It contained two pairs of shorts, one undershirt, three extra pairs of socks, a faded brown sports shirt, a plain green cotton tie (rolled neatly) and some handkerchiefs. These he removed and threw into the middle drawer of the dresser. The bag also contained several large brown envelopes, which he treated with greater care. He opened the top envelope and took out some white typing paper and placed the paper neatly on the rickety folding table by the wall.

There was one other item in the suitcase. A worn 32.20 Police positive pistol. He picked it up and thumbed the cylinder release. The breech fell loose. He reached into the side pocket of the suitcase, removed five copper bullets, slipped them into the pistol and snapped it together.

He returned to the table and sat down. For several minutes he stared at the paper. Then he uncapped a long blue ballpoint pen and wrote: Dear Professor Blake—

“No,” he said, beneath his breath, and crumpled the paper.

Dear Max—

He wrote until the page was covered. Then he folded the letter into a business-size white envelope carefully, and printed the name Max Blake, printing also the many degrees after the name and the involved address.

Then he went to the window and pulled up the shade.

Below, a woman was wheeling a baby buggy across the street, walking heavily and with great effort.

Men were lounging against cars, smoking and moving their lips in silent conversation. Slow as the blue haze that drifted over the distant mountains, slow as the clouds, they moved, as if they were all waiting. And the air was hot and hushed.

A little gray town, the color of gunpowder.

2

2

Ella McDaniel glanced at the clock and sighed. She’d felt sure that an hour had passed since the last look, but it was only 4:10, which meant that seventeen small minutes had crept painfully by and no more. She wished that she could turn the clock around to face the wall, but, of course, that wouldn’t do. Mr. Higgins wouldn’t understand.

She picked up a sponge and, for the fifth time since the last person had come in, proceeded to wipe the black marble counter. She then polished the nozzles of the water dispensers carefully, and wandered over to the magazine rack. There wasn’t anything new, and wouldn’t be until Tuesday, and she’d read everything except the hot-rod journals and Harper’s. She straightened the magazines, lined them all up in their proper places, switched them.

4:19 p.m.

She yawned. This was the hardest time of all. From one to three there were customers, and she was kept busy making malted milks and sodas and cokes; and around six-thirty the kids started dropping by and she had someone to talk to. But in between, it was bad. It made her realize just how dull her life really was.