black woman walkin’ down the street around here again, you show your ugly buckra face around here again, you are fuckin’ dead meat. You hear me?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I sure do hear you,” Cecil Price said. That was how you played the game in
Mississippi
. Price hadn’t promised to do one thing the deputy said. But he’d heard him, all right. He couldn’t very well not have heard him.
“Go on, then. Get lost.”
The first deputy walked out into the muggy night with the white man and the two Northern blacks. A mosquito buzzed around Price’s ear. Price slapped at it. The deputy laughed. He watched while Price and the Black Muslims got into RACE’s blue Ford wagon. Price started up the car. The deputy went on watching as he put it in gear and drove away. In the rear-view mirror, Price watched him walk back into the Neshoba County Jail.
“Maybe they really are learning they can’t pull crap like that on us,” Tariq Abdul-Rashid said.
“Don’t bet on it,” was Muhammad Shabazz’s laconic response. “They don’t back up unless they’ve got a reason to back up. Isn’t that right, Cecil? ... Cecil?”
Cecil Price didn’t answer, not right away. His eyes were on the rear-view mirror again. He didn’t like what he saw. This time of night, driving out of a little town like
Philadelphia, they should have had the road to themselves. They should have, but they didn’t. One, then two, sets of headlights followed them out of town. Price stepped on the gas. If those cars back there weren’t interested in him and his black friends, he’d lose them.
“Hey, man, take it easy,” Tariq Abdul-Rashid said. “You don’t want to give the law a chance to run us in for speeding.”
“We’ve got company back there,” Price said. Speeding up hadn’t shaken those two cars. If anything, they were closer. And a third set of headlights was coming out of
Philadelphia, zooming down Highway 19 like a bat out of hell.
Tariq Abdul-Rashid and Muhammad Shabazz looked back over their shoulders. “You think they’re on our tail, Cecil?” Tariq Abdul-Rashid asked.
Before Price could say anything, Muhammad Shabazz said everything that needed saying: “Gun it! Gun it like a son of a bitch!”
The old Ford’s motor should have roared when Cecil Price jammed the pedal to the metal. Instead, it groaned and grunted. Yeah, the wagon went faster, but it didn’t go faster fast enough. The two pairs of headlights behind the Ford got bigger and bigger, brighter and brighter, closer and closer. And the third pair, the set that got the late start, might almost have been flying along Highway 19. That was one souped-up set of wheels, and the rustbucket Price was driving didn’t have a prayer of staying ahead. Before long, whoever was driving that hot machine got right on the wagon’s tail.
Desperate now, Price killed his lights and made a screeching, sliding right onto Highway 492. Only in
Mississippi
, he thought, would such a miserable chunk of asphalt merit the name of highway. But if it let him shake his pursuers, he would bless its undeserved name forevermore.
Only it didn’t. The lead pursuer, the hopped-up car that had come zooming out of
Philadelphia, also made the turn. Even over the growl of his own car’s engine, Cecil Price could hear its brakes screech as it clawed around the corner. Then the pursuer’s siren came on and the red light on top of the roof began to flash.
“Jesus! It’s that damn deputy again!” Price said. “What am I gonna do?”
“Can we outrun him?” Muhammad Shabazz asked as the beat-up Ford bucketed down the road.
“Not a chance in hell,” Price answered. “He’s liable to start shooting at us if I don’t stop.” If he got hit, or if a tire got hit, the car would fly off the road and burst into flames. That was a bad way to go.
“Maybe you better stop,” Tariq Abdul-Rashid said.
“Damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” Cecil Price said bitterly, but his foot had already
“Oh, yes, sir. I sure do hear you,” Cecil Price said. That was how you played the game in
Mississippi
. Price hadn’t promised to do one thing the deputy said. But he’d heard him, all right. He couldn’t very well not have heard him.
“Go on, then. Get lost.”
The first deputy walked out into the muggy night with the white man and the two Northern blacks. A mosquito buzzed around Price’s ear. Price slapped at it. The deputy laughed. He watched while Price and the Black Muslims got into RACE’s blue Ford wagon. Price started up the car. The deputy went on watching as he put it in gear and drove away. In the rear-view mirror, Price watched him walk back into the Neshoba County Jail.
“Maybe they really are learning they can’t pull crap like that on us,” Tariq Abdul-Rashid said.
“Don’t bet on it,” was Muhammad Shabazz’s laconic response. “They don’t back up unless they’ve got a reason to back up. Isn’t that right, Cecil? ... Cecil?”
Cecil Price didn’t answer, not right away. His eyes were on the rear-view mirror again. He didn’t like what he saw. This time of night, driving out of a little town like
Philadelphia, they should have had the road to themselves. They should have, but they didn’t. One, then two, sets of headlights followed them out of town. Price stepped on the gas. If those cars back there weren’t interested in him and his black friends, he’d lose them.
“Hey, man, take it easy,” Tariq Abdul-Rashid said. “You don’t want to give the law a chance to run us in for speeding.”
“We’ve got company back there,” Price said. Speeding up hadn’t shaken those two cars. If anything, they were closer. And a third set of headlights was coming out of
Philadelphia, zooming down Highway 19 like a bat out of hell.
Tariq Abdul-Rashid and Muhammad Shabazz looked back over their shoulders. “You think they’re on our tail, Cecil?” Tariq Abdul-Rashid asked.
Before Price could say anything, Muhammad Shabazz said everything that needed saying: “Gun it! Gun it like a son of a bitch!”
The old Ford’s motor should have roared when Cecil Price jammed the pedal to the metal. Instead, it groaned and grunted. Yeah, the wagon went faster, but it didn’t go faster fast enough. The two pairs of headlights behind the Ford got bigger and bigger, brighter and brighter, closer and closer. And the third pair, the set that got the late start, might almost have been flying along Highway 19. That was one souped-up set of wheels, and the rustbucket Price was driving didn’t have a prayer of staying ahead. Before long, whoever was driving that hot machine got right on the wagon’s tail.
Desperate now, Price killed his lights and made a screeching, sliding right onto Highway 492. Only in
Mississippi
, he thought, would such a miserable chunk of asphalt merit the name of highway. But if it let him shake his pursuers, he would bless its undeserved name forevermore.
Only it didn’t. The lead pursuer, the hopped-up car that had come zooming out of
Philadelphia, also made the turn. Even over the growl of his own car’s engine, Cecil Price could hear its brakes screech as it clawed around the corner. Then the pursuer’s siren came on and the red light on top of the roof began to flash.
“Jesus! It’s that damn deputy again!” Price said. “What am I gonna do?”
“Can we outrun him?” Muhammad Shabazz asked as the beat-up Ford bucketed down the road.
“Not a chance in hell,” Price answered. “He’s liable to start shooting at us if I don’t stop.” If he got hit, or if a tire got hit, the car would fly off the road and burst into flames. That was a bad way to go.
“Maybe you better stop,” Tariq Abdul-Rashid said.
“Damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” Cecil Price said bitterly, but his foot had already
Similar Books
