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mind,” I said. I took the money from her hand and looked at the kid. “Who paid you?” I asked.
    “Paid me? How stupid can you get? I don’t know what you’re talking about. So me and my wife are on our honeymoon and we stop at this crummy motel—”
    “And then she hides out in back among the rice and old shoes while you go in and register.”
    “So she’s bashful, Dad.”
    “Sure.” I said. She had all the dewy innocence of a kick in the groin. “Where’s your luggage?”
    “It got lost.”
    “It’s an idea,” I said. I folded the two bills and shoved them into the breast pocket of the T-shirt thing. “Beat it.”
    He was fast, but he telegraphed with his eyes. I blocked the left, and then took the knee against my thigh. “Slug him, Jere!” the girl squealed. I chopped his guard down and hit him. He made a half turn against the side of the car and slid into the gravel on his face. I walked over by him. It was like watching the slowed-down film strip of some tired old football play you’ve seen so many times you can call every move before it starts—rolling over, pushing up, the quick stab at the right-hand trousers pocket, and the little sideways flip of the wrist as it comes out, the thumb pressing, and the metallic tunk as the blade snaps open. I kicked his forearm and the knife sailed off into the gravel. He grabbed the arm with his left hand, and leaned forward, making no sound. I closed the knife and threw it over the top of the building into the darkness beyond. He stood up in a minute, still holding the arm.
    “It’s not broken,” I said. “Next time it will be.”
    They got in, watching me like two wild animals. The girl drove. The sedan went out onto the road and disappeared, going east, away from town. I turned back. Mrs. Langston was leaning against one of the posts supporting the roof of the porch with her cheek against her forearm, watching me. She wasn’t scared, or horrified, or shocked; the only thing in her eyes was weariness, an absolute weariness, I thought, of all bitterness and all violence. She straightened, and pushed a hand back through her hair. “Thank you,” she said.
    “Not at all.”
    “What did you mean when you asked who paid him?”
    “It was just a hunch. They could get you into plenty of trouble.”
    She nodded. “I know. But it didn’t occur to me it wasn’t their own idea.”
    “The idea’s probably nothing new to them,” I said. “But since when did they need a six-dollar room?”
    “Oh.”
    “They’re not from around here?”
    “I don’t think so,” she said.
    Back in the room, I soaked a puffy hand for a while and read until nearly midnight. I had turned out the light and was just dropping off to sleep when the telephone rang on the night table between the beds.
    I reached for it, puzzled. Nobody would be calling me here. “Hello,” I muttered drowsily.
    “Chatham?” It was a man’s voice, toneless, anonymous scarcely louder than a whisper.
    “Yes.”
    “We don’t need you. Beat it.”
    I was fully awake now. “Who is it?”
    “Never mind,” he went on softly. “Just keep going.”
    “Why don’t you write me an anonymous letter? That’s another corny gesture.”
    “We know a better one. We’ll show you, just by way of a hint.”
    He hung up.
    I replaced the instrument and lit a cigarette. It was mystifying and utterly pointless. Was it my friend Rupe, with a nose full? No-o. The voice was unidentifiable, but whoever it was hadn’t sounded drunk. But how had he known my name? I shrugged it off and turned out the light. Anonymous telephone threats! How silly could yon get?
    * * *
    When I awoke it was past nine. After a quick shower, I dressed and went out, intending to go across the road to Ollie’s for some breakfast. It was a hot, bright morning, and the sudden glare of the sun on white gravel hurt my eyes at first. The cars of the night before were gone. Josie was waddling along in front of the doors in the other wing