"What's the matter, Maceo?" someone said.
"Nothing I caint handle; this confidencing sonofabitch come in here bluffing --"
"You take it easy, old man," I said. "Don't let your mouth get your head in trouble," thinking, Why am I talking like this?
"You don't have to worry about that, sonofabitch, pull your switch blade!"
"Give it to him, Maceo, coolcrack the motherfouler!"
I marked the position of the voice by ear now, turning so that I could see Maceo, the agitator, and the customers blocking the door. Even the juke box had stopped and I could feel the danger mounting so swiftly that I moved without thinking, bounding over quickly and sweeping up a beer bottle, my body trembling.
"All right," I said, "if that's the way you want it, all right! The next one who talks out of turn gets this!"
Maceo moved and I feinted with the bottle, seeing him dodge, his arm set to throw and held only because I was crowding him; a dark old man in overalls and a gray long-billed cloth cap, who looked dreamlike through the green glasses.
"Throw it," I said. "Go on," overcome with the madness of the thing. Here I'd set out to test a disguise on a friend and now I was ready to beat him to his knees -- not because I wanted to but because of place and circumstance. Okay, okay, it was absurd and yet real and dangerous and if he moved, I'd let him have it as brutally as possible. To protect myself I'd have to, or the drunks would gang me. Maceo was set, looking at me coldly, and suddenly I heard a voice boom out, "Ain't going to be no fighting in my joint!" It was Barrelhouse. "Put them things down y'all, they cost money."
"Hell, Barrelhouse, let 'em fight!"
"They can fight in the streets, not in here -- Hey, y'all," he called "look over here . . ."
I saw him now, leaning forward with a pistol in his huge fist, resting it steady upon the bar.
"Now put 'em down y'all," he said mournfully. "I done ask you to put my property down."
Brother Maceo looked from me to Barrelhouse.
"Put it down, old man," I said, thinking, Why am I acting from pride when this is not really me?
"You put yourn down," he said.
"Both of y'all put 'em down; and you, Rinehart," Barrelhouse said, gesturing at me with his pistol, "you get out of my joint and stay out. We don't need your money in here."
I started to protest, but he held up his palm.
"Now you all right with me, Rinehart, don't get me wrong. But I just can't stand trouble," Barrelhouse said.
Brother Maceo had replaced the shaker now and I put my bottle down and backed to the door.
"And Rine," Barrelhouse said, "don't go try to pull no pistol neither, 'cause this here one is loaded and I got a permit."
I backed to the door, my scalp prickling, watching them both.
"Next time don't ask no questions you don't want answered," Maceo called. "An' if you ever want to finish this argument I be right here."
I felt the outside air explode around me and I stood just beyond the door laughing with the sudden relief of the joke restored, looking back at the defiant old man in his long-billed cap and the confounded eyes of the crowd. Rinehart, Rinehart, I thought, what kind of man is Rinehart?
I was still chuckling when, in the next block, I waited for the traffic lights near a group of men who stood on the corner passing a bottle of cheap wine between them as they discussed Clifton's murder.
"What we need is some guns," one of them said. "An eye for an eye."
"Hell yes, machine guns. Pass me the sneakypete, Muckleroy."
"Wasn't for that Sullivan Law this here New York wouldn't be nothing but a shooting gallery," another man said.
"Here's the sneakypete, and don't try to find no home in that bottle."
"It's the only home I got, Muckleroy. You want to take that away from me?"
"Man, drink up and pass the damn bottle."
I started around them, hearing one of them say, "What you saying, Mr. Rinehart, how's your hammer hanging?"
Even up here, I thought, beginning to hurry. "Heavy, man," I said, knowing the answer to that one, "very heavy." They laughed.
"Well, it'll be lighter by morning."
"Say, look ahere, Mr. Rinehart, how about giving me a job?" one of them said, approaching me, and I waved and crossed the street, walking rapidly down Eighth toward the next bus stop.
The shops and groceries were dark now, and children were running and yelling along the walks, dodging in and out among the adults. I walked, struck by the merging fluidity of forms seen through the lenses. Could this be the way the world appeared to Rinehart? All the dark-glass boys? "For now we see as through a glass darkly but then -- but then --" I couldn't remember the rest.
She was carrying a shopping bag and moved gingerly on her feet. Until she touched my arm I thought that she was talking to herself.
"I say, pardon me, son, look like you trying to pass on by me tonight. What's the final figger?"
"Figure? What figure?"
"Now you know what I mean," she said, her voice rising as she put her hands on her hips and looked forward. "I mean today's last number. Ain't you Rine the runner?"
"Rine the runner?"
"Yas, Rinehart the number man. Who you trying to fool?"
"But that's not my name, madame," I said, speaking as precisely as I could and stepping away from her. "You've made a mistake."
Her mouth fell wide. "You ain't? Well, why you look so much like him?" she said with hot doubt in her voice. "Now, ain't this here something. Let me get on home; if my dream come out, I'm-a have to go look that rascal up. And here I needs that money too."
"I hope you won," I said, straining to see her clearly, "and I hope he pays off."
"Thanks, son, but he'll pay off all right. I can see you ain't Rinehart now though. I'm sorry for stopping you."
"It's all right," I said.
"If I'd looked at your shoes I woulda known --"
"Why?"