“Sure,” Ed said. He walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket was wheeling her cart up.
“Who’s he?” she whispered, her sharp face turned, her nose moving, as if it were sniffing. “I never seen him before.”
“I don’t know.”
“Looks funny to me. Why does he wear a beard? No one else wears a beard. Must be something the matter with him.”
“Maybe he likes to wear a beard. I had an uncle who –”
“Wait.” Mrs. Hacket stiffened. “Didn’t that — what was his name? The Red — that old one. Didn’t he have a beard? Marx. He had a beard.”
Ed laughed. “This ain’t Karl Marx. I saw a photograph of him once.”
Mrs. Hacket was staring at him. “You did?”
“Sure.” He flushed a little. “What’s the matter with that?”
“I’d sure like to know more about him,” Mrs. Hacket said. “I think we ought to know more, for our own good.”
“Hey, mister! Want a ride?”
Conger turned quickly, dropping his hand to his belt. He relaxed. Two young kids in a car, a girl and a boy. He smiled at them. “A ride? Sure.”
Conger got into the car and closed the door. Bill Willet pushed the gas and the car roared down the highway.
“I appreciate a ride,” Conger said carefully. “I was taking a walk between towns, but it was farther than I thought.”
“Where are you from?” Lora Hunt asked. She was pretty, small and dark, in her yellow sweater and blue skirt.
“From Cooper Creek.”
“Cooper Creek?” Bill said. He frowned. “That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing you before.”
“Why, do you come from there?”
“I was born there. I know everybody there.”
“I just moved in. From Oregon.”
“From Oregon? I didn’t know Oregon people had accents.”
“Do I have an accent?”
“You use words funny.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t he, Lora?”
“You slur them,” Lora said, smiling. “Talk some more. I’m interested in dialects.” She glanced at him, white-teethed. Conger felt his heart constrict.
“I have a speech impediment.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry.”
They looked at him curiously as the car purred along. Conger for his part was struggling to find some way of asking them questions without seeming curious. “I guess people from out of town don’t come here much,” he said.
“Strangers.”
“No.” Bill shook his head. “Not very much.”
“I’ll bet I’m the first outsider for a long time.”
“I guess so.”
Conger hesitated. “A friend of mine — someone I know, might be coming through here. Where do you suppose I might –” He stopped. “Would there be anyone certain to see him? Someone I could ask, make sure I don’t miss him if he comes?”
They were puzzled. “Just keep your eyes open. Cooper Creek isn’t very big.”
“No. That’s right.”
They drove in silence. Conger studied the outline of the girl. Probably she was the boy’s mistress. Perhaps she was his trial wife. Or had they developed trial marriage back so far? He could not remember. But surely such an attractive girl would be someone’s mistress by this time; she would be sixteen or so, by her looks. He might ask her sometime, if they ever met again.
The next day Conger went walking along the one main street of Cooper Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.
He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, talking to the clerk. She was laughing, rocking back and forth.
Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was drinking hot chocolate, with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as he slid into the seat beside her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Am I intruding?”
“No.” She shook her head. Her eyes were large and dark. “Not at all.”
The clerk came over. “What do you want?”
Conger looked at the chocolate. “Same as she has.”
Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She smiled at him. “By the way. You don’t know my name. Lora Hunt.”
She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. “Conger is my name,” he murmured.
“Conger? Is that your last or first name?”
“Last or first?” He hesitated. “Last. Omar Conger.”
“Omar?” She laughed. “That’s like the poet, Omar Khayyam.”
“I don’t know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough –” He broke off. She was staring. He flushed. “Where I come from,” he finished.
“The Church? Which church do you mean?”
“The Church.” He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it gratefully. Lora was still watching him.
“You’re an unusual person,” she said. “Bill didn’t like you, but he never likes anything different. He’s so — so prosaic. Don’t you think that when a person gets older he should become — broadened in his outlook?”
Conger nodded.
“He says foreign people ought to stay where they belong, not come here. But you’re not so foreign. He means orientals; you know.”
Conger nodded.
The screen door opened behind them. Bill came into the room. He stared at them. “Well,” he said.
Conger turned. “Hello.”
“Well.” Bill sat down. “Hello, Lora.” He was looking at Conger. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Conger tensed. He could feel the hostility of the boy. “Something wrong with that?”
“No. Nothing wrong with it.”
There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Go?” She was astonished. “Why?”
“Just go!” He grabbed her hand. “Come on! The car’s outside.”
“Why, Bill Willet,” Lora said. “You’re jealous!”
“Who is this guy?” Bill said. “Do you know anything about him? Look at him, his beard –”
She flared. “So what? Just because he doesn’t drive a Packard and go to Cooper High!”
Conger sized the boy up. He was big — big and strong. Probably he was part of some civil control organization.
“Sorry,” Conger said. “I’ll go.”
“What’s your business in town?” Bill asked. “What are you doing here? Why are you hanging around Lora?”
Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. “No reason. I’ll see you later.”
He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger’s fingers went to his belt. Half pressure, he whispered to himself. No more. Half pressure.
He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.
“My God –” Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn’t meant any of it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It would tingle.
Tingle, and paralyze.
He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man. Conger went on.
As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice came. Conger waited, tense.
“Who is it?” the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A light flashed. Conger moved.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Who is ‘me’?”
“Conger is my name. I’m staying at the Appleton’s place. Who are you?”
The man came slowly up to him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There was a gun at his waist.
“I’m Sheriff Duff. I think you’re the person I want to talk to. You were in Bloom’s today, about three o’clock?”
“Bloom’s?”
“The fountain. Where the kids hang out.” Duff came up beside him, shining his light into Conger’s face. Conger blinked.
“Turn that thing away,” he said.
A pause. “All right.” The light flickered to the ground. “You were there. Some trouble broke out between you and the Willet boy. Is that right? You had a beef over his girl –”
“We had a discussion,” Conger said carefully.
“Then what happened?”
“Why?”
“I’m just curious. They say you did something.”
“Did something? Did what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m wondering. They saw a flash, and something seemed to happen. They all blacked out. Couldn’t move.”
“How are they now?”
“All right.”
There was silence.
“Well?” Duff said. “What was it? A bomb?”
“A bomb?” Conger laughed. “No. My cigarette lighter caught fire. There was a leak, and the fluid ignited.”
“Why did they all pass out?”
“Fumes.”
Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.
“If you say so,” he said. “Anyhow, there wasn’t any real harm done.” He stepped back from Conger. “And that Willet is a trouble-maker.”
“Good night, then,” Conger said. He started past the Sheriff.
“One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you go. You don’t mind if I look at your identification, do you?”
“No. Not at all.” Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet out.