XXIV
Whenever a caller told Fred Merrit an unanticipated story, he whirled about in his swivel chair, jumped up and walked to the window. This he did now, as soon as Shine stopped talking. For a long time he stood looking down on the Avenue.
“Well,” he said at last, “I’ll be tarred and feathered if that isn’t the damnedest—”
His office commanded a corner. On the curb two portly well dressed idlers stood in leisurely conversation; they proclaimed their important opinions to all and sundry. A thin, hunched, hungry-eyed vagabond nearby watched them in ominous silence. A boy with yellow hair and the fairest of skin came slowly up the street, leading an aged, black, gray-bearded blind beggar.
“Can you imagine it? A Negro—using white prejudice to cover what he wanted to do—putting the blame in the most likely spot—almost getting away with it, too—Can you beat that?”
Merrit came back, sat down in his chair and shook his head. “So it wasn’t Miss Cramp after all—I swear I thought it was she. Well—” he showed himself true to his race hate—“it isn’t because she wouldn’t have done it if she could.” He banged his fist on the desk. “I’d bet the insurance on that house that Patmore just beat her to it.”
“Insurance?”
“Yes sir.”
“Mean the house had life insurance on it?”
Merrit laughed. “Yes. Not a bad name for it.”
“Mean you didn’ lose nothin’?”
“Well, not as much as you’d think to look at the place.”
“Well—but when I seen you in there—”
“Yes—I know. I had been out of town overnight—just got back that afternoon. It was quite a shock—but it wasn’t the house. Not altogether. That is—the picture, you see, wasn’t insured—can’t replace that.”
“That’s too bad,” said Shine.
“Got to admit he was wise,” Merrit mused. “Sent several of those warnings. Wise. Rather admire that chap really. And I swear I’m sorry it wasn’t the fays.”
“Well—” Shine rose—“jes’ thought you’d like to know the whole story.”
“Wait a minute—where you going?”
“Goin’ to look for a job,” Shine grinned. “Old man Isaacs bumped off this time. Business for sale.”
“Sit down. Let’s have a drink.” Merrit produced part of a pint and they drank, rat and dickty, as equals.
The drink gave Merrit a thought:
“You know what killed old man what’s-his-name? Your boss?”
“Bad heart.”
“Yea. And bad news: when he heard you busted my piano. You’re a hell of a mover.”
“No lie,” Shine admitted. “But the next guy won’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Yes, he will.”
“Huh?”
“Keep your jumper on—I’m the next guy.”
“Say, it gets you quick, don’t it?”
“What?”
“The liquor.”
“I’ll be on my feet when they haul you out, my boy. This isn’t whiskey talk. Listen.”
Shine listened. He owed Merrit a piano, so it was to Merrit’s advantage to get him employed. On the other hand, Merrit owed him—or the girl, maybe—something more. Nothing but the grace of God had stayed Shine’s hand the evening he stood behind him, intent on murder. All right. Here was the idea: Here was a business. Shine knew that business, didn’t he? Been in it five years now. Why the hell couldn’t he run it, then? He ran it when the old man was sick, didn’t he? Suppose Merrit bought it—easy—only a one-truck moving business—and turned it over to Shine to run? Fifty-fifty on the profits with an option to purchase outright in due time. That’s what we Negroes need, a business class, an economic backbone. What kind of a social structure can anybody have with nothing but the extremes—bootblacks on one end and doctors on the other. Nothing in between. No substance. Everybody wants to quit waiting table and start writing prescriptions right away. Well, here’s a chance for you and a good investment for me. Race proposition, too. How ’bout it?
Shine had no word to say, so suddenly had this thing come.
“All you put up is experience,” Merrit said. “You’ve got your own hoisting license, haven’t you? You and that girl can hit it off sooner, maybe—she’s out to the country-place now, by the way. And there you are. Well, what’s the holdup? How about it?”
Even now that Shine saw Merrit meant it, all he could manage to utter was “Gee—!”