“Bud Ware, who lived at 79 Butler Street,” replied Kenneth.
“How’d he die?” was the next question.
“Shot through the abdomen.”
“Know who shot him?”
“Yes. George Parker.”
“Th’ hell you say! And you come in here to repo’t it?”
Kenneth was somewhat startled at the ferocity of the Commissioner’s expression, which had replaced that of laziness and resentment at being disturbed. “I thought it my duty …” he began.
Lane spat disgustedly.
“Duty, Hell! You’re a God-damned fool and one of these damned niggers that’s always causin’ trouble ‘round here. I always said eddication spoiled a nigger and, by God, you prove it. Lemme tell you somepin’—you’d better remember s’long’s you stay ‘round these parts. When you hear anything ’bout a white man havin’ trouble with a nigger, you’d better keep your mouth shet. They’s lots of niggers been lynched for less’n you said this mornin’. Ain’t you got sense enough t’ know you hadn’t any business comin’ in here t’ tell me ‘bout Mr. Parker? Don’t you know his brother’s sheriff? If y’ aint, goin’ up No’th tuk away what li’l’ sense you might’ve had befo’ you went.”
Kenneth stood silent, a deep red flush suffusing his face, while the official continued his vituperative tirade. His fists, thrust deep into his pockets, were Elenched until they hurt, but he did not feel the pain. He longed to take that long, yellow, unshaven neck in his hands and twist it until Lane’s eyes popped out and his face turned black. He knew it would be suicide if he did it. He realized now that he had done an unwise thing in telling Lane who had killed Bud Ware—he should have remembered and said that he did not know. If he was going to stay in the South, he would have to remember these things.