One
It was three in the afternoon and hot. Tar was
boiling out of the black-top paving around the square
and heat waves shimmered above the sidewalks. I
drove on through town and down the street to the
jail with the Negro boy. He was about nineteen and
looked scared to death.
“I ain’t done nothing, Cap’n,” he kept saying.
“O.K.,” I said. “Relax. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
My head still ached from last night and his talking
got on my nerves.
I turned him over to Cassieres at the jail. “Stick
him in the county tank. Did Buford call you?”
“No,” he said. “What’s he booked for?”
