Cade got to his feet.
“I’m telling Mathison I am not working with you any more,” he said. “If that’s the way you feel about me...”
“Feel about you? I don’t feel anything about you. You are less than nothing. I’m going out,” Burdick said, his voice unsteady. “When I get back, I expect you to be out of here. You’re going to start hitting the bottle and I know there is nothing I can do to stop you, so I don’t want you here, and it is more than all right with me if we don’t work together. Working with you now will be a pain in the neck. So pack up and get out and get drunk and kill yourself if you have to. You’ve had your chance. Vicki would have married you, but no, you still must cling to your rotten whore and now you’re going to pay for it. To hell with her and to hell with you!”
He went out, slamming the door.
For the next three days, there was no sign of Cade. Mathison who had been alerted by Burdick waited patiently. He accepted the situation and sent Burdick to London to do a series of articles on the General Election.
He shrugged when Burdick had said bitterly, “Well, you were right. He is a lush, and he probably will always be a lush. I don’t know what you are going to do with him, but I am not going to spoil my reputation having him with me.”
“That’s okay, Ed. I’ll talk to him if he ever shows up. He is still a great photographer. I am square enough to remember he and you shoved up the Sun’s circulation by twenty-seven per cent. That is quite an achievement. You get off to London.”
On the fourth day, Cade came into Mathison’s office. He was pretty drunk, but he carried it well enough. He said he was ready to go to work.
“I have other ideas for the Supplement now, Val,” Mathison said. “How do you feel about having a shot at straight press work?”
“I don’t give a damn. Sure, why not?” Cade said. “I have a contract with you. You pay me... I work.”
After three disastrous weeks, came the Eastonville assignment.
Seven
Cade walked slowly and stiffly down the steps of Eastonville’s State hospital to where Ron Mitchell was lolling against his dusty Chevrolet.
Apart from a swelling under his left eye, a strip of plaster along his jaw and his paleness, Cade showed no visible signs of the brutal body beating he had received from the three deputies after his escape from the Central Motor Hotel.
His body ached and he had difficulty in holding himself upright, but a feeling of utter triumph which he was careful to conceal, kept him moving.
“Hello, Cade,” Mitchell said. “Get in. I bet you don’t want to miss your plane. I bet you have had enough of this little ol’ town, huh?”
“Just about,” Cade said and got into the passenger’s seat.
By now, he thought, as he carefully straightened his legs, the cartridge of film would be on its way to Mathison. In a day or so, the pictures would be with the F.B.I., and then those thugs who had killed Sonny Small and his girl friend would laugh the other side of their brutal faces.
Mitchell climbed in beside Cade and sent the car roaring towards the highway.
“Your camera’s on the back seat, Cade,” he said. “Thought I would bring it along.” He touched his bruised face and grinned. “I certainly asked for that. Well, you got beat up: I got beat up, so we’re square. Just keep your long nose out of this little ol’ town in the future.”
“I’ll do that,” Cade said tonelessly.
He turned to look at his worn Pan-Am overnight bag. Then he felt a prickle of apprehension. Had this moronic sadist checked the camera and found the film missing? Maybe he hadn’t thought about the film. He was stupid enough for the idea not to occur to him, but Cade now began to sweat a little. Maybe this was a trap and he wasn’t being taken to the airport. Maybe he was going to be taken somewhere and asked for the film: asked with the persuasion these thugs would know how to use.
“Something biting you, Cade?” Mitchell asked, glancing at him.
“I just don’t feel good. Nor would you if you got kicked in the belly.”
Mitchell laughed.
“I thought you had something on your mind.”
But they were heading for the airport. Cade could see a plane coming in to land, and in a few minutes, he saw the distant airport buildings.
“You haven’t asked about the march you were at one time so interested in,” Mitchell said. “Well, we broke it up. It was fun while it lasted. Those niggers are certainly sitting in their shanties with sore heads this morning.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t talk too much about it when you get back to your nigger-loving home. Just relax, and don’t flap with the mouth.”
Cade didn’t say anything. In another three minutes, they pulled up at the Departure Centre of the airport. Cade slung his heavy bag on his shoulder, wincing a little as he got out of the car.
“Well, so long, Cade,” Mitchell said. “Sorry you didn’t enjoy your visit.”
Cade walked into the lobby. He checked his ticket. The clerk gave him a sneering little grin as he stamped the ticket.
“Have a good trip,” he said.
Cade paid no attention. In another few minutes he would be past the police control and then he would be out of trouble.
“Hello, Cade.”
He stiffened and slowly turned.
Deputy Joe Schneider was strolling towards him, a half-grin on his fleshy face. He was immaculate in his khaki drill, his star shining in the neon light.
Cade waited, aware of fear, but thinking: all right, you sonofabitch, you can start something now, but this time I can finish it. I have this stinking town where I want it. Five of your natives are going to feel a hand on their collars, and it will happen because of me.
“You off?” Schneider said, pausing before Cade.
“That’s the idea, deputy,” Cade said.
“Fine. Well, none too soon, but now you’re going no ill feelings.”
Cade didn’t say anything.
“I guess you must be feeling a little sore. My boys get over-enthusiastic. You know how it is, Cade. We just don’t like nigger-lovers in this town.”
Still Cade said nothing.
“I brought along a little memento for you,” Schneider went on, his grin widening. “I wouldn’t like you to leave us without something to remember us by.”
Cade straightened his aching body. Here it comes, he thought. The sonofabitch is going to knock my teeth out. But take it, for you are going to even the score. You have this stinking town by the short hairs.
Schneider took something from his pocket and held it up between his finger and thumb.
Cade stared at the Kodak film cartridge, feeling the blood drain out of his face and his body turning cold.
“Yeah. The film you took,” Schneider said. “You know, Cade, you don’t understand what goes on in this little ol’ town. Nigger eats nigger here. When a nigger thinks he can do good for himself, he does good for himself. Old Sam brought this film to me. He said you told him to send it to the Sun. He thought I would appreciate the gift more than the Sun, and he was right. We’ll take care of Sam. A nigger like him deserves to be taken care of.”
Cade had a mad impulse to snatch the cartridge and run for it, but he knew it was hopeless.