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that’s a tenspot.”
“I’ve got the rest in my billfold.”
“Then why don’t I just take it?” He grabbed at her big handbag and got one strap. I stepped off the
curb, but I thought he’d have it and be gone before I could reach her. And if I did reach her, he’d
probably beat me stupid. Skinny as he was, he still outweighed me. And he had two good arms.
Sadie held on. Pulled in opposite directions, the bag gaped open like an agonized mouth. She
reached inside with her free hand and came out with a butcher knife that looked familiar. She swiped
at him with it and opened his forearm. The cut began above his wrist and ended at the dirty crease on
the inside of his elbow. He screamed in pain and surprise, let go of the strap, and stepped back,
staring at her. “You crazy bitch, you cut me!”
He lunged for the open door of his car, which was still trying to beat itself to death. Sadie stepped
forward and slashed the air in front of his face. Her hair had fallen in her eyes. Her lips were a grim
line. Blood from the Studebaker cowboy’s wounded arm pattered to the pavement. Cars continued to
flow past. Incredibly, I heard someone yell, “Give him the business, lady!”
The Studebaker cowboy retreated toward the sidewalk, his eyes never leaving the knife. Without
looking at me, Sadie said: “Over to you, Jake.”
For a second I didn’t understand, then remembered the .38. I took it out of my pocket and pointed
at him. “See this, Tex? It’s loaded.”
“You’re as crazy as she is.” He was holding his arm against his chest now, branding his tee-shirt
with blood. Sadie hurried around to the Studebaker’s passenger side and opened the door. She looked
at me over the roof and made an impatient cranking gesture with one hand. I wouldn’t have believed I
could love her more, but in that moment I saw I was wrong.
“You should have either taken the money or kept driving,” I said. “Now let me see how you run.
Do it immediately or I’ll put a bullet in your leg so you can’t do it at all.”
“You’re one fuckin bastard,” he said.
“Yes, I am. And you’re one fucking thief who will soon be sporting a bullet hole.” I cocked the gun.
The Studebaker cowboy didn’t test me. He turned and hustled west on Hines with his head hunched
and his arm cradled, cursing and spilling a blood-trail.
“Don’t stop till you get to Love!” I shouted after him. “It’s three miles the way you’re going! Say
hello to the president!”
“Get in, Jake. Get us out of here before the police come.”
I slid in behind the wheel of the Studebaker, grimacing as my swollen knee protested. It was a
standard shift, which meant using my bad leg on the clutch. I ran the seat back as far as it would go,
hearing the litter of trash in back crunch and crackle, then got rolling.
“That knife,” I said. “Is it—?”
“The one Johnny cut me with, yes. Sheriff Jones returned it after the inquest. He thought it was
mine and he was probably right. But not from my place on Bee Tree. I’m almost positive Johnny
brought it with him from our house in Savannah. I’ve been carrying it in my bag ever since. Because I
wanted something to protect myself with, just in case . . .” Her eyes filled. “And this is an in-case,
isn’t it? This is an in-case if there ever was one.”
“Put it back in your purse.” I stabbed the clutch, which was horribly stiff, and managed to get the
Studebaker into second. The car smelled like a chicken coop that hadn’t been cleaned in roughly ten
years.
“It’ll get blood on everything inside.”
“Put it back anyway. You can’t walk around waving a knife, especially when the president’s coming
to town. Honey, that was beyond brave.”
She put the knife away, then began wiping her eyes with her fisted hands, like a little girl who’s