bubber, swelling.

Jinx grew sombre. “That’s d’ trouble with a li’l round black hippo like you. All give and no take. When you kid me I kin take it. When I kid you you can’t.”

“You don’ seem to be taken’ that so good,” said Bubber. “Don’ nobody git no madder’n you do.”

“No?⁠—look at y’ now. ’Bout to bus’ open and spatter d’ whole bar room with ink.”

“I kin remember,” Bubber returned, “when you didn’ act like nobody’s long lost brother. Never will fo’get that night you got so mad you started slippin’ me in d’ dozens.”

This was approaching dangerous ground, this reference to their own reactions. To quarrel over subjects in general was bad enough; to quarrel over each other might be disastrous. It brought them closer to the truth about themselves, yet not quite close enough; it did not reach the actual sore, it only lifted off the scab.

“Well you oughter been slipped,” Jinx said. “Any bird can’t take kiddin’ no better’n that needs to be kidded and kidded hard.”

The customary comments accompanied this discourse:

“Tell ’em ’bout it!”

“That means fight in my home.”

“Grease us twice!”

“They jes’ foolin’. If they meant it they’d both be daid by now.”

“Me, I’m bettin’ on Long Boy. He’ll wrap hisself ’round Squatty and squeeze all th’ ambition out’n ’im.”

Bubber challenged, “Well⁠—you better not slip me ag’in.”

“No?” said Jinx like a small boy who has been dared to knock off the chip. “No? Well⁠—yo’ granddaddy was a mule⁠—Now⁠—what you got to say ’bout that?”

Bubber said nothing. Instead he moved toward Jinx with surprising ease and mysterious rapidity and suddenly Jinx doubled forward from the force of an almost invisible blow to the midriff. “What you go’n’ say ’bout that?” Bubber asked, looking belligerently up into Jinx’s astounded face.

Not quite certain whether this was serious or make-believe, Jinx reached mechanically forward and gathered Bubber’s neck and shoulders in an embrace usually reserved for pianos. Failing to twist himself free, Bubber began swinging away at the other’s kidneys, and in a moment the tussle removed from the atmosphere all suggestion of possible jest.

“Look a yeh!” somebody gasped.

“They ain’t roughin’ sho’ nuff, is they?”

“They ain’ playin’ hopscotch.”

“Well, ain’t this sump’m?”

But before either could damage the other, Pat, who was an excellent manager and always at the spot that needed him most, had heard the commotion from the next room and hurried to the scene. Pat was not bad with his hands himself, and it is significant that with apparent ease he managed quickly to separate them.

“What the hell you think this is?” he inquired, as for a moment they stood off from each other glaring.

“Jes’ git out d’ way, thass all,” said one.

“He been cryin’ fo’ it⁠—now he gon’ git it,” vowed the other.

“Not here he ain’t,” Pat decided. “Look,” he pointed, “Y’all see that door? All right. I told y’ once before the nex’ time you wanted to settle sump’n I was go’n’ put you in the cellar and let the best man come up.” He strode to the door, unlocked and opened it, and pressed a button. “Come on, if you mean it⁠—Come on.”

Neither was willing to admit that he did not mean it, and in another moment the gaping bystanders saw them disappear through the cellar door, which Pat promptly closed behind them.

“Well, what do y’ know ’bout that?”

“Ain’t this a dog?”

“Salty dog, I mean.”

“Damn if d’ worm ain’t turned.”

“Yea⁠—but which a one is d’ worm?”

The bystanders crowded about the door, listening. Pat, grinning, kept his hand on the knob, his ear against the panel. The others pressed forward: a lean black boy as tall as Pat, with tight slick skin and wide, white, shifting eyes; a thin, short tan-skinned lad of twenty, with a sharp face half hidden by a voluminous, lopsided cap; a paunchy old brown fellow in shirt sleeves and suspenders, with puffed cheeks and rolling pop-eyes; a long, thin, senilely crouching grandad with the complexion of a mummy and a gloating, toothless grin; a parchment-covered gambler, a tea-colored card-shark, a khaki-skinned pickpocket easing one hand into a pompous racing-man’s pocket, a dozen others, all surging forward, all listening with arched brows or grins of relish. This was gonna be good, this was. Them two guys meant blood.

Most of these, hearing nothing, presently fell back commenting:

“Bet on the long boy!”

“Give you odds.”

“Don’ tell me⁠—that jasper can fight.”

“Squatty’ll wear him down, though.”

“I knowed they’d ask f’ each other sooner or later⁠—”

“Too bad now.”

“Thass the reason I never kid nobody⁠—might have to make him take it, see?”

“Wonder if they’ll cut?”

“Can’t tell what a guy’ll do when he’s losin’.”

“Who’ll move pianers tomorrer?”

“Better git yo’ mop out, Pat.”

“Anybody sent for the ambulance?”

“Ain’ got a chance in the world⁠—”

“Five bucks says he is⁠—”

“Who⁠—String-bean?”

“Put yo’ money wha’ yo’ mouth is⁠—”

It seemed an endless time, but nobody’s eyes left the door for long. Stories suggested by the present affair began to be told, sudden gusts and flurries of laughter swept the room. Argument ensued over the nature of the quarrel⁠—How had it begun? So⁠—The hell it had⁠—it was like this⁠—Good thing: those two were a constant pain in the what’s-a-name with their continuous quarrel. Over a woman, hey? Huh⁠—jes’ goes to show y’⁠—

Pat was called away from his post by some duty in the pool room. He made sure the cellar door was locked and went about his business, promising to return in time for the rest of the fun.

Another long wait followed⁠—Hear anything? Not a damn thing. Fools must’a gone down there and kilt each other. Remember the night Sam Tyler and Joe West got hooked up? Yea. Waitin’, they was, in the same hotel. The head waiter give Sam a check that should ’a’ been Joe’s, so Joe was sore to start with. Well the man ordered Washington pie, see? You know⁠—that white stuff with whoop’ cream all over it. And Sam brought chocolate pie by mistake. So the fay man looked up at Sam, he did, and turned up his nose, like, and says, “Waiter, I ordered George. You’ve brought me Booker.” Well, Joe heard it and when he got through kiddin’ Sam ’bout it, ’twasn’t nothin’ left for ’em to do but fight. Brother, I mean, neither one of ’em ever got over that scrap.⁠—Judas Priest⁠—it’s been three-quarters of an hour! Nary a sound. Better get Pat⁠—thought he was coming back so soon? He was, but he got in a argument with Boody Mullins over a protection-fee. Well, let’s go get him for Chris’ sake⁠—them two damn fools may be tricklin’ all over the floor by now.⁠ ⁠…

Patmore came hurriedly in from the pool room, flanked by the two who’d summoned him. He paused a moment to listen, his ear against the door. “I hear sump’n,” he said. “Wonder is⁠—?” and at once unlocked and opened the door.

Everyone had pressed forward behind Pat, but now they all fell back, and as a lane opened through their midst, Jinx was seen framed in the doorway. He was swaying a little from side to side even though he attempted to steady himself against the door frame, and there was a far-off vacancy in his eyes that made him seem completely unaware of those who stood and stared at him. No one said anything, no one moved to help him, as he relinquished his support and started uncertainly forward.

He took four or five grotesque tottering steps, then his legs and feet seemed to get all tangled like those of a fly trying to escape sticky paper, and rather slowly, he sank to the floor and lay crumpled in a twisted, senseless heap.

Pat, who alone of all the onlookers could afford to take an active hand in this matter, started toward that crumpled heap. A sound behind him brought him up short and he turned with the others to see the short broad form of Bubber come into and through the doorway.

Bubber looked decidedly dazed, yet not so much so as had Jinx, and the unsteadiness of his bearing was somewhat modified by his rotundity. His progress through the crowd toward his prone enemy resembled that of a pool ball through a scattered field of its fellows, kissing first this one then that and accordingly zigzagging forward from side to side; like the other balls, his fellows each withdrew a little at each glancing impact, not one extending a supporting hand or revealing a sympathetic impulse. Even Pat did not offer to catch him when he reached Jinx’s figure, tripped over Jinx’s feet, and fell across Jinx’s body.

Then curious things happened.

Jinx, roused by the jolt of Bubber’s fall, stirred drowsily with a movement that rolled Bubber off to one side, and Bubber was heard to murmur stupidly, “Ain’ nuthin’ to fight about, boogy. Ain’t you my boy?”

Pat called abruptly to a bystander for help, and together they reached down and raised Jinx to his feet. He opened his eyes for a moment, then, as if realizing the futility of trying to see anything, allowed his heavy lids to drop again. They got him on to a chair and his head sagged limply forward.

As they were in the act of turning to render similar assistance to Bubber something halted them half-about and they exchanged puzzled and apprehensive looks. Everyone exchanged similar glances with his neighbor, gazed at Jinx’s sagging form in a fear that grew into conviction; for in that moment the something happened again, as if to substantiate itself by repetition: A shudder took hold on Jinx’s body, shook it from below upwards, halted in his throat with a little choking sound that seemed almost to break his neck.

“Death rattle⁠—Jesus⁠—!” somebody muttered. One or two peripheral observers near the door eased stealthily out. “Ain’ goin’ be no witness in no murder case⁠—no suh.”

Scowling, Pat stepped forward, seized Jinx’s shoulder, shook him, called him, pushed up his lids with a thumb. Each lid, released, drooped slowly resolutely shut. Pat frisked Jinx’s clothing, palpated him, searched swiftly but futilely for the wound that must have been dealt; swung around to find Bubber on hands and knees trying to rise, laid hold and yanked him to his feet. Bubber stood teetering like an exercising-ball, stared sleepily about, said, “Where-my-boy?” and unceremoniously sat down unanswered. Pat strode through the cellar door and disappeared down the stairs.

Somebody now searched Bubber for a weapon, and somebody else said Pat had gone to find it. Periodically a spasmodic shudder almost jerked Jinx off his chair. Nobody seemed to know what to do, everyone was helpless.

“Must a strangled ’im, huh?”

“Seem like it⁠—chokes off his breath.”

“Jes’ goes to show y’⁠—”

Presently Pat returned and came into the circle with ominous deliberateness. He stood for a moment looking down on the helpless pair, nodding his head in mingled conviction and disgust. Then he held up what he had found downstairs, a round quart bottle with perhaps a half-inch of whiskey left in its bottom.

“Give it to Jinx,” urged a bystander. “Might stop that rattle yet⁠—”

“Rattle, hell,” said Pat. “That jigaboo ain’t got a thing but the hiccups.” He set the bottle on the bar counter with a sarcastic thump. “That,” he growled glumly, “is the only damn thing they hit. They found a case.”