Part 49 (2/2)
He saw reflected in the gla.s.s a figure coming down the sidewalk-heavyset, middle-aged, wearing a gun belt almost concealed by belly overflowing it, a bolstered hogleg on his right thigh, star on his left breast, otherwise dressed much as Lazarus was dressed. Lazarus continued to stare at a posted front page of the Kansas City Journal Journal.
”Morning.”
Lazarus turned. ”Good morning . . Chief.”
”Just the constable, Son. Stranger hereabouts?”
”Yes.”
”Pa.s.sing through? Or staying with someone?”
”Pa.s.sing through. Unless I find work.”
”That's a good answer. What trade do you follow?”
”I was raised on a farm. But I'm an all-around mechanic. Or anything, for an honest dollar.”
”Well, I tell you. Not many farmers taking on hands right now. As for anything else, things are slow in the summertime. Mmm, you wouldn't be one of them IWW's, would you?”
” 'IW' what?”
”A Wobbly, son-don't you read the papers? This is a friendly community, always glad to have visitors. But not that sort.” The local law raised one hand to wipe away sweat and gave a lodge recognition sign. Lazarus knew how to answer it -and decided not to. Where was his home lodge?-that's a good question, Officer, so let's not let it come up.
The constable went on, ”Well, since you're not one, you're welcome to ask around and see if somebody needs help.” He looked at the front page Lazarus had been pretending to read. ”Terrible what those U-boats are doing, isn't it?”
Lazarus agreed that it was.
”Still,” the officer added, ”if people stayed home and minded their own business, it wouldn't happen. Live and let live, I always say. What church do you attend?”
”Well, my folks are Presbyterians.”
”So? Meaning you haven't attended lately. Well, sometimes I miss myself, when the fish are biting. But-See that church up the street? The belfry through the elms. If you do do find work, why, come Sunday, ten o'clock, let me extend you the right hand of fellows.h.i.+p there. Methodist Episcopal, but there ain't all that much difference. This is a tolerant community.” find work, why, come Sunday, ten o'clock, let me extend you the right hand of fellows.h.i.+p there. Methodist Episcopal, but there ain't all that much difference. This is a tolerant community.”
Thank you, sir; I'll be there.”
”Good. Very tolerant. Mostly Methodists and Baptists-but a few Jack Mormons on farms around here. Good neighbors, they always pay their bills. A few Cath-a-licks and n.o.body holds it against them. Why, we've even got a Jew.”
”Sounds like a good town.”
”It is. Local option and clean living. Just one thing-If you don't find work-About half a mile beyond the church you'll find a city-limits sign. If you're unemployed and have no local address, it's best to be on the other side of it come sundown.”
”I see.”
”Or I would have to run you in. No hard feelings; that's just the way it is. No tramps or n.i.g.g.e.rs after sundown. I don't make the rules, Son; I just enforce them-and that's how Judge Marstellar defines a tramp. Some of our good ladies have been pus.h.i.+ng him-things stolen off clotheslines and the like. So its ten dollars or ten days . . which isn't too bad, as the lockup is right in my house. The food's not fancy as I'm allowed only forty cents a day to board a prisoner-though for fifty cents more you can eat what we do. No intention of making things hard, you understand-it's just that the Judge and the Mayor aim to keep this a quiet, law-abiding place.”
”I understand. Certainly no hard feelings . . because you won't have occasion to lock me up.”
”Glad to hear it. Any way I can help you, Son, just let me know.”
Thank you. Perhaps you can right now. Do you know of an outhouse a stranger might use? Or had I better try to hold it until I'm out of town and can find some bushes?”
The officer smiled. ”Oh, I think we can be that hospitable. The courthouse has a real city-type flush toilet-but it's not working. Let me think. Blacksmith down this way sometimes accommodates automobilists pa.s.sing through. I'll walk down with you.”
”That's mighty kind of you.”
”Glad to. Better tell me your name.”
”Ted Bronson.”
[image]
The blacksmith was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g a hoof on a young gelding. He looked up. ”Hi, Deacon.”
”Howdy, Tom. This young friend of mine, Ted Bronson, has a case of Kansas quickstep. Could he use your privy?”
The blacksmith looked Lazarus over. ”Help yourself, Ted. Try not to go clear back to the harness section.”
Thank you, sir.”
Lazarus followed the path behind the shop, was pleased to find that the privy had a door with no cracks and could be hooked from the inside. He got at the extra pocket hidden by the bib of his overalls, took out money.
Paper banknotes convincing in every detail; they were restored replications of originals in the Museum of Ancient History in New Rome-counterfeit” by definition but the restorations were so perfect that Lazarus would not hesitate to utter them in any bank-except for one thing: What dates did they carry?
He quickly shuffled the paper money into two packs: 1916 and earlier, and post-1916, then without hesitating or stopping to count, he shoved the usable banknotes into a pocket, tore a page from the Montgomery Ward catalog in the cob box, packaged the useless bills so that they would not be spotted as money, dropped the package into the cesspool. Then he got out coins still in that secret pocket, checked their dates.
He noted that most of them carried d.a.m.ning mint dates-these followed the paper money. He wasted a full second admiring a proof-perfect replica buffalo nickel-such a pretty thing! He gave sober thought, at least two seconds, to a ma.s.sive twenty-dollar gold piece. Gold was gold; its value would not be diminished if he melted it down or pounded it into a shapeless lump. But it was a hazard until he could deface it, as the next town clown might not be as friendly as this one. Down it went.
He felt lighthearted then. ”Queer” money was a serious offense here, good for a number of years in prisons unpleasant and difficult to escape from. But lack of money was a correctable nuisance. Lazarus had considered arriving with no money at all, then had compromised by taking enough for a few days, to let him look around, reorient, get used to the customs and the lingo again, before having to scratch for a living-he had never considered trying to fetch enough to last ten years.
Never mind, this was more fun-and good practice for the much harder job of tackling an era he had never known. Elizabethan England-that would be a would be a real real challenge. challenge.
He counted what he had left: three dollars and eighty-seven cents. Not bad.
The blacksmith said, ”Thought you'd fallen in. Feel better?”
”Much better. Thanks a lot.”
”Don't mention it. Deacon Ames says you claim to be a mechanic.”
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