“Yeah? Well, prove it’s yours.”
“I tell you it’s mine,” Gerda said, nearly sobbing with fury. “Give it to me!”
The roll disappeared into the driver’s pocket. “You pinched it,” he said. “Maybe you got it from the house that was on fire way back. A tramp like you wouldn’t have so much dough.”
Gerda threw herself on him, her fingers clawing for his eyes. He hit her between her eyes as she came in, sending her in a heap on the floor-boards, then he stepped over her and booted her out of the truck. She landed in the wet mud of the road with a thud that shook the breath out of her.
He said, as he dropped to the road beside her: “If you want the dough, come along to Fort Pierce an’ ask the cops for it. Maybe they’ll have it for you.” He gave a little snigger. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll know much about it,” and he ran back to the truck and drove away.
MORNING VISIT
The Lieutenant stopped and held up his hand. Over to his right he had seen the farm, half hidden by a clump of coconut palms.
The four negro soldiers shuffled to a standstill, grounding their rifles and leaning on them.
Overhead the sun beat down on the little group. The Lieutenant, the sweat oozing out of his fat hide, wriggled his body inside his uniform which stuck to him uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the great patches of damp that stained his white uniform; and he cursed the heat, the President and, above all, the A.B.C. terrorists.
Contemptuously he regarded the four negroes, who stood staring with vacant eyes on the ground, like emasculated cattle. “This is the place,” he said, thrusting forward his bullet head. “Two of you to the right; two to the left. No noise. No shooting—use your bayonets if there’s trouble.”