In Cold Blood - Truman Capote [17]
"Leaving?" protested Mr. Clutter, and slowed the car.
"Well, Herb. The farm here, the people we're working for - Hideo thinks we could do better. Maybe in Nebraska. But nothing's settled. It's just talk so far." Her hearty voice, always on the verge of laughter, made the melancholy news sound somehow cheerful, but seeing that she had saddened Mr. Clutter, she turned to other matters. "Herb, give me a man's opinion," she said. "Me and the kids, we've been saving up, we want to give Hideo something on the grand side for Christmas. What he needs is teeth. Now, if your wife was to give you three gold teeth, would that strike you as a wrong kind of present? I mean, asking a man to spend Christmas in the dentist's chair?"
"You beat all. Don't ever try to get away from here. We'll hogtie you," said Mr. Clutter. "Yes, yes, by all means gold teeth. Was me, I'd be tickled." His reaction delighted Mrs. Ashida, for she knew he would not approve her plan unless he meant it; he was a gentleman. She had never known him to "act the Squire," or to take advantage or break a promise. She ventured to obtain a promise now. "Look, Herb. At the banquet - no speeches, huh? Not for me. You, you're different. The way you can stand up and talk to hundreds of people. Thousands. And be so easy - convince anybody about whatever. Just nothing scares you," she said, commenting upon a generally recognized quality of Mr. Clutter's: a fearless self-assurance that set him apart, and while it created respect, also limited the affections of others a little. "I can't imagine you afraid. No matter what happened, you'd talk your way out of it."
By midafternoon the black Chevrolet had reached Emporia, Kansas - a large town, almost a city, and a safe place, so the occupants of the car had decided, to do a bit of shopping. They parked on a side street, then wandered about until a suitably crowded variety store presented itself. The first purchase was a pair of rubber gloves; these were for Perry, who, unlike Dick, had neglected to bring old gloves of his own. They moved on to a counter displaying women's hosiery, a spell of indecisive quibbling, Perry said, "I'm for it." Dick was not. "What about my eye? They're all too light colored to hide that."
"Miss," said Perry, attracting a salesgirl's attention. "You got any black stockings?" When she told him no, he proposed that they try another store. "Black's foolproof." But Dick had made up his mind: stockings of any shade were unnecessary, an encumbrance, a useless expense ("I've already invested enough money in this operation"), and, after all, anyone they encountered would not live to bear witness. "No witnesses," he reminded Perry, for what seemed to Perry the millionth time. It rankled in him, the way Dick mouthed those two words, as though they solved every problem; it was stupid not to admit that there might be a witness they hadn't seen. "The ineffable happens, things do take a turn," he said. But Dick, smiling boastfully, boyishly, did not agree: "Get the bubbles out of your blood. Nothing can go wrong." No. Because the plan was Dick's, and from first footfall to final silence, flawlessly devised. Next they were interested in rope. Perry studied the stock, tested it. Having once served in the Merchant Marine, he understood rope and was clever with knots. He chose a white nylon cord, as strong as wire and not much thicker. They discussed how many yards of it they required. The question irritated Dick, for it was part of a greater quandary, and he could not, despite the alleged perfection of his over-all design, be certain of the answer. Eventually, he said, "Christ, how the hell should I know?"
"You damn well better." Dick tried. "There's him. Her. The kid and the girl. And maybe the other two. But it's Saturday. They might have guests. Let's count on eight, or even twelve. The only sure thing is everyone