again very soon and got into his car. What a sweet-sounding motor, thought Paul. What a weird thing to watch somebody move, not know what the man does, and to dislike the son of a bitch right from the start and then more so the less he made sense. With a sweet-sounding motor like that he drives like a funeral….
Slow enough to walk, thought Paul, and he walked. He rounded the corner to Third when Jordan’s car crept up to the apartment building. There it stopped.
Paul started to run.
And this time the bastard saw me for sure, thought Paul, because why should he take off like that. A type like that and he takes off with the tires squealing. That don’t fit, Smith don’t fit, the buttons don’t fit…. He ran to the lot where the diner stood and where his car was parked. He jumped in and then he thought that son of a bitch should hear this—the kind of noise he, Paul, was making; how the motor let out a scream and the gravel shot out and the whine when the car hauled over and into the street. And that’s all for you, button man….
And now he’s running and he’s driving as if he knew the road and the countryside well. He’s running from me hell-bent-for-leather.
When Paul realized this he stopped wondering who Smith was; he stopped turning it back and forth in his mind if he was salesman, or grifter, or a man who had come down to wheedle a deal, or had come casing even, because now the other one ran and Paul after him with never a doubt he would make it. And if I can’t talk to him, he said to himself, then you will, Anna-Lee, and he squeezed his left arm into his side so he could feel the holster.
The car up ahead didn’t cut speed at all when it turned. It leaned so heavily into the turn that Paul held his breath for a moment. Then he braked very sharply because he didn’t know the road which the one up ahead was taking. Black top and two lanes and plenty of bumps. The two tail lights up ahead bounded up and down. Break a spring, you bastard, but nothing else. I’ll break the rest for you, button man….
Then the car was gone.
Paul gunned and had to fight the wheel when he came into the bend of the road and what pulled him through, so it seemed, was the sight of the red lights up ahead again. Steady as…. He had stopped, that’s why! Slammed into the side of the road with one door hanging open, with the lights still on, with one front wheel almost hanging over where the embankment dropped off and the bridge railing started. Why the door open? He fell out that way. Why had he been running? Because I was after him.
Paul grinned and stopped his car so that it slammed down on the frame.
“Smith?”
He could look down the embankment but at the bottom he saw only dark.
“Smith? Hey, button man!”
“Yes?”
He thought he could see him now, down by the culvert which went under the bridge.
“Come on out!”
He could see Smith standing there and that man would have looked the same had he stood on a street. Smith looks weird standing in weeds up to his knees.
“Don’t be scared, boy. I come to buy buttons. Smith?”
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
“Here.”
“I got all night, Smith. You hear me?” and he moved toward the bridge so that his shadow stretched out ahead of him.
Smith doesn’t move. No sir, but now he does. Back, he does, and afraid of my shadow. Yessir, that one scares….
“Smith, little buddy, can you see me clear?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God, you sound all choked up.”
This time no answer. Oh my God, how I hate the bastard.
“Little button buddy, here I am. For a sample—”
Then it spat so fast, Paul barely heard all the sound that went with it.
Oh my God, oh my God, how I hate, he thought, and was finished.
9
High angle shot, thought Jordan. Chest or head? Hard telling, with the headlight glare making false borders around his shape, and the foreshortened angle.
He put the gun in his pocket and climbed up the bank, through the dry weeds.
With the kind of
Slow enough to walk, thought Paul, and he walked. He rounded the corner to Third when Jordan’s car crept up to the apartment building. There it stopped.
Paul started to run.
And this time the bastard saw me for sure, thought Paul, because why should he take off like that. A type like that and he takes off with the tires squealing. That don’t fit, Smith don’t fit, the buttons don’t fit…. He ran to the lot where the diner stood and where his car was parked. He jumped in and then he thought that son of a bitch should hear this—the kind of noise he, Paul, was making; how the motor let out a scream and the gravel shot out and the whine when the car hauled over and into the street. And that’s all for you, button man….
And now he’s running and he’s driving as if he knew the road and the countryside well. He’s running from me hell-bent-for-leather.
When Paul realized this he stopped wondering who Smith was; he stopped turning it back and forth in his mind if he was salesman, or grifter, or a man who had come down to wheedle a deal, or had come casing even, because now the other one ran and Paul after him with never a doubt he would make it. And if I can’t talk to him, he said to himself, then you will, Anna-Lee, and he squeezed his left arm into his side so he could feel the holster.
The car up ahead didn’t cut speed at all when it turned. It leaned so heavily into the turn that Paul held his breath for a moment. Then he braked very sharply because he didn’t know the road which the one up ahead was taking. Black top and two lanes and plenty of bumps. The two tail lights up ahead bounded up and down. Break a spring, you bastard, but nothing else. I’ll break the rest for you, button man….
Then the car was gone.
Paul gunned and had to fight the wheel when he came into the bend of the road and what pulled him through, so it seemed, was the sight of the red lights up ahead again. Steady as…. He had stopped, that’s why! Slammed into the side of the road with one door hanging open, with the lights still on, with one front wheel almost hanging over where the embankment dropped off and the bridge railing started. Why the door open? He fell out that way. Why had he been running? Because I was after him.
Paul grinned and stopped his car so that it slammed down on the frame.
“Smith?”
He could look down the embankment but at the bottom he saw only dark.
“Smith? Hey, button man!”
“Yes?”
He thought he could see him now, down by the culvert which went under the bridge.
“Come on out!”
He could see Smith standing there and that man would have looked the same had he stood on a street. Smith looks weird standing in weeds up to his knees.
“Don’t be scared, boy. I come to buy buttons. Smith?”
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
“Here.”
“I got all night, Smith. You hear me?” and he moved toward the bridge so that his shadow stretched out ahead of him.
Smith doesn’t move. No sir, but now he does. Back, he does, and afraid of my shadow. Yessir, that one scares….
“Smith, little buddy, can you see me clear?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God, you sound all choked up.”
This time no answer. Oh my God, how I hate the bastard.
“Little button buddy, here I am. For a sample—”
Then it spat so fast, Paul barely heard all the sound that went with it.
Oh my God, oh my God, how I hate, he thought, and was finished.
9
High angle shot, thought Jordan. Chest or head? Hard telling, with the headlight glare making false borders around his shape, and the foreshortened angle.
He put the gun in his pocket and climbed up the bank, through the dry weeds.
With the kind of
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