nothing. He took the wallet from my pants pocket and went through that too.
âI think weâre going to run you in,â he said. âHow would you like that?â
I had to think about it. I didnât want it, but I wasnât about to give in to them and cooperate. Finally I raised a finger to the woman waiting for me, just to make sure she knew it was me, and to tell her Iâd be a moment or two. If they dragged me off to jail, I didnât want her to think I had stood her up.
âIs she waiting for you?â the black cop asked, as if that made a difference, as if a shoplifter wouldnât have a friend waiting, wouldnât want to break for lunch.
I didnât answer.
The white cop got a brainstorm. He decided to call in the information from my driverâs license. In a second he came back.
âI think we can let you go,â he said.
âWhy? Did some bozo cop catch the real thief?â
âNo,â he said. âIt turns out that you donât match the description after all. The guy weâre looking for is five foot three.â
âFive foot three,â I shouted. âDoes he have a beard at least?â
âWell, no. But he is black,â he said, as if that justified everything. âSorry, but hey, you understand how it is.â
âWell you can just kiss my ass,â I said. âBecause no, I donât know how it is.â
âHey, hey, hey,â the black cop said, trying to calm me down. âYou donât have to make a scene.â
âYou pull up, snatch away my helmet, rip the jacket off my back, search me like Iâm some sort of a criminal and Iâm the one making a scene? You must be out of your mind.â I was shouting, going crazy.
âDonât make this any worse than it already is,â he said.
âIt canât get any worse than it already is,â I said.
I put my finger in the black copâs face. âYou especially,â I said through gritted teeth. âYou ought to be ashamed of yourself.â
Being black is still the crime. And every cop, black or white, is Bull Connor to me. Every cop is a southerner at heart.
And now here in Hartford was another one. A southern one.
He had a slight paunch that hung over his belt, but otherwise was lean. He wore a clean white shirt, sweat stains at the armpits, collar buttoned to the last button but one. Clipped to his belt was his pistol. I waited for him to touch it, was sure he would before long.
Hartford is the county seat. The courthouse sits up on a grassy hill. At the base of the hill is a retaining wall. On the very corner is the phone booth. Thatâs where I was when the cop, a deputy sheriff, came to me.
I was thumbing through the little phone book hanging from a small chain. You hardly ever find directories hanging in phone booths anymore. People rip pages out of them. People steal them.
I was trying to find a phone number for the Coon Huntersâ Club. It wasnât listed. When I dialed directory assistance, they didnât have a number for them either. So I stepped out of the booth and leaned against the wall. The cop was waiting for me.
âHow yâall doing?â he said.
âOkay.â Suspicious. Cagey. âHow about you?â
âAbout as well as can be expected,â he said. And then he touched the gun. He tugged at the waist of his pants and adjusted the way the gun hung on his belt.
His accent was soft, hardly southern at all, almost midwestern but slower and with a slight twang.
âSure is hot,â he said. He pointed with his chin across the street. âIs that your bike over by the bank?â
âYeah.â
âSure is a pretty thing,â he said. âHowâs she run?â
âSmooth,â I said.
âAnd fast, I bet.â
âFast enough,â I said. âSpeed limits, you know.â
âYeah, right.â I donât think he believed
Learning to Kill: Stories