PART ONE
There were three of them. The bigness of the room hid them from the sun, burning up the road outside. They sat round a table, close to the bar, drinking corn whisky.
George, behind the bar, held a swab in his thick fingers, and listened to them talk. Every now and then he nodded his square head and said, “You’re dead right, mister.” He just “yessed” them along—that was all.
Walcott uneasily fingered a coin in his vest pocket. It was all the money he had, and it was worrying him. Freedman and Wilson had stood him a round, and now it was coming to his turn. He couldn’t rise to it. His weak, freckled face began to glisten. He touched his scrubby moustache with a dirty thumb and moved restlessly.
Wilson said, “Cain’t go no place these days but there’s some lousy bum lookin’ for a free flop an’ a bite of somethin’ to eat. This town’s lousy with bums.”
Walcott said quickly, “Ain’t it gettin’ hot in here? Seems like it’s too hot to drink even.”
Freedman and Wilson looked at him suspiciously. Then Freedman drained his glass and set it on the table with a little bang. “Ain’t never too hot for me to drink,” he said.
George leant over the bar. “Shall I fill ’em up, mister?” he said to Walcott.
Walcott hesitated, looked at the two blank, coldly suspicious faces of the other two, and nodded. He put the coin on the counter. He did it reluctantly, as if the parting with it was a physical hurt. He said, “Not for me… jest two.”
There was a heavy silence, while George poured the liquor. The other two knew it was Walcott’s last coin, but they wouldn’t let him off. They were determined to have everything they could from him.