OCR Text |
Show RFVER "You can't extort any more money out of me," said Ralph. "I'm broke." "C'mon Ralph, I know you got a dollar." "Honest, Thurmond, all I got is fifty cents." "That'll do." "Why should I give you my last fifty cents?" Thurmond had obviously reached a familiar impasse. He gave up on Ralph and turned his energies on me. "Gimme a dollar," he said. Then he smiled and did his best to look like Shirley Temple. "Why should he give you a dollar?" said Ralph. "He doesn't even know you, and he's probably as poor as I am. Just because he's white doesn't mean he's rich." "Hell," said Thurmond. "Give me a dollar. Fifty cents. A quarter?" We drove through Cairo's decomposing streets to the O SzO Leather Store. It was located in an abandoned cafe directly across the street from the police station. I'd looked directly at it the day before and had failed to recognize it as a leather goods store: it looked a lot more like an abandoned greasy spoon. We went inside and Ralph chased the brothers out, locked the door, and told them to go home. They beat on the door with remarkable force, threatening to slash the tires on the Continental, and finally began searching for a window they could force. The O SzO was a strange business establishment. It was dark, and the walls were hung with posters and coated with grease in memory of bygone days. Set near the front of the store was a desk covered with papers, pamphlets, and books that might have been organized at one time. As the store ambled toward the back of the building and Ralph's living quarters it disintegrated into chaos. There -29- |