There just wasn't much of anything stirring after that. As Charlie put it, you could have fired a machine gun down Main Street without hitting a soul. It was due to the recent changeover to daylight saving time, Charlie thought; folks hadn't got used to it yet. Maybe the clock said it was getting kind of late-seventeen minutes of eight-but it still wasn't seven to the people.
Charlie started to turn away from the window; then, hesitantly, hearing a familiar creak of cartwheels, he faced it again. The woman was old «Crazy» Cvec, the town scavenger. Her wobbly cart was piled high with cardboard cartons, rags and bottles. She was dressed in a ragged mother hubbard, an ancient picture hat, and toeless tennis shoes. A frayed cigar butt protruded from the corner of her sunken-in mouth.
When Charlie winked at her, her gums parted in an insane cackle and the butt dropped down the front of her gown. This sent her into another paroxysm of crazy cackling, which she concluded by gripping the handle of the cart and kicking friskily backward with both feet. Charlie giggled lewdly. Lifting a foot, he shook his leg in the manner of a man who has got a bee up his trousers. Then
"Well, I'll be damned," said a jeering voice. "Yes, sir, I will be damned."
It was Mack Wingate, bank guard and long-time resident of the hotel. Mack Wingate, dressed in his crisp gray-blue uniform and cap; his plump face twisted in a look of acid astonishment.
"So that's your girl friend," he said. "You and Crazy Cvec. Well, Iguess you're gettin' the best of the bargain at that."
"Now, l-listen you!" The clerk was scarlet-faced, tremulously furious. "You better not-go on and fill your inkwells! Clean out the spittoons!"
"Spect you're feeling pretty proud, hey, Charlie? Me, now I like 'em kind of ma-chure myself, and you sure got to admit old Crazy's matured. Hard to tell which stinks the ripest, her or the"
"Yah!" said Charlie desperately. "I guess you know, don't you? You know all about her, don't you, Mack?"
"Now, don't you worry, boy. I know a real love match when I see it, and I ain't gonna come between you."
"Dang you, Mack! You-" he searched wildly for some effective threat. "You-I'm warning you for the last time, Mack! No more cooking in your room. You do it just once more, and"
Wingate belched, emanating an odor of day-old rolls and coffee. "But you're goin' to let me bake your weddin' cake, ain't you, Charlie? Or was you figurin' on Crazy pickin' one up from the garbage?"
Charlie made a strangled sound. His shoulders slumped helplessly. He just wasn't any match for the bank guard. No one in the town was. Anything you said to him, why, he just ignored it, and kept coming at you harder than ever. And he never got off of you until he got someone better to ride-which would be a darned long time in this case.
The guard gripped one of his inert hands, and shook it warmly. "Want to be the first to congratulate you, Charlie. You're really gettin' something when you get Crazy. Wouldn't say what it is exactly, but"
"G-get out of here," Charlie whispered. "Y-you tell anyone about this, an' I'll"
"Sure, now. Sure, you're kind of up in the air," said Mack Wingate with hideous sympathy. "It ain't every day in the week that a man gets hisself engaged. So don't you worry about sendin' out no announcements. I'll see to it that everyone"
Charlie turned abruptly and went behind the desk. Mack laughed, snorted wonderingly and started across the street.
On the opposite side, he stood poised for a moment, hand on the butt of his gun, and looked deliberately from left to right. Some two blocks away a car was slowly rounding the corner. No one was immediately nearby, except a storekeeper sweeping off his walk and a farmer driving a spring-seat wagon-and both were well known to him. Mack turned and unlocked the bank door.
Reaching quickly inside, he shut off the automatic alarm. He stepped up to
nothing else would.
"You got a lot of guts, Jackson," he said, snorting and choking over the words. "A real gutsy ginzo, that's you."
"Well," the punk said modestly, "I wouldn't want to say so myself, but most anyone that knows me will tell you that when it comes to a showdown, why, uh"
"Uh-huh. Well, we'll see, Jackson. We'll see what you got inside of you." Again Rudy was convulsed. And then, with one of his mercurial changes of mood, he was overwhelmed with pity for the kid.
"Eat up, Jackie," he said. "Catch onto some of that coffee and chow yourself."
They ate. Over second cups of coffee, Rudy passed cigarettes and held a light for the boy. Jackson felt encouraged to ask questions, and for once the gangster did not reply with insults or order him to shut up.
"Well, Doc didn't just happen to pick this Beacon City jog," he said. "Doc never just happens to do anything. He has this plan, see, so he goes looking for exactly the right place to fit into it. Probably scouted around for two-three months, traveled over half a dozen counties, before he settled on Beacon City. First, he looks for a bank that ain't a member of the Federal Reserve System. Then-huh?" Rudy frowned at the interruption. "Well, why the hell do you think, anyway?"