“Back on the pay-off kick, again? I don't want money.”
“Then call the police! Henry murdered Beatrice when she discovered he was a nigger, and I killed him when he told me that. I might even plead self-defense—he tried to kill me too.”
The odd part was, Saxton sounded as though he believed this hog-wash he was inventing. I said, “Know where that yarn will land you—in the loony bin, if you beat the death rap.”
“Why I'll be a hero, no jury would...”
“You just might get away with it, Willie, if you could prove Henry was colored, considering you'd get a blue-ribbon jury with all the trimmings. Only what makes you think Henry Wilson was colored?”
“Come, Ranzino, you just said...”
“I never said nothing. I never knew Henry—the only one time I saw him he was dead. But lots of people in town knew him well, played cards and golf with him, did business with him, liked him. They'll call you crazy when you say he was colored...”
He glanced at his wallet, opened it. I asked, “Looking for something?”
He tore at the wallet with frantic fingers, then looked at me and asked in a rasping whisper, “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“Goddamn it, Ranzino... where is it?”
“In little pieces, floating in the sewer—with the other garbage. I took it when I flattened you at the door. Might as well tell you what I spent that hundred odd bucks for—you're paying for it. Doc Snell is dead. I was pretty sure of that since he only sent one letter, let the deal drop. He was a very old man and he died in a drunken sleep three days after he mailed the letter. Guess you know that, too, probably tried to get in touch with him. Henry Wilson was born 'out of wedlock,' to use a silly term, he hadn't any relations. Also, in the one-store-wide-spot-in-the-road where he was born, they never bothered with birth certificates for colored kids or poor whites. So it boils down to this, there's only one person in the world who knows about that letter— me. And if you call me to the witness stand, I'll act as astonished as anybody else. From here on in, I don't know what you're talking about.”
“How much do you want?” Saxton asked shrilly.
“Not a cent. I only want to see your kind get the works—for once. Now we'll call the cops.” We both stood up and he said, “Please, Ranzino, I'll give you big money...” and lunged at me.
I was watching his pigeon-toed feet and I caught him with a left hook that knocked him down. It was a stupid move on his part. He sat on the floor for a moment, shaking his head, then got to his feet slowly. “You win,” he said.
He rubbed the side of his face, I'd hit him too high to do any real damage. I slipped the gun in my pocket. I was afraid he'd try to make me shoot him—then I'd be in a spot—and I could handle him easily with my fists.
He shook his head several times, muttered, “I can't think straight—everything is fuzzy. Before you call the police, can I douse my head under the shower?”
“Sure. Only don't try anything super-clever; this isn't your racket.”
I followed him into the bathroom. He brushed the shower curtains aside with one hand, turned on the cold water. It ran on his head and part of his collar. I stood several feet behind him, in case he tried yanking off the curtain, throwing it around me.
Bent over the tub, Saxton was a comical figure—his broad fleshy can facing me, water splashing on his head, over his clothes. He shut the water off, reached over toward the towel rack beside the tub, came up with a towel... and one of those old big .45s.
For a split second I had to admire him, he'd found a new place to park a gun. His eyes were cold and over-bright as he advanced toward me, his dripping wet face giving him an insane look. He growled, “Keep your hands up high. You Wop scum, thinking you could match your lousy brains with mine. Turn around!”
I turned, and there's always that horrible second of waiting when you know you're going to get conked... wondering if it will be the barrel of the gun or the butt... will your brains be splattered.... But I couldn't make a play—with a .45 even a slug in the shoulder will knock you flat, maybe take off your arm. He was too close to miss or.... I heard the faint swish the gun made through the air. A flash of terribly bright pain swept over me and then I was drowning in heavy mushy darkness.
I must have been out a long time. When I came to I thought I was still up in the clouds... I was naked and hanging from the doorway by my wrists, which were roped to pipes some place on the bathroom wall. I was standing on the floor but Saxton had pushed heavy barbells in front and in back of my ankles, anchoring my feet. I stood there, as though crucified while Saxton took off his coat and shirt, exposing his heavy muscle-bound arms. I pulled at my wrists and only succeeded in burning them with the ropes. Things were still fuzzy from the sock on the head and the entire back of my skull seemed miles away. I mumbled, “You must be a Scoutmaster, Willie, you're good at tying knots... and nooses. Bet you're a whiz at camping and...”
He stood in front of me and started slugging me in the stomach and chest.
Willie didn't know how to hit, thought muscles meant power. His blows weren't love-taps, but except for knocking the air out of me, he wasn't doing much damage. I forced myself to pee on his floor—a bladder full of urine can burst under a punch and then you're in real trouble.
The sight of me relieving myself seemed to drive him into a spurt of wild punching that left him puffing after a few seconds, and he stopped, dropped his hands and glared at me. I gasped, “What you doing, you crazy son of a bitch?”
“You're going to have a hemorrhage, and die, Ranzino. Look very natural, for a person suffering from T.B.,” he said, breathing hard”.
“Won't go, you'll never get away with this,” I said, the words sounding odd because my mouth was open like a fish's, eating air.
“I'll chance it. This is something else I planned... in advance. Even though you haven't much confidence in plans, I...”
“Don't be a fool, Saxton, Mady will miss me, call the cops, tell them...”
“Madeline is drunk right this moment. We both saw her at the bottle. I've arranged everything, you'll be found dead in the street... of natural causes.”
“But...”
“You must know as well I do, that I have to kill you, Ranzino. There's no choice, for me,” Saxton said, coming at me with his big arms out like a bear. He put them around my chest and began to squeeze.
The pressure on my ribs was unbearable, and all I could think about was the delicate X-ray pictures of my lung—the left one with the scar on it. I tried to wiggle out of his hold and almost wrenched my arms out of their sockets. I managed to pull a leg out from between the barbells, ripping my skin off my ankle. I brought my knee up but missed his groin. I caught him inside the thigh—high—up and he let go and staggered away, bent over.