The young man took up the can of valve compound and dug his finger into it. “Hi!” he called.
Tom turned. “What you want?”
“I want ta tell ya.” He motioned with his finger, on which a blob of compound stuck. “I jus’ want ta tell ya. Don’ go lookin’ for no trouble. ’Member how that bull-simple guy looked?”
“Fella in the tent up there?”
“Yeah—looked dumb—no sense?”
“What about him?”
“Well, when the cops come in, an’ they come in all a time, that’s how you want ta be. Dumb—don’t know nothin’. Don’ understan’ nothin’. That’s how the cops like us. Don’t hit no cops. That’s jus’ suicide. Be bull-simple.”
“Let them goddamn cops run over me, an’ me do nothin’?”
“No, looka here. I’ll come for ya tonight. Maybe I’m wrong. There’s stools aroun’ all a time. I’m takin’ a chancet, an’ I got a kid, too. But I’ll come for ya. An’ if ya see a cop, why, you’re a goddamn dumb Okie, see?”
“That’s awright if we’re doin’ anythin’,” said Tom.