Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [10]
Out of the murmur of voices I could hear Dragline’s loud, sing-song bravura going on and on:
So a few days later ah met that there same son of a bitch. Ah met up wif him in a bar out on Flagler Street, see? Right away he says, “Let bygones be bygones. Come have a beer.” So ah says, “O.K.” Ah’m gonna play it slick, see? He says, “You ain’t mad no more are yuh?” And ah says, “Naw. Ah ain’t mad.” So we sits at the bar and has a beer. But then the waitress went struttin‘ by and he turns his haid aroun’ to eyeball at her ass and when he does ah takes mah bottle and POW! Ah lets him have it. Man, ah’m tellin‘ yuh. The bottle breaks over his haid. This son of a bitch falls on the floor. Everybody’s hollerin’. And then you know what? You know what? That mammy jammer got right up off’n the floor and beat the livin‘ shit outta me right there. But ah kin tell yuh this much though. That there was a big son of a bitch.
But there was nothing ordinary about this particular bullshit session. Dragline was only Loudtalking for the benefit of the Free Men. His voice faltered, stopped and then mumbled on. Then he interrupted himself to swear at Blondie.
Hey, Stupid! You got the nick outta mah yo-yo yet?
Blondie was still down on his knees, the blade of the yo-yo on the top of the bread box and the handle braced between his thighs. Carefully he rubbed the file along the cutting edge, testing it with his thumb, meticulously taking off the wire edge on the back of the blade. Satisfied, he went over and handed it to Dragline who inspected the edge with squinted eyes and a scowl. Then Babalugats got into the act.
Hey, Blondie. What about me? I helped out too.
Come on. What is this? The Slow Con? Yo’ll think ah’m stupid or somethin‘.
Never mind that. Shut up and sharpen my damn yo-yo.
Hell no. Why should ah?
Cause you’re chicken shit if you don’t, that’s why.
A w w w. O.K. Give it here. But it ain’t fair.
Why ain’t it? You got a real good snake hide today, didn’t you?
Blondie went back to the bread box and began to sharpen another yo-yo, the file rubbing against the steel with a coarse, monotonous rhythm.
Again I shut my eyes and listened to the sounds around me. The Bull Gang was thoughtful and subdued today. There were no jokes, no playing the Dozens, the density of the usual happy bullshit extremely thin. Feet were shifted in the dust. From time to time there was only the sly rattling of a chain in the hot and sticky air. The file rubbed and sharpened. Matches were struck. The water dipper banged against the edge of the bucket and in a few seconds there was the splat of the rest of the drink being tossed out on the ground. Here and there was a murmured voice talking of sex, drink, crime, parole. And behind us I could hear the traffic swishing along as you and yours continued on your journey south.
Then I turned my head and looked over to where the Walking Boss had his tarpaulin. Boss Godfrey was lying on his back, his arms folded under his head, his hat on top of his chest, his Stick at his side. But his face was the same. Instead of his eyes all I could see were the two small mirrors of his glasses and the shallow blue reflections of a pale and cloudy sky. For all I knew he was watching every move we made. On the other hand, he might have been sound asleep.
I could still hear the music coming from the church. Once I saw a black face peering around the edge of the window jamb. It withdrew and then appeared again, the white eyeballs clearly rolling from side to side. A few minutes later the music changed, becoming a deep spiritual sung with improvised harmonies, a mournful groan dragging towards the Infinite until a high, clear tenor began to separate itself, pleading