The hell he is. I just come from there. Who told you that?
Clerk in the store here, Holme motioned with his head.
He don’t know shit from applebutter, the man said. Where’s Leroy?
I don’t know no Leroy.
That’s right. You ain’t from around here, the man said. He lunged wildly at a passing wasp. Get away, goddamn it, he said. Where are ye from can I ast ye?
I ain’t from around here, Holme said.
Damn right you ain’t, the man said, and went inside.
When he came out again it was with his back to the door in a receding torrent of invective until he stumbled through onto the porch balancing a handful of crackers and a jar of milk, his mouth full, spraying crumbs and oaths into the dim interior for just another minute before he let the door to. Then he sat on the steps and ate and looked up and down the street from time to time and said no more to Holme. Holme was sitting on the edge of the porch with his feet dangling. He was looking the other way when the man did speak. The man said: Yonder comes the son of a bitch.
He watched. The sign in slant green script broken among the parting boards of the wagon’s side read Clark Auction Company and rising outsized up from the wagon seat rode a man dressed in a filthy white suit and so huge that the mule and the wagon which carried him looked absurd, like a toy rig in a circus bearing some soiled and monolithic clown. He reined in at the corner of the porch directly in front of Holme, stood in the wagon, adjusted his hat and climbed down. The mule turned its head and looked at Holme and looked away again. The man mounted the steps. The clerk came to the door and opened it for him.
He says he ain’t got no butter and tomorrow’s saturday …
Shut up and get back in the store, the man said. Howdy Bud, pretty day ain’t it? Whew. I was lookin for warm weather to hold off some, wasn’t you?
I ain’t interested in the weather, the other said. I want to know who’s goin to …
You know I talked to a feller up the road said he had corn puttin out. What about that?
Aw, you swear he did?—Goddamn it I don’t want to hear about somebody’s goddamned corn I want them people down out of there.
The big man had removed his hat to peel the sweat from his head with a curled forefinger and now he paused and looked at the other. What people is that, Bud? he said.
Goddamn it you know what people. I ain’t havin it. I want shet of em.
And the other, equable, donning again and adjusting his dustcolored hat with the propriety one might a silk derby, saying: Why Bud, you don’t reckon I put em there do ye?
I don’t care who done it I just want em out of there.
When I wasn’t even in town.
I ain’t concerned about that. Them two …
They on your property.
Yes.
In a tree you said it was?
You know where they’re at.
You know the county ain’t authorized no facilities for the removal of dead stock.
The other man’s jaw was working up and down but nothing came out.
How come you ain’t got no butter?
Then it started, an explosion of curses and oaths in such ingenious combinations that the other smiled appreciatively. He turned to Holme and winked. When the man began to run dry and stammer the other put a hand on his shoulder. Easy now Bud, he said. It’s a warm day. Tell you what. I’ll see what the law can do.
Law’s ass. You are the law …
Law takes time, the other said. Yours is a unusual case. We don’t want to jump too fast here and do the wrong thing, do we? I think maybe another day or so and we’ll be able to handle your problem. It’s kindly good advertisin for the public peace just now. Ain’t it?
Goddamn it I don’t care about no advertisin I want them sons of bitches out of my field.
The other was still smiling but his eyes weren’t smiling. He said: I believe another day or two, Bud. That’ll be all right won’t it? He didn’t even wait to see what the man would say but lifted his hand and went on in the store. Holme followed him. He didn’t look at the man’s face standing there when he passed him.
Clark had gone behind the counter and was riffling through bills and notes in a cigar box. The clerk was dusting merchandise. Holme leaned on the counter for a few minutes, the man’s huge back to him and his head nodding from time to time, muttering, shuffling the papers, scratching his chin, cursing.
Mr Clark, he said.
Yep.
He didn’t turn and Holme didn’t speak again and then he did turn, looking at him with a kind of arrogant curiosity. What is it, he said.
Well, I wanted to ast if you might have any work.
You ridin or walkin?
Walkin.
I need a man to circulate handbills but not afoot. Here. Here’s one for yourself anyway. He unrolled a thick scroll of printed bills on the counter and peeled one off. Holme took it and looked at it. The bills on the counter recoiled with a vicious slicing sound.