Read Online The Transgressors by Jim Thompson - Free Book Online Page B

just trying to be fair and honest with you?”
    Bradley glowered at him. Peevishly, he skirted the question. “Been gettin’ mean for a long time, Tom. I seen it coming on, an’ I warned you about it, an’ it didn’t do no good. Wouldn’t listen to me; thought you knew more’n I did. Now—”
    “Now, I accidentally killed a man; maybe killed him. An’ if you want to see me hung for it, here I am.”
    He extended his wrists. Bradley snorted, slapped at them angrily.
    “That’s the trouble with you, Tom,” he complained. “Won’t listen to no one. Can’t say a word to you no more.”
    “Think you said just about a-plenty,” Lord said coldly, “an all t’ once it’s beginnin’ to sink in on me. Can’t keep my ears stoppered to it no more, so I reckon I better walk away from it.”
    He pushed himself up from his chair, plucking the badge from his shirt. He tossed it on the sheriff’s desk, turned, and started for the door.
    “Aw, Tom. Tom, boy.…” The old man came shakily to his feet. “You know me, Tom. I’m just so danged tired and worried I hardly know which end I’m on. I didn’t mean that—”
    Over his shoulder, Lord said tightly that he meant it. He’d had all he cared to take, and then some.
    Bradley continued to protest feebly. Protesting, he trailed after the deputy for a few steps. Then, as Lord made no answer, firmly continuing on his way, the pleading stopped abruptly and his voice became shrill with outrage.
    “All right, Tom Lord! Go ahead an’ be stubborn! Be as ornery as you danged please. But I’m warnin’ you. You just— you better listen to me, Tom! ”
    “Yes?” Lord paused outside the door. “I’m listening, Dave.”
    “You just get out of line a little, an’ see what happens! Just let me hear one peep about McBride, an’ see what happens! I won’t cover up for you. I’ll pull you in so fast, it’ll make your head swim.”
    He went back to his desk, then, old Dave Bradley. He sat there, glowering and muttering to himself, his eyes slowly moistening, his withered mouth puckering. And, finally, he dropped his head into his hands and began to cry.
    Meanwhile, up near the center of town, Tom Lord was emerging from a liquor store with two large bags full of whisky.
    Back in his car, he popped the cork from one bottle and up-ended it into his mouth. He drank in great gulps, until the stuff burbled up out of his lips and ran down over his shirt. Then, he recorked the bottle, tossed it to a grinning group of curbside spectators, and sped off toward Joyce’s house.
    She heard him coming, heard his clattering attempts to open the front gate. Almost instantly, she was out of the house, pulling him out of the car and sliding behind the wheel herself.
    “You go on inside now, honey. I’ll—can you make it all right?”
    Owlishly good-humored, Lord said that of course he could make it. He couldn’t take it, but he could always make it. And walking very straight, he headed across the yard.
    By the time Joyce had put the car away, locking the lean-to door behind, he was in the kitchen, ponderously opening one bottle after another.
    “Oh, now, Tom!” She began to restopper the bottles. “Why do you act like this, honey? If you want a drink or two, fine, but you—Tom, now stop it!”
    He was uncorking the bottles again, taking a swig from each as he did so. She tried to stop him, and casually, his stiff-armed palm rocked her backward, sent her reeling and staggering across the room until the wall stopped her with a painful thud.
    The impact knocked the wind out of her, left her sickishly dizzy for a moment. As she clutched a chairback for support, Lord left the bottles and gently helped her sit down.
    “He shouldn’t have done that,” he said, frowning at the sink where he had so recently stood. “I don’t think I like him.”
    “H-He?” Joyce gasped. “What do you mean, he? ”
    “Gone now,” said Lord, with an expression of satisfaction. “Wouldn’t’ve