The Dog of the South Read Online Free PDF

when one fell vacant I would wait for a minute or two to let it cool off, to let the body heat dissipate from the plastic cushion, and then someone else would get it. The crowd cleared out when the prices went up and then I had the bar pretty much to myself. I could see a man standing at the far end writing a letter with a pencil. He was laughing at his work, a lone bandit writing cruel taunts to the chief of police.
    I ordered a glass of beer and arranged my coins before me on the bar in columns according to value. When the beer came, I dipped a finger in it and wet down each corner of the paper napkin to anchor it, so it would not come up with the mug each time and make me appear ridiculous. I drank from the side of the mug that a left-handed person would use, in the belief that fewer mouths had been on that side. That is also my policy with cups, any vessel with a handle, although you can usually count on cups getting a more thorough washing than bar glasses. A quick slosh here and there and those babies are right back on the shelf!
    Across from me there was a dark mirror and above that a mounted deer’s head with a cigarette in his mouth. Back in the table area a woman was playing an electric organ. No one was shouting requests to her. I was the only person in the place who applauded her music—a piece of traveler’s bravado. And after a while I didn’t clap either. I had no character at all. If the other customers had suddenly decided to club the poor woman with bottles, with those square gin bottles, I suppose I would have joined in. Here was something new. We all know about the gentry going to seed but here was something Jefferson had not foreseen: an effete yeoman.
    An old man wearing clown shoes came through the door and began to play a kind of tune on a toy trombone. He hummed into the tiny instrument, as with a comb and tissue paper. The Mexican bartender chased him out. Then another man came in and sat down beside me. I was annoyed, because there were plenty of empty stools. I stiffened and waited for him to start talking. I avoided eye contact. Any minute now, I said to myself, this fellow is going to order an Old Charter and 7-Up and tell me he had gone to boot camp with Tyrone Power. I couldn’t see his face but I watched his hairy paw as it reached across me and grabbed a handful of matchbooks from the courtesy bowl. Greenish fingernails and a heavy silver ring with a black stone.
    He punched me on the shoulder and laughed. It was Jack Wilkie. I couldn’t believe it.
    He said, “How’s the little car holding up?”
    â€œIt’s doing all right.”
    â€œLittle car drives out good, does it?”
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Jack?”
    â€œIt’s all in the day’s work.” He was windblown and his knit shirt was sagging and damp with sweat but he was pleased with the effect he had achieved and he kept punching me and laughing.
    Mrs. Edge had told him about the Texarkana call and he had immediately divined my plan. He had made up the lost time easily enough in his Chrysler Imperial. Tomorrow morning he would drive to San Miguel and pick up Dupree and take him back to Little Rock. It was as simple as that. He seemed to think San Miguel was right across the border.
    â€œYou should have told me where he was, Ray.”
    â€œI was going to tell you as soon as I got my car back. I wanted to get my car without your help.”
    â€œYou should have told me about this Mexico thing. We could have worked something out. This is business to me.”
    â€œI know that.”
    â€œWhat difference does it make as long as you get your car?”
    â€œIt’s not the same thing.”
    I gave him what information I had and he wrote down “Hotel Mogador” on a paper napkin. He said I might as well ride along with him to San Miguel in the comfort of the big Chrysler. I halfway agreed. It seemed the only thing to do, except maybe forget the whole