Every once in a while, Nellie Jacobs would take her Order of Remembrance out of its velvet box and look at it. She didn’t wear it much—where would a woman who ran a coffee shop in Washington, D.C., have occasion to wear the USA’s highest civilian decoration? The last time she’d put it on was for Teddy Roosevelt’s funeral. Roosevelt had presented the medal to her with his own hands. He’d given Nellie’s daughter, Edna, a medal, too, but hers was only second class, not first.
She didn’t know she was being a spy, Nellie thought. Lord, she wouldn’t have cared if the Confederates held Washington forever. It was funny, if you looked at it the right way.
The eagle on the Order of Remembrance stared fiercely back at her. Of course, Roosevelt hadn’t known the whole story, any more than Edna had. Roosevelt hadn’t known she’d stuck a knife into Bill Reach, the U.S. spymaster in Washington. Nobody knew that, nobody but Nellie. Not even her husband knew, and Hal Jacobs had reported directly to Reach.
“He had it coming, the filthy son of a bitch,” Nellie muttered. It wasn’t that Bill Reach had been a drunkard, though he had. But he’d also been a lecher and, in his younger days, a man who’d had—and paid for—assignations with Nellie. He’d thought he could keep on having them, too, if he just slapped down the cash.
Nellie’s long oval face settled into the lines of disapproval it had worn so often since she’d escaped the demimonde. Shows how much he knew, she thought. She’d fought hard for respectability. She hadn’t been about to throw it away for a drunken bastard and his red, throbbing prick. One of the things she liked about her husband was that he didn’t trouble her in the bedroom very often. Old men have their advantages.
Her mouth twisted. You’re no spring chicken yourself, she thought. She’d turned fifty earlier in the year. She felt every year of her age, too. It wasn’t so much that she was going gray, though she was. That aside, she looked a good deal younger than her years. But keeping up with a four-year-old would have made anybody feel her years.
As if the thought of Clara were enough to make her get into mischief, she called, “Ma! Help me tie my shoe!”
“I’m coming,” Nellie said. Her back twinged when she got off her bed. Clara couldn’t tie her shoes yet. Sometimes she insisted on trying anyhow. Four-year-olds were nothing if not independent. That they drove their parents mad never once crossed their minds, of course. That was part of their . . . charm.
“I’m going to go out and play,” Clara declared when Nellie hurried into her bedroom.
“Not yet, you’re not.” Nellie surveyed the damage. “Oh, child, what have you gone and done?”
Actually, the damage itself left little room for doubt. Clara had put her shoes on the wrong feet and then tied as many knots as she could in the shoelaces. She couldn’t manage a bow, but knots she had no trouble with. The shoes came up well over her ankles; they were almost boots, and fit snugly even before Clara created her knotty problem.
Nellie couldn’t even get the shoes off her daughter till she untied some—several—of the knots. Clara didn’t want to hold still for the process. Four-year-olds didn’t hold still unless they were asleep or coming down with something. Nellie asked her twice not to squirm. That failing, she swatted Clara’s bottom. Her daughter squalled, but then did hold still . . . for a little while.
It was, Nellie decided, long enough. It was, at any rate, long enough for her to get the shoes on their proper feet and tie a couple of bows. “Play on the sidewalk in front of the shop here,” Nellie warned. “Don’t you go out in the street. I’m going to come downstairs and keep an eye on you. If you even go near the street, you’ll get a spanking like you’ll never forget. No, you’ll get two—one from me, and one from your pa.”
“I promise, Ma.” Clara solemnly crossed her heart. “Hope to die.”
No, it’s so you don’t die, Nellie thought, but Clara wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what she was talking about. “Let’s go downstairs,” Nellie said. Clara took her favorite toy, a rag doll named Louise, and went down to the ground floor at what Nellie would have reckoned a suicidal pace. Nellie followed more sedately.
Nellie turned away for a moment to get a whisk broom and a dust pan. The coffee shop was closed on Sundays, of course; Washington’s blue laws were as strict as any in the USA. But the more cleaning she did now, the less she would have to worry about come Monday morning, when she’d also be busy brewing coffee, frying eggs and ham and bacon and potatoes, toasting bread, and serving her customers. Her door might be shut, but she didn’t reckon Sunday a day of rest.
Before Nellie had taken more than three steps, brakes screeched out in the street. Metal crumpled. Glass tinkled musically. It reminded her of artillery bombardments during the war, but wasn’t so dramatic.
Or it wouldn’t have been . . . “Oh, God in heaven!” Nellie said, and dashed outside. “Clara!” she shouted. “Where are you, Clara?”
No answer. Fear rising in her like the tide, Nellie stared at the accident. A Ford and a Packard had locked horns. The Ford, predictably, was the loser. Steam gushed from its ruptured radiator. Its driver descended to the street holding a handkerchief to his head, which he’d bloodied when he greeted his windshield face first.
“Clara!” Nellie called again. “Dear God, please . . .” The last time she’d prayed had been during the U.S. artillery barrage that nearly leveled Washington before the Confederates finally, sullenly, drew back into Virginia. God must have heard that prayer—she’d come through alive. But everything back then seemed small and unimportant when set against her daughter’s safety. “Clara!”
The gray-haired man who’d been driving the Packard had to kick at his door before it would open. He didn’t seem badly hurt, and started shouting at the other man: “You idiot! You moron! You thumb-fingered baboon!”
“Fuck you, Grandpa,” the man with the bloodied face replied. “You drove right into me.”
“Liar!”
“Liar yourself!”
Neither one of them said anything about a little girl, and neither one of them paid any attention to Nellie. “Clara!” she called once more. She didn’t want to look closely at the accident, for fear she would see little legs sticking out from under a wheel. “Clara!”
“Boo!”
Nellie sprang a foot in the air. There stood her daughter, coming out from behind the stout iron base of a street lamp. “Thank you, Jesus,” Nellie whispered. She ran to her little girl and held her tight.
“Fooled you, Mama!” Clara said happily. “I got down there and— Ow!” Nellie applied her hand to the part on which her daughter was in the habit of sitting, much harder than she had before they went outside. Clara started to howl. “What’s that for, Mama? I didn’t do nothing!”
“Oh, yes, you did,” Nellie said, and spanked her again. “You scared me out of a year’s growth, that’s what you did. I was afraid one of those cars ran over you, do you know that?”
Clara, at the moment, knew nothing except that her fanny hurt. She tried to get away, and had no luck whatsoever. Nellie dragged her back into the coffee shop. “Louise!” Clara wailed.
Although Nellie was tempted to leave the doll out on the sidewalk, that would have cost more tears and hysterics than it was worth. She snarled, “You stay here. Don’t move a muscle!” at Clara, and then went back to retrieve Louise. She all but threw the rag doll at her daughter. “Here!”
“Thank you, Mama,” Clara said in an unwontedly small voice. She hadn’t moved a muscle, and evidently had figured out this was no time to say or do anything that might land her in more trouble.
When Nellie’s husband came back from a friend’s later that morning, Nellie told him the whole story. Clara looked at him in silent appeal; he was often softer than her mother. But not this time. Hal Jacobs sighed, wuffling out his white mustache. “Clara, you must not play games like that,” he said. “Your mother thought you were hurt, maybe even killed.”
“I’m sorry, Pa,” Clara said. Maybe she even meant it. She seemed more inclined to be good for Hal than she was for Nellie. She takes after her half sister, Nellie thought sourly. Edna had always done what she wanted, not what Nellie wanted. She’d taken great pleasure in flaunting it, too.
And she’d married well in spite of everything. When she came to visit as the sun was setting, she wore a maroon silk dress that daringly showed her legs halfway to her knees. Nellie, who’d had a really gamy past, had spent more than thirty years trying to live it down. Edna, in keeping with young people everywhere these days—or so it seemed to Nellie—flaunted her fast life.
“Be good, Armstrong,” she told her son. Armstrong Grimes—Edna’s husband, Merle, came from the same town in Michigan as General Custer—was two, only a couple of years younger than Clara, his aunt. Having told him to be good, Edna let him run wild—that seemed to be her idea of how to raise children.
“How are you, dear?” Nellie asked, pouring Edna a cup of coffee.
“Couldn’t be better, Ma,” Edna answered expansively. She looked like a twenty years’ younger version of her mother, but without the pinched, anxious expression Nellie so often wore. She still thought she could beat the game of life. Nellie was convinced nobody could. But Edna had her reasons. She went on, “Merle just got himself promoted in the Reconstruction Agency. That’s another forty dollars a month, and you’d best believe it’ll come in handy.”
“Bully,” Nellie said, meaning perhaps a third of it. She’d had to fret and scrape for every dime she ever made—she’d had to do worse things than fret and scrape for some of the dimes she’d made before Edna was born. As far as she could see, her daughter had things easy but didn’t begin to guess how lucky she was.
Before Edna could go on bragging, a shriek rose from the direction of the kitchen. “Ma!” Clara squealed. “Armstrong just pulled my hair, Ma!”
Edna laughed. Nellie didn’t. “Well, pull his back,” she said.
Her older daughter bristled. A moment later, Armstrong Grimes started to cry. Then Clara shrieked again. “Ma! He bit me!”
“You going to tell her to bite him back, too?” Edna asked. Nellie glared. Children, whether four or thirty, could drive you right out of your mind.
Reggie Bartlett was a first-rate weather prophet. He looked at his boss and said, “Reckon it’ll rain tomorrow.”
Jeremiah Harmon looked up from the pills he was compounding. “Shoulder kicking up again?” the druggist asked.
“Sure is,” Bartlett answered. “Leg, too, matter of fact. I took me a couple of aspirins, but they don’t shift the ache.” He’d spent the end of the war in a U.S. military hospital after catching two bullets from a machine-gun burst and getting captured down in Sequoyah. The wounds had finally healed, but their memory lingered on.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if you were right.” Harmon added a little water to his mix and put it in a twenty-pill mold. He swung the hinged top of the mold into place. “There we go. These’ll make somebody piss like a racehorse.”
“I’ve heard that one a million times. How do racehorses piss?” Reggie asked, and then, before his boss could, he answered his own question: “Pretty damn quick, I bet.”
Jeremiah Harmon snorted. “You’ve always got a snappy comeback, don’t you?”
“I do my best,” Bartlett answered. He had an engaging grin, one that let him say things a dour man could never have got away with.
The bell over the front door jangled. A customer came in. “Help you with something, sir?” Reggie asked.
“Yes. Thanks. Chilly out there.” The man came up to the counter. Bartlett wished he hadn’t. His breath was so dreadful, he might not have used a toothbrush since before the Great War. Maybe, if God were kind, he’d ask about one now, or about mouthwash. But no such luck; he said, “What have you got in the way of rat poison?”
You could breathe on them, Reggie thought. That’d do the job, the way the Yankees’ chlorine killed the rats in the trenches on the Roanoke front. No matter how engaging his grin, though, he knew he couldn’t get away with that. Life in Richmond was too civilized for such blunt truths. “Here, let me look,” he said, and pulled up a bright yellow box with an upside-down rat with X’s for eyes on the front of it. “This ought to do the job.”
“It’ll shift ’em, will it?” the man asked, breathing decay into Reggie’s face.
“Sure will, sir.” Reggie drew back as far as he could, which wasn’t nearly far enough. “Rats, mice, even cockroaches. You put it down, they eat it, and they die.”
“Reckon I can manage that.” The customer dug a hand in his pocket. Coins jingled. “How much?”
“Twenty-two cents,” Bartlett said. The man gave him a quarter. He solemnly returned three pennies.
“Thanks.” The fellow put them in his pocket. He took the box of rat poison and headed out the door. “Freedom!” Without waiting for an answer, he left the drugstore.
Reggie’s boss looked up from the pills, which he was removing from the mold. “You showed fine patience there,” he said. “I don’t know if I could have done the same. I could smell him all the way over here.”
“You could give a man like that a straight flush in a poker game, and he’d still find a way to lose,” Bartlett said. “No wonder he’s a Freedom Party man.”
“His money is as good as anyone else’s,” Harmon said. “In fact, you can gloat if you like, because his money’s going into my pocket, and into yours, and neither one of us can stand Jake Featherston.”
“We’re not fools. I hope to God we’re not fools, anyway,” Reggie answered. “The only thing Featherston can do is make a speech that sounds good if you’re a sorry so-and-so who can’t add six and five without taking off your shoes.”
“I’m not going to try to tell you you’re wrong—you ought to know that.” Harmon looked at the clock on the wall. “Just about quitting time. Why don’t you knock off a couple of minutes early? Call it a bonus for the way you dealt with that fellow.”
“Thank you kindly. I don’t mind if I do.” Bartlett put on his coat and his fedora. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you then.” Jeremiah Harmon was busy making more pills. Reggie sometimes wondered if he ever went home at night.
The man with slit-trench breath had been right: it was chilly outside. Bartlett wished he’d brought along a pair of earmuffs. As he hurried toward the trolley stop a couple of blocks away, he went past some posters that hadn’t been pasted to a half ruinous wall when he walked by it on the way to work that morning.
VOTE FREEDOM IN 1925! they shouted in red letters on a white background. Below that, in smaller type, they added, Jake Featherston talks straight. Every Wednesday on the wireless. The truth shall set you free.
“And when will you ever hear the truth from that son of a bitch?” Reggie muttered. He’d heard Jake Featherston on the stump in the very earliest days of the Freedom Party. He hadn’t liked what he heard then, and he hadn’t liked anything he’d heard from Featherston or the Freedom Party since.
Only difference is, Featherston was a little snake then, and he’s a big snake now, Bartlett thought. But even a big snake could lose some hide now and then. Reggie hooked his fingernails under the top of one of those posters and yanked. As he’d hoped, most of it tore away. The fellows who’d hung the posters had done a fast job, a cheap job, but not a good one. They hadn’t used enough paste to stick them down tight. Whistling “Dixie,” he ripped down one poster after another.
He hadn’t got all of them, though, before a raucous voice shouted, “Hey, you bastard, what the hell you think you’re doing?”
“Taking down lies,” Reggie answered calmly.
“Them ain’t lies!” the man said. He was about Reggie’s age, but shabby, scrawny, still wearing a threadbare butternut uniform tunic that had seen a lot of better years. Veterans down on their luck swelled the ranks of the Freedom Party. This one snarled, “You touch another one o’ them posters, and I’ll beat the living shit out of you.”
“You don’t want to try that, buddy,” Bartlett said. Down came another poster. The shabby veteran howled with rage and trotted toward him. Thanks to the wounds Reggie had taken in Sequoyah, he wasn’t much good either at fisticuffs or running away. He’d had run-ins with Freedom Party men before, too.
During the war, a .45 had been an officer’s weapon, nothing to speak of when set against the Tredegar rifles most ordinary soldiers carried. These days, the .45 in a hidden holster on Reggie’s belt put him in mind of an extra ace up his sleeve. He took it out and pointed it at the onrushing would-be tough guy. His two-handed grip said he knew exactly what to do with it, too.
The Freedom Party man skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, so abruptly that he flailed his arms and rocked back on his heels. The barrel of the .45 had to look the size of a railroad tunnel as Reggie aimed it at his midriff. “I told you, you don’t want to try that,” Reggie said.
“You’ll pay for this,” the scruffy veteran said. “Everybody’s gonna pay for fucking with us. You’re going on a list, you—” He decided not to do any more cussing. Running your mouth at a man with a pistol when you didn’t have one of your own wasn’t the smartest thing you could do. Even a Freedom Party muscle man could figure that out.
“Get lost,” Bartlett told him. He gestured with the .45 to emphasize the words. “Go on down to the corner there, turn it, and keep walking. You do anything else, you’ll be holding up a lily.”
Face working with all the things he dared not say, the other man did as he was told. Bartlett finished tearing down the posters, then went on to the trolley stop. His only worry was that the Freedom Party man had a weapon of his own, one he hadn’t had a chance to use. But the fellow had talked about beating him up, not shooting him. And he didn’t reappear.
Up came the trolley, bell clanging. Reggie tossed a dime into the fare box and took a seat. The dime should have been five cents; prices weren’t quite what they had been before the war. But they weren’t what they had been afterwards, either—he wasn’t paying a million dollars, or a billion, for the privilege of riding across town to his flat.
Nobody on the trolley car had the slightest idea who he was or what he’d just done. That suited him fine, too. He had a chance to relax a little and look out the window. Before long, the trolley passed more of those VOTE FREEDOM IN 1925! posters. Reggie’s lip curled. He couldn’t rip them all down, however much he wished he could.
Seven and a half years after the Great War ended, not all the destruction U.S. aeroplanes had visited on Richmond was yet repaired. Plenty of burnt-out and bombed building fronts stared at the street through window frames naked of glass; they might have been so many skulls peering out through empty eye sockets. The damnyankees made my home town into Golgotha, Bartlett thought. One of these days, we’ll have to pay them back. But how?
He shivered, though the crowded trolley was warm with humanity. That was how the Freedom Party thought, and how it got its members. Haven’t you had enough of war? he asked himself. Asked that way, he could hardly say no.
He got off at the shop nearest his flat. For supper, he fried up a ham steak and some potatoes. After he did the dishes—he was a fussy, neat bachelor—he read for a while and went to bed. He wouldn’t have minded a wireless set, so he could listen to music or a football game, but not on the salary of a druggist’s assistant.
The next day did bring a chilly drizzle. Work at the drugstore went much as the previous day had. He didn’t bother telling his boss about the fuss over the posters. Jeremiah Harmon had no use for the Freedom Party, no, but Reggie didn’t want him fussing like a mother hen, which was just what he would have done.
“Hey, you!” somebody called to Reggie when he walked to the trolley stop that evening. It was the veteran he’d quarreled with. He wore a disreputable hat to keep the rain off his face.
His hand went to the .45. “Told you I didn’t want you bothering me,” he said.
“No bother, pal,” the fellow said. He pasted on a smile as he came up to Bartlett, and he made sure he kept his hands in plain sight. “We’ve all got to live and let live, ain’t that right?”
Reggie stared. “That’s not how you talked yesterday,” he said, his voice hard with suspicion. “What’s wrong with you now?”
“Not a thing,” the Freedom Party man said. “I just got a little hasty, is all. You went through some of the things I did, you’d get hasty, too.”
“I went through plenty myself,” Bartlett said. “You want to go through it again? That’s what that damn Featherston’s got in mind.”
“No, pal. You don’t understand at all,” the veteran said. He still had on the same ancient tunic he’d worn the evening before.
Noticing that, Reggie didn’t notice the footsteps coming up behind him till they stopped. That made him notice, and made him start to turn, his pistol coming out of the holster. Too late. He heard three shots. Two slugs hammered him in the chest. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, reaching for the .45 that had fallen from his fingers.
The veteran scooped it up. “Nice piece,” he said, and then, grinning, “Freedom!” Reggie heard him as if from far away, and further every moment. He didn’t hear the man and his friend running away at all, or anything else ever again.
* * *
Three guards came up to Cincinnatus Driver’s cell. Two of them stood in the corridor, their pistols aimed at his midsection. The third opened the cell door. “Come along,” he said.
“Where you takin’ me?” Cincinnatus asked.
“That ain’t none o’ your business, boy,” the guard snapped, for all the world as if Kentucky were still part of the CSA, not the USA. “Come along, you hear?”
“Yes, suh.” Cincinnatus got up off his cot and came. He’d quickly learned how far he could go with these guards before they stopped talking and started persuading him by other means. One beating had been plenty to drive the lesson home: not just the beating itself, but how much they enjoyed giving it to him. If they ever decided to beat him to death, they would do it with smiles on their faces.
“Hands behind your back,” the guard told him. He obeyed. The guard clicked handcuffs onto his wrists. They were cruelly tight, but Cincinnatus kept his mouth shut about that, too. Complaining just got them tightened more.
The guards marched him along the corridor. He recognized some of the men sitting or lying in their cells. Some, black like him, were Reds. Others, whites, were men who’d been Confederate diehards during the war and probably belonged to the Freedom Party nowadays. Maybe some of the other prisoners recognized him, too. If so, no one gave a sign.
“This way,” one of the guards told him. They led him across the exercise yard he normally saw for an hour a week, down another corridor, and into an office. A tall, backless stool sat in front of the desk. Luther Bliss sat behind it. The guards slammed Cincinnatus down on the stool, hard.
“Here we are again,” the head of the Kentucky State Police said.
“Yes, suh,” Cincinnatus said. “I want a lawyer, suh.” He hadn’t tried that one in a while. The worst the other man could tell him was no.
Bliss’ smile never touched his hunting-dog eyes. “If you was still in Des Moines, maybe you could have one,” he answered. “But this here’s Kentucky, and the rules are different here. This is one of the reclaimed states, and we aren’t about to put up with treason or rebellion. You mess around with that stuff and you get caught, we take care of you our own way.”
“I wasn’t messin’ around with nothin’ here,” Cincinnatus said bitterly. “I was just livin’ my life up in Iowa till you got that sorry Hadrian nigger to write that lyin’ letter to get me down here in the first place. You call that fair . . . suh?”
“I had you once before,” Luther Bliss replied in meditative tones. “I had you, and I was going to squeeze you, and Teddy Roosevelt made me turn you loose. He made me pay you a hundred dollars out of my own pocket, too. I have . . . a long memory for these things, Cincinnatus.”
Cincinnatus hadn’t forgotten that, either, though Bliss hadn’t mentioned it till now. “Do Jesus, Mr. Bliss, you want your hundred dollars back, I’ll pay it to you. Just let me wire my wife an’—”
Bliss shook his head. “I get paid back with interest.”
“I’ll pay you interest. I got the money. I done pretty good for myself up there.”
“I don’t want your money. I get paid back my kind of interest.”
He was what he was. His kind of interest involved pain and misery. That was what he dished out. That was what the people who told him what to do wanted him to dish out. If, every once in a while, he dished them out to people who didn’t really deserve them, the people who told him what to do probably didn’t mind. They might even figure he deserved a little fun on the job.
Like a hunting dog taking a scent, Luther Bliss leaned forward. “Enough chitchat. About time we get down to business, I reckon.”
Before Cincinnatus could brace himself, one of the guards slapped him in the face. He tumbled off the stool and also banged his funny bone on the floor as he fell. “Why’d he do that, Mr. Bliss?” he said, slowly climbing to his feet. “I ain’t done nothin’ to nobody.”
“You lie. Everyone lies.” Luther Bliss sounded sad but certain. Policemen got used to people lying to them. Maybe they even got to where they expected it. Secret policemen probably heard and expected even more lies than any other kind. Bliss pointed to the stool. “Sit your nigger ass back down, Cincinnatus. You got to tell the truth when I ask my questions.”
“You didn’t ask me no questions,” Cincinnatus said reproachfully. “Joe there, he jus’ hauled off an’ hit me.”
“That’s for all the lies you’ve already told me, and to remind you not to tell me any more,” Luther Bliss answered. Again, his smile never reached his eyes. “You ought to be thankful we’ve gone easy on you so far.”
“Easy!” Cincinnatus exclaimed. “He damn near knocked my head off.” A few months in jail—and years of sparring before then—had given him and the secret policeman an odd sort of camaraderie. He could, up to a point, speak his mind without making Luther Bliss any more likely to do something dreadful to him.
Bliss nodded now. “He just thumped you a bit. Worse we’ve done, we’ve beaten you up. That ain’t so much of a much, Cincinnatus, believe you me it ain’t. It’s a new age we’re livin’ in. Electricity’s everywhere. You take an ordinary car battery and some wires, and you clip ’em to a man’s ears, or to the skin of his belly, or maybe to his privates. . . .”
Cincinnatus didn’t want to show fear. But his mouth went dry at the thought of electricity trickling through his balls. Would he ever be able to get it up again after something like that? Please, Jesus, don’t let me find out!
Meditatively, Bliss went on, “Other nice thing about that is, it doesn’t leave any marks. You niggers don’t show bruises as much as a white man would, but even so. . . .” He leaned forward. “I reckon you already told me everything you know about Kennedy and Conroy and the rest of those goddamn diehards.”
“Mr. Bliss, I done sung like a canary ‘bout them bastards.” There Cincinnatus spoke the truth. He owed no loyalty to the white men who’d done all they could to help the Confederate cause in Kentucky. They might have killed him or betrayed him to U.S. authorities, but they’d had no great hold on his loyalty. As far as he could see, any Negro who backed the Confederates from anything but compulsion was some kind of idiot.
The secret policeman pointed to him. “You’re still holding out, though, when it comes to Apicius and the rest of the Reds. Like calls to like. Just like the diehards, you coons stick together.”
“Do Jesus, how can I know what they’re up to when I moved away years ag—” Cincinnatus got that far before the guard belted him again. This time, he was braced for it, and didn’t fall off the stool. He tasted blood in his mouth.
“You don’t expect me to believe anything like that, do you?” Luther Bliss sounded sad, like a preacher contemplating sinful mankind. “I ain’t stupid, Cincinnatus, no matter what you think.”
“I never reckoned you was.” Again, Cincinnatus told the exact truth. Fear of Bliss had helped him decide to leave Kentucky, but he’d never thought the other man was dumb. Just the opposite: he didn’t care to live under Bliss’ magnifying glass for the rest of this days. Living under his thumb, though, was even worse.
“You get letters. You know what’s going on here,” the secret policeman said.
“Not hardly,” Cincinnatus told him. “Don’t hardly know that many folks what can read an’ write. You keepin’ tabs on me all the time like I reckon you been doin’, you know that’s true.”
For a moment, he thought he’d got through to Bliss. The man’s eyes narrowed. He looked thoughtful. But then, a moment before he spoke, Cincinnatus realized he was playing a part. He was building up hope in his captive only to dash it: “Well, sonny, so what? Long as you’re here, you’ll pay for everything you done anyways.”
Cincinnatus would have been more devastated if he’d had more hope to lose. He wanted to tell Bliss where to head in. A couple of times, back in the days when he was still free, he had told Bliss where to head in. He’d enjoyed it mightily then, too. But he was paying for it now.
“What you got to tell me about them Reds?” Luther Bliss asked now.
“I done told you everything I ever knew,” Cincinnatus answered. It wasn’t quite true, but he didn’t think Bliss knew that.
He did know what was coming next. It came. Joe and the other guards got to work on him. They enjoyed what they did, yes, but not to the point of getting carried away and doing him permanent harm: they were, in their way, professionals. It went on for a very long, painful time.
What hurt most of all, though, was a casual remark Bliss made halfway through the torment: “You might as well sing, by God. It isn’t like anybody on the outside gives a damn about what happens to one miserable nigger in a Kentucky jail.”
At last, the beating stopped. The guards dragged Cincinnatus back to his cell. He probably could have walked. He made himself out to be weaker and hurt worse than he really was. Maybe that made them go a little easier on him than they would have otherwise. On the other hand, maybe it didn’t do a single goddamn thing.
“See you next time, boy,” Joe said as his pal undid the manacles from Cincinnatus’ wrists.
Cincinnatus lay on his cot like a dead man. Had Luther Bliss sent for him more often, he would have been a dead man in short order. Maybe Bliss didn’t want to kill him right away. Maybe, on the other hand, the secret policeman was taking so many different vengeances, he wasn’t in a hurry about finishing off any one of them.
It isn’t like anybody on the outside gives a damn about what happens to one miserable nigger in a Kentucky jail. In a way, that was a lie. Cincinnatus knew as much. Elizabeth cared. Achilles cared. Amanda cared. But what could they do? They were black, too, black in a white man’s country. Nobody who could do anything cared about Cincinnatus. That burned like acid. It would keep on burning long after the pain of this latest beating eased, too.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. So far, the goons had broken only one. He’d taken no new damage there today. They hadn’t done anything to him this time that wouldn’t fade in a couple of weeks. In the meantime . . . In the meantime, it’s gonna hurt, and ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.
A cart squeaked up the corridor: supper trays. Cincinnatus wondered if he’d be able to eat. You better. You got to stay strong. A redheaded white man shoved a tray of something that smelled greasy into Cincinnatus’ cell. The fellow wore the same sort of uniform as the guards who’d beaten him.
In a low voice, the redhead said, “Freedom.” Cincinnatus suppressed a groan. Just what he needed—somebody with diehard sympathies mocking him. I ought to report you, you bastard. Luther Bliss’d make you pay. But then the fellow went on, “We’ll get you out.” He pushed the cart away. Cincinnatus stared after him. Did he mean that? And, if he did, whose side was he really on?