the flashlight beam struck me in the face. It was about ten feet away. It had nice new batteriesin it. Surprises make me irritable. And I strongly disapprove of bright lights glaring into my eyes.
I wrenched my head around and said, “Cut it out!”
“Who you and what you doin’ back here?”
Because I was born and raised in Florida, I have often been accused of ‘mush-mouf’ diction, even though it seems to me I talk the same as anyone else. But this was basic swamp-talk I was hearing, the back country, slough and ’gator, grits and pellagra whine, full of a mock servility, yet flavored with an arrogance born of self knowledge of a special toughness that must be constantly tested to make certain it is still undiluted. I should have recited my name, address and occupation like an obedient child, and told him I had come back to check the rear door of the office building because I had wondered whether I had left it unlocked.
But he kept the light on my face, so I said, “I’m gathering mushrooms.” I took a step toward him and said, “Now get out of my way.”
The light went off. I had half a second in which to wonder if I was handling this very well, and then I had the same sensation as if a cherry bomb had been firmly taped to my skull over the left ear and detonated. The whole world jumped eight inches eastward. I felt the jar as I went down onto my knees, and I listened to a roaring that went fading, echoing, down through spiral staircases in the back of my brain.
The light was on me again and he said, in a tone of warm appreciation: “Well, you one tough son of a bitch! Plenty big, anyways.”
He moved to the side and I heard a faint whisper. The second bomb cracked a crater near the crown of my head and I spread myself gently, face down, into the warm and placid Gulf, floating, while all the girls were laughing and Miss Lee sang. I felt him wrench my arms around behind me, felt a meaningless coolness of metal on my wrists. I felt him pry my wallet out of my hip pocket.
I rested. I was very tired.
He kicked me in the ribs, with insistence rather than brutality. “On your feet, boy. Pick all youself up an’ stand tall for LeRoy.”
I made the first effort and he gave me some help. When I was on my feet I felt tall and frail and a little bit sick to my stomach. He walked behind me, and gave me little jabs in the kidneys with the night stick to steer me in the proper direction. I got into the front seat of the dark blue sedan with the county decal on the door. I had to sit on the edge of the seat.
As he started up I realized I was once again capable of speech. “You’re making a mistake,” I said humbly.
“Now don’t we all, sooner or later.”
I had the feeling LeRoy and I were never going to strike up much of a friendship. He headed across the bridge to the mainland, driving without haste.
“You a new deputy?” I asked him.
“Best part of a year. You got a name?”
“Samuel Collins Brice.”
“Then you didn’t steal the money wallet maybe?”
“No, I didn’t steal the money wallet maybe.”
I got my first good look at him in the bridge lights. The brim of his ranch hat shadowed a pinched and narrow little face. His neck was too scrawny for the collar of the khaki shirt. He was about the size of a fourteen-year-old who had been sick and underfed. He kept his chin high in order to see over the hood, and he held the wheel firmly in his little brown hands.
“And what is your name, Mister Deputy, sir?”
“Depity LeRoy Luxey.”
“I’ve seen your name in the paper a lot lately. You make a lot of arrests.”
“If a man is put hisself in the arrestin’ trade, and does his work good, it comes out thataway somehow.”
He drove through empty streets and through the open iron gate into the courtyard area behind the Florence County Courthouse. Golden light shone through an open door onto the old brick paving, and as he herded me out of the car, I heard some men laughing. I didn’t
I wrenched my head around and said, “Cut it out!”
“Who you and what you doin’ back here?”
Because I was born and raised in Florida, I have often been accused of ‘mush-mouf’ diction, even though it seems to me I talk the same as anyone else. But this was basic swamp-talk I was hearing, the back country, slough and ’gator, grits and pellagra whine, full of a mock servility, yet flavored with an arrogance born of self knowledge of a special toughness that must be constantly tested to make certain it is still undiluted. I should have recited my name, address and occupation like an obedient child, and told him I had come back to check the rear door of the office building because I had wondered whether I had left it unlocked.
But he kept the light on my face, so I said, “I’m gathering mushrooms.” I took a step toward him and said, “Now get out of my way.”
The light went off. I had half a second in which to wonder if I was handling this very well, and then I had the same sensation as if a cherry bomb had been firmly taped to my skull over the left ear and detonated. The whole world jumped eight inches eastward. I felt the jar as I went down onto my knees, and I listened to a roaring that went fading, echoing, down through spiral staircases in the back of my brain.
The light was on me again and he said, in a tone of warm appreciation: “Well, you one tough son of a bitch! Plenty big, anyways.”
He moved to the side and I heard a faint whisper. The second bomb cracked a crater near the crown of my head and I spread myself gently, face down, into the warm and placid Gulf, floating, while all the girls were laughing and Miss Lee sang. I felt him wrench my arms around behind me, felt a meaningless coolness of metal on my wrists. I felt him pry my wallet out of my hip pocket.
I rested. I was very tired.
He kicked me in the ribs, with insistence rather than brutality. “On your feet, boy. Pick all youself up an’ stand tall for LeRoy.”
I made the first effort and he gave me some help. When I was on my feet I felt tall and frail and a little bit sick to my stomach. He walked behind me, and gave me little jabs in the kidneys with the night stick to steer me in the proper direction. I got into the front seat of the dark blue sedan with the county decal on the door. I had to sit on the edge of the seat.
As he started up I realized I was once again capable of speech. “You’re making a mistake,” I said humbly.
“Now don’t we all, sooner or later.”
I had the feeling LeRoy and I were never going to strike up much of a friendship. He headed across the bridge to the mainland, driving without haste.
“You a new deputy?” I asked him.
“Best part of a year. You got a name?”
“Samuel Collins Brice.”
“Then you didn’t steal the money wallet maybe?”
“No, I didn’t steal the money wallet maybe.”
I got my first good look at him in the bridge lights. The brim of his ranch hat shadowed a pinched and narrow little face. His neck was too scrawny for the collar of the khaki shirt. He was about the size of a fourteen-year-old who had been sick and underfed. He kept his chin high in order to see over the hood, and he held the wheel firmly in his little brown hands.
“And what is your name, Mister Deputy, sir?”
“Depity LeRoy Luxey.”
“I’ve seen your name in the paper a lot lately. You make a lot of arrests.”
“If a man is put hisself in the arrestin’ trade, and does his work good, it comes out thataway somehow.”
He drove through empty streets and through the open iron gate into the courtyard area behind the Florence County Courthouse. Golden light shone through an open door onto the old brick paving, and as he herded me out of the car, I heard some men laughing. I didn’t