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ticking sound came from the box. Piston had been around the printing room for many years and occasionally helped Hardy on Tuesday nights when he ran the paper.
    For most folks, panic would quickly follow curiosity, but for Piston it took a while. After poking around the cans to make sure that they were in fact filled with gasoline, and after determining that a series of dangerous-looking wires tied everything together, he walked toMargaret’s office and called Hardy. He said the ticking was getting louder.
    Hardy called the police, and around 9 A.M. I was awakened with the news.
    Most of downtown was evacuated by the time I arrived. Piston was sitting on the hood of a car, by then thoroughly distraught at having survived such a close call. He was being attended by some acquaintances and an ambulance driver, and he seemed to be enjoying the attention.
    Wiley Meek had photographed the bomb before the police removed the gasoline cans and placed them safely in the alley behind our building. “Woulda blown up half of downtown,” was Wiley’s uneducated evaluation of the bomb. He nervously darted around the scene, recording the excitement for future use.
    The chief of police explained to me that the area was off limits because the wooden box had not been opened and whatever was in there was still ticking. “It might explode,” he said gravely, as if he was the first one smart enough to realize the danger. I doubted if he had much experience with bombs, but I went along. An official from the state crime lab was being rushed in. It was decided that the four buildings in our row would remain unoccupied until this expert finished his business.
    A bomb in downtown Clanton! The news spread faster than the fire would have, and all work stopped. The county offices emptied, as well as the banks and stores and cafés, and before long large groups of spectators were crowded across the street, under the hugeoaks on the south side of the courthouse, a safe distance away. They gawked at our little building, obviously concerned and frightened but also waiting for some excitement. They’d never seen a bomb blast before.
    The Clanton city police had been joined by the Sheriff’s deputies, and every uniform in the county was soon present, milling about on the sidewalks, doing absolutely nothing. Sheriff Coley and the police chief huddled and conferred and watched the throng across the street, then barked some orders here and there, but if any of their orders were followed it wasn’t noticeable. It was obvious to all that the city and county had no bomb drills.
    Baggy needed a drink. It was too early for me. I followed him into the rear of the courthouse, up a narrow flight of stairs I’d not seen before, through a cramped hallway, then up another twenty steps to a small dirty room with a low ceiling. “Used to be the old jury room,” he said. “Then it was the law library.”
    “What is it now?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
    “The Bar Room. Get it? Bar? Lawyers? Booze?”
    “Got it.” There was a card table with folding legs and a beaten look that indicated years of use. Around it were half a dozen mismatched chairs, all county hand-me-downs that had been passed from one county office to another and finally ditched in this dingy little room.
    In one corner there was a small refrigerator with a padlock. Baggy, of course, had a key, and inside he found a bottle of bourbon. He poured a generous shotinto a paper cup and said, “Grab a chair.” We pulled two of them up to the window, and below was the scene we had just left. “Not a bad view, huh?” he said proudly.
    “How often you come here?”
    “Twice a week, maybe, sometimes more. We play poker every Tuesday and Thursday at noon.”
    “Who’s in the club?”
    “It’s a secret society.” He took a sip and smacked his lips as if he’d been in the desert for a month. A spider made its way down a thick web along the window. Dust was half an inch thick on the