Chapter 2
The girl was. emptying a bag of grocery refuse into the galvanized iron pail at the side of the house, pretending not to be listening to the intense words of the young man standing behind her.
"Aw, come on, Abbie. Just give me a chance, that's all I ask."
"George Link, you go away or I'll call Pa. I swear, I never seen such a persistent person. I told you five times already that I ain't going to the tool shed, and I mean it."
George licked his lips and moved his large hands stupidly at his sides. His features were as thick as his hands, and the unruly mess of his hair burst from his skull like stuffing from an old sofa. The only animation in his face rested back of his eyes, which were lit with a moist excitement.
"Listen, Abbie," he said, staring at the girl's strong, rounded calves, "it ain't what you think. I got a present for you, Abbie." The girl straightened up, slid the iron lid back into place on the pail and began to fold the empty paper bag. She didn't turn to look at him. "Present? What do you mean, present?"
"A regular present, Abbie. I bought a present for you."
"Don't call me Abbie," she said, laying the folded bag carefully on the lid of the pail. "Only my friends can call me Abbie, so you better call me Abigail."
"All right, all right, Abigail. I got a present for you, Abigail."
She brushed her hands down the front of her apron, then turned to face him. Her eyes shifted suspiciously. "A present for what? Why should you buy me a present when I don' t even like you? "
George's heavy eyebrows came together. "Oh hell, Abbie-Abigail. That ain't so, and you know it. What about last Saturday night on the hayride? You liked me well enough then, didn't you?"
The girl shrugged. The motion made her heavy breasts shift inside the plain cotton dress she wore. "That was Saturday night," she said.
"I ain't trying to fool you, Abigail," he said, with a note of pleading in his voice. "I only want to give you a present, that's all."
She tossed her head, and again the meaty contours of her breasts moved. It was obvious to the young man that she wasn't wearing a bra. His eyes struggled to remain on her face.
"I don't believe you got no present, George. Where'd you ever get money to buy presents? You never got it hanging out around the Four Star Bar and Grill, that's for sure."
"I do what I please," George said defensively. "I feel like hanging out at the Four Star, I'll do that. I don't even have to answer to no grocer's daughter."
Abbie's eyes flared. "Oh, is that so? Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Big-Deal George Link-"
He raised a placating hand quickly and forced a smile. "Abbie-now don't start getting mad on me. You know I didn't mean nothing. All I mean is I run my own life, and what I do is my business. There ain't nothing wrong with that."
"That's right," Abbie replied. "And I run mine. And if I don't care nothing for a guy named George Link, who's so thick-headed he don't know what the word no means, and who drinks and plays around all the time and never does no work, that's my business, just the same way, right!"
George grinned painfully and clenched his teeth to hold back his angry reply. Abbie turned away and started toward the rear entrance to her father's grocery store.
"It's a nice present," George said.
"You ain't got no present."
"Yes I have. Honest, Abbie."
She paused at the steps and turned to face him again, spreading her feet and putting her hands on her hips. She was a big girl, almost as tall as George, and the development of her breasts and hips was excessive. The rest of her body, however, was delicately formed, with slender arms, a narrow waist, and lithe, rounded legs. The highlights of her anatomy seemed bigger than life when seen in comparison to the rest of her.
She shook her head, and the chestnut waves of her hair swung around her face. "No sir, I know you, George. I know why you want me to go to the shed. And no, thanks."
"Aw, Abbie...."
"Don't you 'Aw, Abbie' me, George. I know what you got on your mind and it ain't presents, not by a long shot. Go ahead-deny it if you can."
"Well," said George sheepishly. "I got to admit my thinking kind of runs along those lines when I'm talking to a pretty girl like you, Abbie."
"Oh, the hell. You think the same thing no matter what kind of gal it is. All you ever think about is sex-it's the only kind of work you do."
Abbie's voice had lost some of its icy edge, and she was beginning to smile. George smiled hopefully back.
"I really do have a present for you, Abbie."
"Where? Let's see it."
"Uh-uh. Not here. I want it to be private when I give it to you. It's kind of personal."
She laughed. "Sure, I'll bet it's personal. You got it all ready and waiting for me inside of your pants, now don't you George?"
"Abbie? Come on-just a couple minutes in the shed, so we can be alone and I can give you the present. Please Abbie?"
She glanced around. The yard behind the grocery store was surrounded by a high fence, and the neighboring buildings were too low for any windows to overlook it. At the end of the yard, opposite the rear wall of the store, stood a small wooden shed, windowless and about eight feet square.
"Well," Abbie said. Maybe for just a minute. Pa's going to be looking for me if I'm gone too long. I'm supposed to help check the stock today."
"We won't take long, Abbie," George said eagerly. "I promise-only a few minutes."
"Well...." She looked coyly into his wet eyes. "Let's go, then."
George reached out and took her hand. Her palm was dry and hot, and her fingers curled around his with surprising strength.
They crossed the yard together quickly, and George pulled open the door of the shed. It was dark and musty inside, but enough light to see by fell in slices through the badly-fitted boards of the roof.
On the floor around the walls were stacks of wood and cardboard crates, and there was a pile of faded cloth in one corner.
George pulled the door closed and slid the bolt to lock it. When he turned, Abbie was standing a few feet away with her arms crossed under the lush weights of her breasts.
"All right," she said. "Let's see the present."
George smiled. "I got it right here, Abbie. Right here in my pocket. It's real special-I bought it just for you."
"You told me all that, George. Let's see it."
"No wait," he said. He rubbed his hands together with the air of a conjurer about to perform a feat of magic. "I got to tell you about it first."
Abbie sighed. "So go ahead-but hurry up. I can't spend the whole afternoon in here. I got work to do."
"Sure, sure. Now-you remember the story you heard about Solveig Hinkle?"
"Solveig? There's all kinds of stories about her. Which one do you mean?"
"About her-her front. How she got it so big."
Abbie's eyes snapped with anger. "What the hell's the idea of this? Did you bring me in here just to talk about Solveig Hinkle's front?"
"Now, simmer down, for God's sake. Will you let me tell you what I want to tell you? All I asked is, if you heard the story."
Abbie scowled. "Yes, I heard the story. If you mean the one about the stuff her Ma makes her-is that the one?"
"Yeah, that's it. About that special German cream her Ma makes up for her. You know about it?"
"Well, sure I do. Everybody in town knows that story. That cream's supposed to be how Ma Hinkle got her own front so big, and now she's letting Solveig use it. German ladies are supposed to all use cream like that to blow themselves up. That's a lot of crap anyway. There ain't no such cream."
"Oh yes there is," George said.
"What are you telling me?" Abbie asked, her eyes narrowing.
"I'm telling you there is so such a cream. I don't know whether old lady Hinkle makes it, or whether fat Solveig ever used it. Maybe the part of the story about the German ladies making themselves big that way is crap, just like you said. But there is such a cream
"How do you know?"
"I got some." he said.
Abbie didn't say a word for a moment. Her face remained stern and disbelieving, but a light of utter fascination began to shine in her eyes. "I don't believe you, George Link. You're funning me."
"I ain't, Abbie. Nothing like it. Here-" He dipped into his pocket and brought forth a small round jar. "Take a look at this. It's your present, Abbie."
The girl stepped forward and took the jar from his hand. It was fashioned of pink opaque glass and had a small closely-printed label wrapped around it.
"Lady Jane's Bust Rejuvenation Cream," she read slowly, twisting her lips around the unfamiliar vocabulary. "Guaranteed to enhance the size, shape, coloring, texture, and essential muscular understructure of the female bosom. Oh, my!"
"That there cream," George said proudly, "that's the real stuff. That's not some German Mama's junk-that's by mail order from Chicago, and it wasn't cheap neither.
That's the best."
Abbie didn't seem to be listening. Her lips moved silently as she tried to unravel the fine print of the instructions.
"Yes sir," George went on. "I heard you and Marge Webster talking about the front on that there Solveig, and right away I remembered the ad I saw for this stuff in a book I had. So I sent, off for it. Cost a wad, but when I buy a present for a gal, it ain't nothing but the best."
"I can't make this out, George," Abbie said, squinting at the label. "What are you supposed to do with this stuff? Eat it."
"Eat it?" George brayed with laughter. "No. You smear it on, like."
"Smear it on? You mean, on my...."
"Yep, right on them. That's what it says there on the label. I know, because I read all about it when I got it in the mail. You must spoon out a little bit, about the size of a pea like it says there, then rub it all over your hands and just smear it on,"
"What's it do, George?" Abbie couldn't seem to tear her eyes from the jar. "How's it work?"
George shrugged. "I don't know. Just makes them bigger and juicier, I guess. That's what it says on the label."
"Hey." Abbie's head came up suddenly and her eyes flashed. "How come you bought me this stuff?"
"How come?" George scratched his head. "Well-because I like you, Abbie. I mean, you and Marge talked about German Mama cream, and I figured you'd get a kick out of having some of this stuff for yourself."
"You don't think I need cream, do you?"
George caught the warning in Abbie's voice, and smiled very warmly. "Not a chance, Abbie. You don't need no cream to look pretty in front. You got the prettiest pair in this whole town, and you know it."
"Yeah? Well, I just wanted to make sure, that's all. When a boy gives a gal bust cream, maybe it means he ain't quite satisfied with her bust."
"I'm satisfied," George said. There was a faint note of hesitancy in his voice.
"You don't sound it," said Abbie.
"Well, you know. From the looks, I'd say you had a real nice pair, like I told you."
"What do you mean, from the looks?"
"You know-from the way they push out of your dress. Real nice, Abbie."
"So how come you sound so peculiar about it?"
"Well-" George blinked rapidly several times. "I ain't never seen them, Abbie."
"Sure you have, George."
"No sir. Not in the light. Not outside your dress. You know what I mean."
"George, you saw them on the hayride Saturday."
He shook his head. "I never did. It was too damn dark to see anything, and you know it. I-I felt them, but I didn't see them."
"Yeah, you felt them all right. And you didn't like what you felt so much, is that it? You thought maybe I needed some of this here cream?"
"Abbie, you're putting words in my mouth. I never thought anything like that. Look-I sent for the stuff the middle of last week, before we even went on the hayride.
"Oh." She dropped her eyes to the jar again. "Yeah, I guess you must have. It couldn't have got here from Chicago in such a short time, could it? "
"No sir. I got that stuff for you just because I like you. I think you're a real pretty girl, Abbie, and I just wanted to buy you something to make you even prettier. So there it is. Your present.
Finally she smiled. Her face relaxed, and the suspicion dwindled out of her eyes. "Why thank you, George. I appreciate it. Why, there probably ain't another gal in the whole town has any of this cream."
"You bet there ain't."
"I'll use it tonight first thing, George."
"Abbie?"
"What?"
"How about right now?"
"Huh? She looked at him in puzzlement.
"Why wait till tonight? Why don't you put on some of that stuff right now?"
"Here in the shed? You out of your mind, George?"
"Why not here?" He ran his tongue across his lips. "There ain't nobody in here to see you. Except me."
": Yeah-well, that's one too many."
"Aw, Abbie. I bought you the stuff, didn't I? The least you could do is let me watch you use it. Or...."
"OR WHAT George? Spit it out."
"Or let me put it on you myself."
Abbie didn't say anything for the space of a few seconds. George tried to keep his eyes centered on her own, but they kept shifting away, sliding downward to examine the mounds which filled the bodice of her dress.
"You want to put it on me with your own hands?"
"I sure would like to do that, Abbie."
"Are you supposed to do it that way?"
"I don't know. It don't say nothing on the label about whose hands to use. But, look-when I felt at you on the hayride, you got all big up front there, didn't you?"
She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose I did."
"Well, there you are. I wasn't even using no cream, and you got big up front there, didn't you?"
She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose I did."
"Well, there you are. I wasn't even using no cream. And you got big. Now if I had some of that stuff to smear on you...."
She laughed. "That makes sense, George-I got to admit it. Here, hold this for a second." She handed him the jar.
While he watched with bugging eyes, she hitched her arms up behind her and found the zipper tab of her dress. For an instant, her breasts thrust so tightly up against the material that he could see the twin points of the nipples buttoning out at him.
Then the zipper dropped, and the dress slid down from her shoulders and fell around her waist. She paused. Only the light pink silk of a slip concealed her flesh. She looked at him. "You sure you want to do this, George?"
"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "Sure, I'm sure."
"You're going to get all worked up, George, and there ain't nothing we can do about it."
"That's all right, Abbie. I don't mind at all, believe me."
"But, maybe...." The girl smiled a smoldering smile, and the fire of it leaped into her eyes. "Maybe later on tonight...."
George didn't answer. He couldn't.
Abbie's fingers reached up and plucked the straps of her slip from her shoulders. They whispered down her arms and over her wrists as the pink material joined the dress in a pile around her waist.
Her breasts were round and tense, like pink bladders filled with liquid. The soft coral puckers at their tips pointed wall-eyed away from the deep fleshy valley of her Cleavage. The breasts hung heavily, with a double-chin roundness beneath them, but the size and thrust of them was youthful and thoroughly female.
"All right," she said, crossing her arms behind her and arching her upper torso as if her wrists were bound. Her breasts lifted in naked, moon-white invitation. "Let's have some of that there cream, George."
He dropped the top of the jar on the floor between her feet, but didn't stoop to retrieve it. His entire attention was focused entirely on the dual scoops of milky flesh before him. Somehow he managed to dip a finger into the jar. The bit of cream he rubbed into his palms was considerably larger than a pea, but neither of them seemed to notice.
"Come on, George. You rub me up with some of that cream before! catch a chill." Abbie wiggled her shoulders, and the weights of her breasts danced heavily against her torso.
He dropped the jar, and his hands came up quickly, formed into cream-smeared containers. The warm mounds fitted into his palms.
"That's the way, George. You give them a good rubbing with that Lady Jane cream, so they'll be all nice for you later on tonight."
"Abbie...."
She shook her head, and her breasts shifted in his greased palms. "Don't talk about it, George, just do it. We'll talk tonight."
He hesitated only an instant, his face congested with excitement. Then his hands began to move, pressing toward her so that the yielding globes flattened slightly, then moving his hands in opposing circles, shifting and manipulating the flesh. The bust cream made it difficult to maintain any sort of grip. His hands kept slipping, and his palms kept sliding down across the tensed nipples. The crinkled skin responded, forming into hard ridges, pushing against his hands like small rosy fingertips.
"That's nice, George," said Abbie. Her voice had fallen yet another octave and was windy with her heavy breathing. "You do that real nice-that's just the way-oh, I can feel that old Lady Jane soaking right in-oh, that's so nice-"
Her words died in a hissing inhalation as his fingers clutched her, as his palms pressed the firm little tips into her mounded flesh. She took her arms from behind her and grabbed him about the waist pulling him closer, making his hands press even more tightly. Her hips thrust up against his loins and rotated wantonly.
"Abbie...." he said again, his voice strangling in excitement.
"Shhh, don't. No talk, George."
"Abbie, can I kiss them?"
"Kiss?" she opened her eyes and her hips ceased their voluptuous motion. "Kiss them?"
"Please Abbie. Let me."
"But...." Her eyes were clouding, almost as if arousal were drawing a membrane over them. "But the cream, George."
"What cream?"
"The Lady Jane. You'll get your mouth all full of it."
He slipped his palms off her breasts and around beneath them, lifting the shapes upward until they swelled toward his face. "I don't care about no cream," he said.
His mouth opened, his face fell onto one fleshy globe, and a berry-ripe nipple came between his lips.
"Ah-she said, her breathing lifting her breasts to meet his kiss. "George, that's so good-oh you're going to get one, George, later on, tonight-you'll see-oh, I'm going to give you such a one-"
Her voice died in a gargle.
Down against her breast, George said, "Mmmph."
The Lady Jane Bust Cream tasted vile.
Constancia Lambino heard the slap of the screen door, and looked up from the pot steaming on the stove before her. The clock over the kitchen door said three-thirty; far too early for Salvatore to be home from his shoe repair shop. Yet the sound of his footsteps in the hall was unmistakable. Twenty years of marriage had taught her the trick of recognizing her husband's footfall, among other things.
The years of marriage had matured her mind, but they hadn't had much effect on her body. Essentially she still looked as firm and youthfully rounded as on the day of her wedding. Of course, certain of the roundness had filled in with the passing years-her breasts were almost a size larger than they had been at age twenty-one, and her hips flared an extra inch on either side. Yet the total effect was still one of youth and resiliency. Not even the plainness of her housedress could hide the warm welcoming flow of the body inside it.
Sal came through the doorway into the kitchen. He was a small man, barely an inch taller than his wife, but he was built along solidly masculine lines. His shoulders were broad, his arms were almost as thick as her calves, and his waist was still as trim as an athlete's in spite of his forty-five years. Only his hair hinted at times' passage; it was still thick and tightly-curled, but touched here and there with gray.
"You're home early," Connie said. Her voice was very soft and musical. "I didn't expect to see you until six."
"I know," Sal replied, crossing to the refrigerator and taking out two bottles of beer. "I have to go back-the work isn't finished yet."
"You have to work late tonight?" she asked.
"Yes." He carried the beer to the kitchen table, popped the caps with an opener, then went to his wife's side and took down two glasses from the cabinet above the sink.
"Come sit with me and have a beer," he said.
She followed him to the table and sat across from him as he poured the brew. She sipped lightly at her drink, while Sal half emptied his glass at a single swallow.
"Sal?"
"What?"
"When will you be finished at the store?"
"I don't know. Late."
"How late?"
"Ten o'clock-maybe eleven. Late."
"Oh."
He poured off his beer and refilled the glass. "Come, Connie-drink. Have some beer with me." She lifted her glass dutifully and took a deep swallow. "Sal?"
"What is it?"
"Is there anything wrong? Is there trouble of any kind?"
His face softened and he reached out a leathery hand to hers. "No, there's nothing wrong. The belt on the polisher broke, that's all."
"Oh. Have you fixed it?"
"Yes. Took two hours to fix it. I will have to make up that time." He smiled grimly. "But I wanted to come home first. I wanted to see you again before I locked myself in the shop again to work."
She smiled. Faint laugh-lines gathered at the corners of her flashing black eyes, and her teeth were white as pearl by contrast. "I'm glad you came."
He squeezed her hand, then took another swallow of his beer.
"Sal?"
"Yes."
"You will be home-too late tonight?"
He lifted an eyebrow. "Too late?"
"Yes. I thought-well, we planned to-but you will be home too late for that, won't you?" Her face was composed, but a flush had crept into her cheeks.
"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry, but I will be home too late. You know how I am when I stay nights at the shop. I'm always too tired."
She nodded. "Yes, I know. Well-perhaps tomorrow night." She reached for her beer, but suddenly he was holding both her hands.
"That's why I came home early."
"Sal?"
"I've worked all day thinking of you. I couldn't work all night as well-not without keeping the promise I made to you this morning."
"Sal-now?"
"Yes. Right now. Why not now?"
She smiled more broadly, and the flood flamed in her cheeks. "What about dinner?"
"Dinner can wait," he said. "A man draws his strength from many things, and food is only one of them."
"Finish your beer, Salvatore."
He tossed off the last of his drink, then drew her to her feet. "Come on, Constancia. I must keep my promise." .
They left the kitchen and went up the hall stairs together to the second floor. There were only three rooms up there-the bedroom they shared, a bathroom, and a small nursery room which had never been used in the entire twenty years of their marriage. Once, years before, an occupant for that room had been on its way, and the room had been prepared for its arrival. But the occupant-a boy-had arrived early, ready for the grave, and in passing had taken with him any chance for a second try.
So the nursery room was used for storage, and the bedroom for the lovemaking which would never bear fruit again.
Sal stripped out of his clothes quickly and draped them on a chair. When he was naked, he went to the bed and sat on the edge of it, watching his wife as she bared her body, one garment at a time. Her dress came off over her head: beneath it she wore only a brassiere, panties, and a half-slip. These three items shortly followed the dress, as did her shoes.
Last of all she unbound the black mass of her hair so that it tumbled down in midnight, waves around her creamy shoulders, accentuating the triple white pillowing of her breasts and belly, echoing the dark arrowhead at her loins.
He held out his hand to her and she came across the room, flesh flowing with softness, eyes glittering in the afternoon glow from the window, mouth smiling with all its beautiful white teeth. She came to stand in front of him and presented the firm melons of her breasts to his face. He took the great round tips in his mouth, each one in turn, leaving the old familiar kiss of welcome on what he thought of as her second most sensitive flesh.
Then he ran his hands up along her back and drew her down onto the bed beside him.
"Sal," she said. "You don't have to return to the store too quickly do you?"
He smiled and kissed her lips gently. "No-not too quickly. There's plenty of time."
She nodded. "Good," she said, her voice suddenly fierce. "I don't want it to be over quickly. I want it to last."
His palm flowed down along her flanks, then around to cup the weight of a buttock. She breathed deeply and trembled under his caress.
"Don't worry, wife," he said. "It will last. And if it doesn't why there's always time for another."
Without any warning, her lips came up against his tightly, and her soft tongue darted into his mouth. He swung himself onto her, and the solid columns of her thighs spread for him, then clamped frantically against his hips. He felt her strong calves close around his waist, and he let the strength of her passion draw him down until the old familiar meeting of flesh made them one.
Old, and yet not old-somehow, with this woman it was always new.
Outside, the sun inched down the sky toward dusk, and the birds sang in the trees. But their song was not nearly as sweet as the song of the bedsprings in the house of Salvatore Lambino.
The men sat on the porch in front of the barber shop.
From behind them came the metallic snip of the scissors; from in front, the almost as metallic click of the evening's first crickets. The men smoked-pipes, cigars, cigarettes, all filling the cooling air with masses of curling smoke. The declining sun made the smoke look golden.
At one particular point in the day, usually during the late afternoon, the men of Main Street would look up from work to discover that the day had paused momentarily. Customers vanished from the streets, school children no longer passed by on their way home, even automobiles seemed to have gone off somewhere to rest. It happened every day, and no one really understood it. But they all welcomed it just the same.
At the Four Star, Garfield Smith would polish his last glass, hang up his bar cloth to dry, remove his stained apron, and take a stroll up Main Street.
At the Dry Goods Emporium, Hermann Hinkle would make a quick check of his register tapes, lock the cash drawer, frugally switch off the lights, and take a stroll up Main Street.
At the Food Mart, Simon Tate would put the lids on the cookie and pickle barrels, flop over the Will-Be-Back-Soon sign on the inside of his unlocked front door, and also take a walk on Main Street.
Once in a while, Willie Link would show up, with or without his gangling young son, George. Occasionally Sal Lambino would also appear, although usually he used this pause in the day's activity to drop in briefly on his wife. Sometimes Gully Fry would abandon the ink-smeared dimness of his newspaper office and leave the Weekly Herald to fend for itself while he, too, took a stroll down Main Street.
The cast of characters differed according to circumstances, but the stage was always the same-the porch outside Giacomo Carella's barbershop. And the play was also always the same. But nobody minded the sameness. They were content to sit and smoke their individual smokes, leaning back on their chairs and watching the day turn to ashes in the west. It was a moment of complete relaxation from work, complete respite from thought, and it would be gone so soon.
But for as long as it lasted, the town stopped.
Simon Tate cleared his throat and flicked an ash from his cigarette. "Notice how short the days are getting lately?"
Of course everyone had noticed, so nobody bothered to answer.
"It will be fall soon," said Hermann Hinkle. His German accent was not nearly as thick as his wife's.
Garfield Smith pursed his lips around his cigar. "Smells like frost," he said. "Wouldn't surprise me if this winter turned out to be a bitch."
The men nodded.
Inside the barbershop the ticking of the scissors had stopped. A moment later a freshly-trimmed Willie Link stepped out onto the porch. His son George wasn't with him. Behind Willie came Giacomo Carella, pushing a dust of hair in front of him with a broom. Willie stood to one side while the barber swept the hair off the porch and into the street.
Carella pronounced his first name Jock-o-mo-which was quite correct, but he had never cared for the foreign sound of it. The men of Main Street all called him Jock, which pleased him much more.
"It's going to be a chilly night," he said, crossing his hands and leaning on the broom handle. "I can feel it. The wind's from the hills."
"Yep," said Willie Link. "Tonight's gonna be a night when a man needs something to warm his bones." He turned his stubbled, rheumy-eyed face toward Gar Smith. "How about that, Gar? You think you could find room on my tab for a few snorts tonight?"
Smith mouthed his cigar, and didn't answer.
The men sat in silence for a while, watching the smoke rise and the sun set. Simon Tate was the first to break the silence. "Company coming," he said. The men looked at him, and he inclined his head toward the western end of Main Street.
A hulking, almost-spherical figure had appeared in the afternoon glow and was making its way toward the barbershop. As it drew closer, the details resolved themselves into a black suit, a matching vest with dull gold watch-chain, dust-smeared shoes, and an improbable, large-brimmed hat. Beneath that hat appeared a florid veiny face with small ferret eyes and a large bulbous nose.
"Sheriff," Tate said, as the man came within earshot.
"Simon. Hermann. Gar. Willie. Jock." His nod included them all. Sheriff Small knew everyone in town on a first-name basis. He made it his business to know all their business. He had learned long ago that the average man won't break the law, or even bend it severely, if he thinks he is being watched. Sheriff Small was always watching.
"Saw you at the Creek yesterday," he said to Willie.
Willie Link smiled and rubbed the back of one hand across his mouth. His stubble made a faint rasping sound. "Didn't see no rod or reel though-did you Sheriff?"
The broad-brimmed hat inclined a few inches to the left. "Nope, Willie. No rod or reel. If I'd seen any tackle, you would have heard about it right then. Of course, if you had your license, there wouldn't be no problem."
"Don't have no license," Willie said proudly. "Can't see paying anybody for the right to fish in one of God's streams, except maybe God Himself."
The men laughed.
"So you don't fish at all, is that right, Willie?" Sheriff Small was unwrapping a cigar. "That's, right, sheriff. Not ever, not since they passed the law."
The men laughed again.
Simon Tate was lighting another cigarette, and he held the match over the porch railing until Sheriff Small had his cigar going. "Anything cooking, Sheriff?"
Small puffed until the cigar smoke had gathered beneath his hat-brim and obscured his eyes. "You got a customer in the Four Star," he said.
Gar Smith lifted his eyebrows. "Gully Fry, you mean? I know he's there, Sheriff. Been there since just past noon."
"What's he drinking, Gar?"
"Just beer. Ain't touched a drop of the hard-at least, I never seen him."
Sheriff Small nodded, and smoked billowed from under his hat. "Good. He goes on the hard stuff, I want you to tell me, Gar. We don't want no repetition of that trouble we had with him."
"Aw, Sheriff," Willie said. "That was three years ago. What you want to lean on old Gully like that for?"
The Sheriff's eyes were suddenly visible. He turned a flat and placid gaze in Link's direction. "He made trouble didn't he? When he did that, he gave up his right to go about his business without being watched. It's my job to keep an eye on him. We don't want no more trouble like that."
"You keep your eye on everybody anyway," Jock Carella said.
The Sheriff turned his colorless gaze toward the barber. "Do I?"
Carella's eyes faltered, then fell with his smile. "Well, sure," he said weakly. "You're the sheriff, aren't you?" Nobody argued with that.
"When I was a boy," Hermann Hinkle said suddenly, "I lived in Yorkville."
"Where's that?" asked Carella, grateful for the diversion. "In New York."
"Upstate, you mean?" asked Gar.
"No-in New York City. It's a German section. All the New York Germans live there."
Simon Tate grinned. "I never knew you was from New York," Hermann. You sound like a regular home-grown Kraut."
Hinkle smiled, and didn't seem offended. "You get your accent from the people you grow up with. I can't speak German at all. Sonya can-she's trying to teach Solveig-but she was raised in Germany."
"What about this here Yorkville?" asked Gar Smith.
"Well," said Hinkle, settling back in his chair and crossing his legs, "When I lived there, myself and all the other young bucks used to spend a lot of time in the beer gardens. There were more beer gardens than any of us could count. I remember one block in particular had almost twenty of them."
"Beer gardens, huh?" said Gar. "You ever made out with any of them fat girls with the blonde braids you see all the time in beer gardens?"
The man all laughed, but Hinkle only smiled. "Sometimes," he said. "The competition for young ladies was keen with us young men. But I suppose that's the same anywhere." He paused and puffed his pipe, bringing the faint coal back from the dead. "As I say, there were beer gardens galore in those days, all fitted out to look like Teutonic Lodges, with oak beams and lanterns, what have you. They served the people of the neighborhood, and they were friendly places to go."
Gar nodded. "All right, So?"
"There was trouble, of course," Hinkle went on. "Once in a while a boy would drink too much beer and want to fight, or perhaps two boys would start an argument over a girl. With that beer flowing all the time, and the neighborhood so closed in on itself, fighting and trouble were inevitable.
Sometimes heads got pretty badly cracked, noses got broken, eyes got blackened. But everyone survived, and no friendships were ever lost completely."
Simon Tate chuckled. "Sounds like fun. You must have had a wild time, Hermann."
"I did. We all did, while it lasted.'."
"Lasted?" Jock Carella shifted his palms on the broom handle. "What happened?"
"Tourists," Hinkle said. "All of a sudden the tourists discovered uptown, and Yorkville. It became a popular place to go, like Greenwich Village. They came in droves, forced all the regulars out of their favorite gardens, forced all the prices up to where no one but a tourist could afford them."
"That's pretty tough," Gar said. "It killed Yorkville," Hinkle replied. "Killed it? How?"
"The people-the youngsters and the old ones as well-suddenly found themselves driven out, with no place to go. The neighborhood safety valves were shut down, and there was no place for people to let off steam any more-at least not in the old, familiar ways, the ways they liked best."
"I get the picture," said Gar. "So what happened? They start cutting each other's throats?"
"No," replied the German sadly. "Just the opposite. Without the beer, without the arguments and the friendly trouble to spice things up, the neighborhood died. People began to discover they hated one another. Many of them left, even though they'd lived in Yorkville all their lives. The beer and the arguments were the life blood of that area, and when that blood was diverted to the tourists, Yorkville turned into just another old section of the city. It still had the color and charm-probably still does-but it was all hollow inside." He paused again and drew on his pipe. "Around the time everything turned stale, I married and left New York."
Willie Link scratched his head, ruining Carella's careful combing. "Too bad, Hinkle. That's tough tittie, seeing as how the tittie was filled with beer." His laughter had the same bray as his son's.
"It was," Hinkle agreed. "It was unfortunate in a number of ways. But I don't think you see my point."
"Maybe not," said Sheriff Small, speaking for the first time since Hinkle's story began. "Maybe you better tell us what your point is."
Hinkle drew again on his pipe, got nothing, tapped out bowl on the porch railing. "The point is that the people of Yorkville needed the beer and the trouble-it was a sort of spice. And no one realized how much they relied on it until it had been taken away from them. Without that bit of spice to dress up their lives, without those tankards of beer to warm the belly and the eye, and to improve the look of the world, they were forced to discover the bitterness inside themselves."
Sheriff Small chewed reflectively on his cigar. "Hinkle, are you trying to say something about this town?"
"Yes," replied the German. "In a way."
"You think people are bitter here? You think they don't like their lives?" The Sheriff's tone was edged with challenge, as if Hinkle had just insulted someone near and dear to him.
"No-not bitter, perhaps. Some are, of course, but no more than you'd find anywhere. What I'm saying is that this town is too quiet and placid for its own good. A thing can't grow without some sort of stimulation. After a while, it can't even survive. If you never use a muscle nature takes it away from you eventually."
"Muscles?" said Gar. "What muscles you talking about?"
"Emotional muscles. This town has nothing to push against. It's emotionally flabby."
Willie Link laughed his donkey laugh again. "Boy, you sound like Gully Fry. Don't he sound like Gull, Gar? They should get together and talk sometime, right?"
Gar nodded slowly. "They do, don't you Hinkle?"
Hinkle studied his dead pipe. "Gully and I talk occasionally."
"Well," said Sheriff Small, "you can think what you want, Hinkle, but things are nice and peaceful in this town, and folks like it that way."
Simon Tate inclined his head. "I don't know, Sheriff. Maybe Hermann's got something. It sure would be a novelty if anything happened around here.
"Now you shut your mouth," said the Sheriff with surprising fervor.
The men looked at him, startled. "Listen," he went on, his voice more subdued, "you may know what's good and bad for that there Yorkville, Hinkle, but that doesn't necessarily hold for anywhere's else. And where this town is concerned, I decide what's good or bad for it."
Hermann Hinkle smiled. "Not quite, Sheriff. The people decide. You're an elected official, remember-you just represent the wishes of the majority."
Sheriff Small looked from face to face on the porch, and seemed to see votes. His florid features softened. "Sure-that's what I meant. I meant that the majority likes things as they are, and I do my job keeping them that way. Right?"
Simon Tate grinned. "That's the way it is, Sheriff."
The men fell silent.
After a while Willie Link spoke up again. "You know-I can see what Hinkle means. And maybe he's right. Nothing ever happens around here. Last time there was any excitement was that time Gully went bottle-crazy, and remember how much fun that was? I swear, I can't recall when we had so much interesting stuff to talk about as when Gully went nuts that time."
The Sheriff's face darkened.
As if simultaneously sensing the growing tension, the men on the porch swung their chairs forward with a clump and got to their feet. The movement stirred the air under the porch roof, and clouds of tobacco smoke swirled out toward the street.
The moment of pause was over for the day.
"Better be getting back," said Gar, dogging his cigar and sticking the butt in his shirt pocket. "Left Gully with enough for a while, but he's probably gone through it all by now."
"You keep an eye on that Gully," said Sheriff Small. "He goes off beer onto the other, you tell me about it."
Gar nodded at the Sheriff, then at the others on the porch. He went down the steps and off toward the sunset end of Main Street.
"Evening, men," said Carella. He turned and carried his broom back into the shop, closed the door behind him, and drew the shade.
"Going my way, Sheriff?" asked Simon Tate, coming down the steps. Small nodded, and the two men drifted off in the direction of Tate's Food Mart.
When Hermann Hinkle turned to leave the porch, he found Willie Link leaning against a railing, watching him with a smile. "You got the right idea, Hinkle," he said, "this town needs some excitement. I think what Small's afraid of is that some trouble would scare the damn town to death."
Hinkle shrugged. "He needn't worry about that. To all intents and purposes, this town is dead already."
He left the porch, and went off up the street toward his store.
Willie remained leaning against the porch rail for a while, then sat down on the steps and rolled himself a cigarette. He though briefly of excitement, of the savor of unusual events, then gave his mind over to the problem of talking Gar Smith into extending him enough credit for a few drinks that evening. He was sorry now that he had spent the money on the haircut.
Willie didn't notice what was happening in the east, nor did anyone else in the town. Slowly but surely the dark curtain of night was lifting from the horizon and inching across the sky in pursuit of the vanishing sun. The evening star blinked, and opened its clear cold eye.
Nor did Willie or any of the others notice the black, unfamiliar shape which appeared suddenly atop the hill on the road leading westward into town.
And if they had, probably not one of them would have realized that they were looking at the town's executioner.