past Sol, too, as though affected by the same cast of eye as Tangee. He was looking directly into the eyes of Tangee, and in the seconds before Ortiz found a smile and moved it to the Pawnbroker's face, Sol had the feeling that he was invisible to the two of them.
"I was on my way to the cellar, figured to get at it now," Ortiz said. "I got it going pretty good upstairs, pick up where I left off any time." He darted a swift, expressionless glance at Tangee again, said, "What do you say, man; how they going?" and then slipped into the back room and down to the cellar.
Sol turned back to his customer. "Three dollars," he said as he pulled the drill toward him. His face was taut and harried looking, and Tangee smiled at the sight of him.
"Ain't you even gonna try it, see it works?" he asked with heavy-lidded amusement.
"Oh, I trust you implicitly," Sol answered. "You want the three dollars, take it. Otherwise do not waste my time, I have things to do." He found he had to hold his arm rigid against a sudden trembling.
"Okay, man, calm down. Three dollars fine.
Relax
Uncle, take it slow." He shifted his shoulders under the extravagant padding, cast another chillingly covetous look at the tawdry treasures all around, and then swaggered out.
Sol heard him call cheerily to the old man, John Rider, out on the sidewalk with the boxes of wastepaper he was bringing up from the outside cellar entrance.
"Take care, dad, don't strain your nuts now, hear?"
And the thin, preacher-voice of the old man answered, "Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep an' a idle soul shall suffah hungah."
In the rich, heedless laughter of Tangee, the Pawnbroker shivered and felt old and put upon. And, aged that much more, he looked up at his next assailant.
George Smith had the face of an old Venetian doge, the features drawn with a silvery-fine pencil, the excesses reproduced in the shallowest, most subtle of creases. Only his eyes mirrored the wrestling starvation. He carried a rather dented, battery-powered hurricane lamp which Sol recognized as having been in for pawn several times before.
Sol offered him a dollar and waited with the patience that was a habit between them for George to ponder the offer with elaborate thoughtfulness; it was the preface to the conversation he intended. George Smith would have paid the Pawnbroker outright for a half-hour's talk except that it would have violated that frail diplomacy he practiced, and which the Pawnbroker countenanced for some unknown reason.
"A dollar, well ... I don't know," he said in his diffident, gentle voice. His growth had been twisty and far darker than his skin color, and his surface was a strenuously polished, brittle thing. In here, he buffed that surface to a bright gleam, which blinded even himself to the mutation he was. "It's really worth considerably more," he said, checking the Pawnbroker's face cautiously against the rules of the game.
"Well, George, I don't know..."
"I
would
like at least three dollars for it," George said, trying not to demonstrate too much enjoyment while he looked around at the stock, as though he found himself in some great, rich citadel. At one time he had attended a Negro college in the South, but too many twistings and turnings had been engraved in him and he had been expelled from there after a discreetly hushed outrage. Now he worked in the post office, read many fine books in his room at night, and abandoned himself to fantastic dream-ravishing of young boys and girls. Thank the books and the towering aspiration of his intellect for the fact that, so far, his rapes were confined to his dreams. Thank the weekly visits to the Pawnbroker for the nourishing of his wistful discipline. Sol had appeared to him one day three years before, when he had been wandering in a maddened daze of lust, had answered him in that heady language he had formerly encountered only in the books, had thus lent a reality to words he had been losing contact with. Every few days he
"I was on my way to the cellar, figured to get at it now," Ortiz said. "I got it going pretty good upstairs, pick up where I left off any time." He darted a swift, expressionless glance at Tangee again, said, "What do you say, man; how they going?" and then slipped into the back room and down to the cellar.
Sol turned back to his customer. "Three dollars," he said as he pulled the drill toward him. His face was taut and harried looking, and Tangee smiled at the sight of him.
"Ain't you even gonna try it, see it works?" he asked with heavy-lidded amusement.
"Oh, I trust you implicitly," Sol answered. "You want the three dollars, take it. Otherwise do not waste my time, I have things to do." He found he had to hold his arm rigid against a sudden trembling.
"Okay, man, calm down. Three dollars fine.
Relax
Uncle, take it slow." He shifted his shoulders under the extravagant padding, cast another chillingly covetous look at the tawdry treasures all around, and then swaggered out.
Sol heard him call cheerily to the old man, John Rider, out on the sidewalk with the boxes of wastepaper he was bringing up from the outside cellar entrance.
"Take care, dad, don't strain your nuts now, hear?"
And the thin, preacher-voice of the old man answered, "Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep an' a idle soul shall suffah hungah."
In the rich, heedless laughter of Tangee, the Pawnbroker shivered and felt old and put upon. And, aged that much more, he looked up at his next assailant.
George Smith had the face of an old Venetian doge, the features drawn with a silvery-fine pencil, the excesses reproduced in the shallowest, most subtle of creases. Only his eyes mirrored the wrestling starvation. He carried a rather dented, battery-powered hurricane lamp which Sol recognized as having been in for pawn several times before.
Sol offered him a dollar and waited with the patience that was a habit between them for George to ponder the offer with elaborate thoughtfulness; it was the preface to the conversation he intended. George Smith would have paid the Pawnbroker outright for a half-hour's talk except that it would have violated that frail diplomacy he practiced, and which the Pawnbroker countenanced for some unknown reason.
"A dollar, well ... I don't know," he said in his diffident, gentle voice. His growth had been twisty and far darker than his skin color, and his surface was a strenuously polished, brittle thing. In here, he buffed that surface to a bright gleam, which blinded even himself to the mutation he was. "It's really worth considerably more," he said, checking the Pawnbroker's face cautiously against the rules of the game.
"Well, George, I don't know..."
"I
would
like at least three dollars for it," George said, trying not to demonstrate too much enjoyment while he looked around at the stock, as though he found himself in some great, rich citadel. At one time he had attended a Negro college in the South, but too many twistings and turnings had been engraved in him and he had been expelled from there after a discreetly hushed outrage. Now he worked in the post office, read many fine books in his room at night, and abandoned himself to fantastic dream-ravishing of young boys and girls. Thank the books and the towering aspiration of his intellect for the fact that, so far, his rapes were confined to his dreams. Thank the weekly visits to the Pawnbroker for the nourishing of his wistful discipline. Sol had appeared to him one day three years before, when he had been wandering in a maddened daze of lust, had answered him in that heady language he had formerly encountered only in the books, had thus lent a reality to words he had been losing contact with. Every few days he
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