III

Joshua Jones, whom his fellows called Shine, came out of his reverie, to observe the return of Jinx and Bubber, arm in arm and quite happily drunk.

“This yeh freckle-face giraffe, he’s a good boogy,” Bubber declared. “Good boogy⁠—yassuh. He’s my boy. Ain’t you my boy, biggy?”

“No lie,” Jinx agreed. “Tell ’im ’bout that licker we ruint.”

“Try some good licker,” Shine invited, turning the rest of his pint over to them. “Go ’head⁠—I got enough.”

“Jes’ had some good licker, I tell y’⁠—Pat saw us go⁠—”

“Y’all drink,” Shine ordered, “and let me do the talkin’.”

“Talk, then⁠—talk. Don’ nobody have to listen jes’ ’cause you talk. Talk.”

“I told y’all ’bout that Court Avenue job in the mornin’.”

“What d’ hell you so worried ’bout that job for?”

“Might have to get me some extra hands. Boss told me find somebody.”

There was quick and sober resentment on the part of Jinx and Bubber. “Extra hands⁠—fo’ whut? Ain’ no job too big fo’ us three.”

“Trouble, maybe,” Shine explained. “You know what’s happened already. Guy tried to move in on 149th Street, this winter and they dared ’em to take the stuff out of the van. Jes’ las’ month, four blocks from where we go tomorrow, somebody put dynamite under a shine that moved in on his hardness. Well, boss is making this dickty pay for risk this time, and we get a bonus, see? But we got to get the stuff in safe, else⁠—no bonus. And we got to keep our eyes open, or we may leave some of our hips right up there on that Court Avenue asphalt.”

“Won’t leave none o’ Jinx’s,” Bubber prophesied.

“How come?” challenged Jinx.

“ ’Cause you ain’ got none to leave, you doggone eel.”

“So be ready for anything,” Shine said. “Five bucks extra apiece if the junk gets in OK.”

“Well⁠—” Bubber was uncertain, “⁠—five bucks is five bucks, but they’s a lot mo’ five buckses loose in the world ’n they is hips. Look yeh.” He exhibited his own hips by drawing his coat in tight around the waist. “See them? It’s took me twenty-five years to git them. And you talkin’ ’bout lettin’ somebody throw dynamite at ’em fo’ five bucks. Huh. Man down at Coney Island once offered me ten bucks a day jes’ to let ’em throw baseballs at my haid⁠—and baseballs don’t explode.”

“Furthermo’,” Jinx added, “you could spare that haid. ’Twouldn’ be no loss whatsoever.”

“Point is,” said Shine, “five bucks or nothin’, I’m jes’ tellin’ y’ to be ready, see? If anybody bother us jes’ up and knock hell out ’n ’em, that’s all.”

“You a pretty hard boogy, Mr. Shine,” Bubber observed, “but I ain’t never see you knock the hell out ’n no dynamite.”

“Far as I’m concerned,” contributed Jinx, “I’m ready now⁠—to run. I been haulin’ furniture, and I been haulin’ pianos; but when they starts plantin’ dynamite, this baby’s gonna start haulin’ hind-parts!”

“Be the first honest haulin’ you ever done, too,” commented Bubber.

To Shine this banter was merely pledge of allegiance in case of crisis, assurance that the hiring of extra hands would in no event be necessary. Beneath the jests, the avowed fear, the merriment, was a characteristic irony, a typical disavowal of fact and repudiation of reality, a markedly racial tendency to make light of what actually was grave⁠—a tendency stressed in Jinx and Bubber by the habitual perversion of their own conduct toward each other. Members of another race might have said simply:

“What the hell do you think we are⁠—quitters?”

So between them they killed the rest of the pint and mourned its death with laughter.

Patmore returned, grinning.

“You two,” he directed Bubber and Jinx, “catch air. I got a bug to put in the big boy’s ear.” And when they had eventually obeyed, he went on to Shine: “Jes’ to show y’ they’s no hard feelin’s, I got a scheme that means bucks, and if you got two good eyes, you kin see how to make some of ’em.”

“They’s mo’ guys in jail for schemin’ than they is for bein’ blind.”

“Listen. You don’t specially like no dickties, do y’?”

“I ain’t none too fond o’ rats.”

“But dickties give you a very special pain, don’t they?”

“Lot’s o’ places. No lie.”

“Me too. Now that’s where you and I are alike, see?”

Shine’s silence admitted nothing; but Pat went on:

“Heard you say sumpin’ ’bout movin’ this dickty Merrit.”

“Did?”

“Yea. Now there’s a guy I can’t see with field glasses.”

“No?”

“No.⁠—Tell you sumpm’.” Pat looked about to be sure of privacy, leaned closer to the bar counter. “If Merrit died tomorrer⁠—I wouldn’ send ’im no flowers.”

“What you got ’gainst ’im?”

“Plenty.” There came a characteristic confidential twist to one side of Pat’s mouth. “He put me in some time back, see? Damage suit⁠—ten thousand berries. Hit a guy crossin’ the speedway⁠—knocked him f’ a gool, the dumbbell. Well⁠—it was pay off or see jail, and naturally I wasn’ go’n’ see jail. Coulda’ got out cheaper may be, on’y this bird Merrit wouldn’t listen to reason. Claim’ he was go’n’ bring in my occupation and lots o’ other stuff if I didn’ come clean⁠—forcin’ my hand, see? Knew I had cash and knew he could make me pay off by threatenin’ to squeal. I ought to ’a’ crowned him then, but he was too wise⁠—knew where to meet me and when. So all I could do was pay off. Ten thousand bucks to stay out o’ jail.”

“Ten thousand bucks wasted,” Shine said.

Pat misunderstood. “Yea,” he agreed. “Nothin’ to show for it. Know what I could ’a’ done with that much at that time?”

“What?”

“I could ’a’ bought in a fay neighborhood and held on for a price. I could ’a’ made fifteen thousand on that ten. Same as he’s doin’ now.”

“So now you figger on a comeback?”

Pat was almost reproachful. “ ’Course not⁠—that ain’t the kind o’ bird I am. Hell, I ain’t evil, Shine. Anyway th’ ain’ nothin’ I kin do ’bout it now anyhow, is they?”

“How’n hell do I know?”

“All I want is his trade, man. Bygones kin be bygones, far as I give a damn. Gittin’ even is woman’s stuff⁠—man don’ hold no grudges. But if I kin sell him and his friends licker regular, it’ll mean a lot to me, see?”

“Unscheme yo’ scheme, boogy.”

“Listen, I’m handlin’ a Canadian Club that’ll sell itself, no stuff. If I kin git him to sample it, he’ll take it⁠—order it for himself and recommend it to his friends. It’s bound to go big, see? But hyeh’s the thing: if he knows I sent it he’ll figure I’m tryin’ to poison him and be scared to touch it, see? Now I got half a case on hand he kin have and I got ten bucks you kin have if you deliver it along with his things in the mornin’.”

Shine’s brows lifted. “Yea?”

“Yea. You’re my agent, see? Only don’t tell him⁠—let him think you’re handlin’ it y’self. They’ll be more later⁠—not only to him but his friends, and you kin collect ev’y time. How ’bout it?”

Shine’s answer did not come promptly.

“Fact,” Pat pursued, “with yo’ job, you could work up a wonderful delivery service for me⁠—no suspicion attached to it, see? Hyeh’s yo’ chance, man⁠—start out as my agent.”

“Agent yo’ hiney,” said Shine. “Listen. Ain’t you heard ’bout me?”

“ ’Bout you?”

“Sho’, man. I done started already.”

“Bootleggin’?”

“No lie. I got a regular business. Ain’ but two people in it, though, the bootlegger and the customer. I’m both of ’em.”

Once again Pat eyed Shine in silent frustration and, after an angry moment, turned away wordless.

Watching him go, Shine grinned, then frowned and muttered to himself:

“Wise guy. Aimin’ to choke Merrit and throw the blame on me. Jes’ ’cause I bring my own licker in and pass up his kerosene. Can y’ beat it⁠—? Wonder how many kinds of a jackass that bozo thinks I am?”