1: New Orleans

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#CC9900" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="047005a0dwnjzk.gif"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U><B>home</B></U></A><B>     | </B><B> </B><B> </B><B>  </B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Verdana" ><B>Cassie's Writing</B></FONT></div> <div> <B>1:  New Orleans</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id54.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="2: Mary Margaret"><U><B>2:  Mary Margaret</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id55.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="3: Rumrunners Row"><U><B>3:  Rumrunners' Row</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id56.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="4: Speakeasy"><U><B>4:  Speakeasy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id57.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="5: Sys Deal"><U><B>5:  Sy's Deal</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id58.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="6: Reunion"><U><B>6:  Reunion</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="7: Disaster"><U><B>7:  Disaster</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id60.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="8: Petofi"><U><B>8:  Petofi</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id63.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="9: Cuddeback"><U><B>9:  Cuddeback</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id64.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="10: Angelique"><U><B>10:  Angelique</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id65.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="11: Making Plans"><U><B>11:  Making Plans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id66.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="12: Chicago"><U><B>12:  Chicago</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U><B>13:  Nora</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id68.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="14: The Gypsy"><U><B>14:  The Gypsy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id69.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="15: The Trap"><U><B>15:  The Trap</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="16: The Gift"><U><B>16:  The Gift</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id71.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="17: Beth"><U><B>17:  Beth</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id74.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="18: Together Again"><U><B>18:  Together Again</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id75.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="19: Petofi Strikes"><U><B>19:  Petofi Strikes</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U><B>Taking Wooden Nickels</B></U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>1:  New Orleans</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div>      Louisiana was already supposed to be a "dry" state when the Prohibition amendment passed.  The anonymous young man at the table sipped his drink and reflected that one of the nice things about being in New Orleans was the fact that people did pretty much as they pleased--including continuing to drink.  In fact within a half hour of his arrival back in New Orleans, he'd been able to get a bottle of fine scotch-from his cab driver. That was fine, because he did not accept the idea that boycotting Pabst and Schlitz beer would retaliate against the evil German empire anymore than he believed that hard liquor was brewed by the Devil.  </div> <div>      The best thing about New Orleans, though, was the freedom and the music.  By day, the young man pursued his research into voodoo practices and witchcraft.  He'd been searching the world over for a permanent cure to a particularly horrible curse laid on him years ago.  He was safe; his descendants were not.  So  far he'd had no luck, and had decided to return to New Orleans after an absence of 10 years to try again. Although in this place and at this hour, the young man stood out a little, he found he could pretty much move freely about the city, intermingling equally well in both black and white neighborhoods.   That was particularly helpful with the research.  He was a very charming young man, and people didn't mind talking to him.  It was near closing time, and he was one of the last patrons left.  The band was still playing, though, which was why he stayed on.  He hadn't been lucky in love this evening, but he always enjoyed the music.  The jazz musicians improvised so there was no telling from day to day what they were going to play.  </div> <div>      Finally, the trumpet player decided he'd had enough, and it was time to call it quits.  He took the trumpet out of his mouth and emptied the valves from the mouthpiece.  Taking a rag from the case, he began to clean his instrument.  The man with the bass fiddle carried it into the back, and the piano player stood up to stretch.  On impulse, the young man decided to ask if he could play the piano for a few minutes.  He didn't get to play very often although he enjoyed it very much.  He didn't have a permanent place of his own to keep a piano.</div> <div>      The two musicians watched him approach warily.</div> <div>      "I really liked your sound," the young man said easily.  "Would you mind if I…?"  He gestured toward the piano.</div> <div>      The piano player shrugged and moved out of the way.  "We done for the night, so you better play quick.  Place shuts down soon."  He went off in the direction of the bass player.</div> <div>      The trumpet player watched the young man out of the corner of his eye, moving his rag across the horn in slow, circular motions.  He became more interested as he heard the young man begin to play.  Not bad, he thought, for a white boy.  And probably a rich one at that.  He wasn't dressed like any cracker, although rednecks wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.  No, this was some rich kid, tall, lanky, and very handsome, with thick dark hair and blue eyes.  The ladies would like this one.</div> <div> "Not bad, Mac," he ventured, as a compliment.</div> <div>      The young man grinned at him appreciatively.  "Thanks.  I never knew I could play the piano--never had any lessons as a kid, never even had a piano."</div> <div>      "Is that so?  I thought all rich white boys had pianos.  So how'd you learn, then?"</div> <div>      "Just like this.  I watch, I listen, and then I ask."</div> <div>      The trumpet player nodded in understanding.  "Best way TO learn, kid.  What's your name?"</div> <div>      The young man hesitated.  "Mac's okay," he answered finally.</div> <div>      The trumpet player wasn't offended.  He understood a man's need for anonymity here.  This young man wasn't from any of the big families in New Orleans, though.  His accent gave him away.  He was from up north somewhere.  "Well, Mr. Mac, you can call me Dave," he said.  "The place'll be closin up now but if you feel you want to, you can come back and play again."</div> <div>      "Thanks," said Mac.</div> <div>      "Might be George'll even let you try a tune or two if you let him hear you," Dave went on.  "The piano player, I mean."</div> <div>      Mac nodded.  "I think I'd enjoy that."</div> <div>      Dave put the trumpet in the case, thinking.  He didn't have white friends, but he had an easy time getting along with most people.  This Mac seemed like an interesting person.  "You got a place to run home to, Mac?  Or you want to come have a nightcap with me?"</div> <div>      "Sure.  You know another place?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, but this is out in the country a ways.  Liquor's kinda raw there, but if you like our music, they got singers on until the sun comes up."</div> <div>      "Sounds good," Mac said agreeably.</div> <bR> <div>      This place was very different.  It was far out in the country, in a ramshackle building that rocked with music and singing.  The air was thick with cigar and cigarette smoke.  Now Mac really did stand out, but most of the patrons just gave him a curious look and let him be.  Mac could tell that they were whispering and wondering about him, and it made him feel a little uncomfortable.  He pulled out a cigar and lit it.</div> <div>      Then Dave brought him to a table with some couples and introduced him around.  More drinks came.  Dave was right--the whisky was raw and harsh.  Probably still brewed.  Mac coughed and choked and decided he'd better slow down.  </div> <div>      There was a female singer who looked very much like an exotic goddess to Mac.  She had a rich, deep, throaty voice which he appreciated very much. This boy is hooked, Dave thought.   Indeed, the expression on Mac's face was very much like a hungry fish looking at a delectible morsel, unaware it was on a hook. After she sang a set of songs, she came to their table and sat down, looking at Mac with a great deal of curiosity. He looked back at her with a great deal more than curiosity.</div> <div>      "This is Delilah," Dave said.  "Delilah, this gentleman calls himself Mac."</div> <div>      Mac picked up Delilah's hand and held it in his, never breaking eye contact with her.  "I'm very pleased to meet you," he said in a low, husky voice.</div> <div>      Delilah smiled seductively at him.  "The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure.  Where'd you come from, pretty boy?"</div> <div>      "Oh, I just turned up, I guess.  I'm sort of like a bad penny."</div> <div>      "Bad penny?  Pretty shining thing like you?  Or do you mean you're going to turn up again?"</div> <div>      "I always do," Mac said.  Dave sat back and watched, interested and amused.  This was definitely not your average rich white boy.  The music began again, loud and mournful.  Several couples had gotten up to dance.  "Would you care to dance with me?"  Mac held out his hand.  Delilah glanced at Dave, who gave a barely perceptible nod.</div> <div>      Mac was a natural dancer.  He pulled Delilah close to him, and they moved slowly and seductively together.  Mac felt warm and flush, especially when Delilah whispered into his ear, "You FEEL good to me, pretty boy.  I'd like to get a little closer to you."  At the end of the dance, they walked back to the table with the arms around each other.  Mac sat back down, but Delilah leaned down and gave him a long, deep kiss that set his head spinning.  "Got to sing some more, darlin."  She walked back toward the makeshift stage.  Mac suddenly felt very dizzy and very drunk.</div> <div>      "Whew!  I can feel the heat comin off you two," Dave said, fanning his face.  "Listen, Mac, I think I'm gonna take you back to town now."</div> <div>      "Why?"  Mac asked, brought back to earth and annoyed.</div> <div>      "Because you want to be with Delilah, don't you?  But I don't want any trouble here.  Delilah's man gonna be here soon, and I don't need him seeing what's going on, you understand?"</div> <div>      "She's married?"</div> <div>      "Doesn't matter if she is or she isn't," Dave answered mildly.  "Delilah usually finds a way to work things out She wants you, 'pretty boy', I can tell that much.  My, my, what I wouldn't give for some good looks myself.  And I don't suppose you'd want to deny her what she wants, would you?"</div> <div>      "No," said Mac, feeling himself flush again.</div> <div>      "Well, listen to what I'm telling you then and come on with me, now."</div> <div>      Mac and Dave got up to leave.  Delilah, in the middle of a soulful song, looked at Mac and winked.  He felt dizzy again.</div> <div>      Back in the car, Mac asked, "Does her man own that place?"</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "Him!  Nah, I own it."</div> <div>      "You?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, Mac, a music man can be a business man too, can't he?"</div> <div>      Mac gave Dave a speculative look and nodded.</div> <bR> <div>      Mac came back again to play the piano and, Dave knew, to see Delilah again.  Mac seemed to have a magic touch not only with the piano but with the ladies.  Dave noticed that Delilah was not the only woman who caught Mac's eye, especially once he'd been with her a few times.  There were some nights that Mac would go with Dave and end up spending a few hours with Delilah.  Other times, Mac never even got a chance to play the piano because he'd meet someone in the club and disappear with her.  </div> <div>      Sometimes at the end of the evening and after everyone had left, the four musicians would go on playing together.  George was a sax player as well, and he would get up so that Mac could play the piano.  Since Mac seemed to be such a natural at music, Dave thought it might be fun to have him try to play the trumpet.  Mac couldn't get the hang of it, though, and was only able to make pitiful bleating sounds with the horn.  With his long, slender fingers, he had better luck picking up the bass from Jack. After a while, a white trombone player named Cholly joined their group.  Cholly was from Brooklyn, and they called him according to how he pronounced his name.  He was a very good looking fellow, another lady killer, and he was an even better trombone player. He played with an all white band, he explained, but he wanted to play with them after hours.  Their friendship grew out of their shared love of music.  As their friendships grew stronger, the music they created together sounded better.</div> <div>      One night, as Dave and Mac drove back out into the country, Mac said, "I've been wanting to ask you something, Dave--as a business man, you know."</div> <div>      "Yeah?  What's that?"</div> <div>      "Well, it's about that rotgut you've got out at your place.  I was thinking--"</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "Hey, it's gotta be cheap.  And to be cheap, it's gotta be rotgut."</div> <div>      "Well, not necessarily.  Not if we got it ourselves."</div> <div>      Dave looked at him suspiciously.  "Whatcha talkin about?"</div> <div>      "I'm talking about flying out to Cuba or maybe Puerto Rico and picking up some good stuff.  It's not that far."</div> <div>      "Flying out to Cuba?  Puerto Rico?  How?  You a bird or something?"</div> <div>      "No, an airplane, Dave.  I can get an airplane.  We can fly there, buy some good stuff cheap, and bring it back here."</div> <div>      Dave pulled the car off the road and shut off the ignition, seriously alarmed.  He glared at Mac, wondering if he had been a fool to get mixed up with this guy.  He could be an agent or even an informer.  "Just who the hell are you, anyway?"  he asked angrily.</div> <div>      "Whoa, what're you getting so mad for?  I didn't mean to make you mad!"  Mac protested.  "It was just an idea I had."</div> <div>      "Where did you get your idea from Mr. Mac?  And who are you, anyway?"</div> <div>      "I'm your friend, Dave," Mac said, hurt.</div> <div>      "Oh, really?  Then why don't I know your name?  You know mine.  Dave Fisher.  Named for King David.  I never called myself no Mac. You hiding from somebody?  Or working for somebody?"</div> <div>      Mac opened his mouth, then stopped, thinking.  Then he said, "Hiding, I guess."</div> <div>      "Who you hiding from?  I could tell you wasn't from no New Orleans.  Where you from?"</div> <div>      "I'm fron New England," Mac answered.  He added challengingly, "And you're not from New Orleans, either."</div> <div>      "I never said I was.  I'm from New York.  That's no secret."</div> <div>      "It's not a secret that I'm from New England, either."</div> <div>      "Who you hiding from?"</div> <div>      "My family, I guess."</div> <div>      "Your family? You guess? What did you do?  Knock some girl up?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, you could say that.  I know that the family would rather not see me again.  And I don't want to see them either," Mac said heatedly.</div> <div>      Dave was mollified.  He felt pretty sure that Mac was giving him more fact than fiction.  "Okay, okay, let's not get all hot about this.  You want to talk business?  I'll listen to you, but I'd really like to know your name first."</div> <div>      With just the slightest pause, Mac said, "Frank Scott."</div> <div>      Dave grimaced and rolled his eyes.  "That's not a rich white boy's name!  You gonna tell me the truth or not?  Friends are supposed to trust each other, kid.  Now let me introduce myself to you again.  How do you do, my name is Dave Fisher.  And you are--"</div> <div>      Mac or Frank or whatever his name was didn't speak.  He looked stricken.  Now Dave was annoyed and hurt.  "You don't want to tell me.  You don't trust me.  But you got the nerve to sit there and talk to me about flying airplanes to Cuba and Puerto Rico and bringing back a cargo of booze.  Last time I checked, that little activity is this side of i-l-l-e-g-a-l.  But I'm supposed to trust you, huh?  I don't need that booze, kid.  What I've got is good enough.  I know where it comes from, I don't got to worry about anyone informin on me--at least, I don't THINK I do, and I don't got to worry about smuggling in no West Indies rum and wonderin how I'm gonna get it way back in the country."</div> <div>      "I have a plane, and I have a boat," the young man answered.  "Look, Dave, I'm sorry.  I do trust you.  I just--you just have to promise me you won't use my name.  You won't know it, but I don't want to take a chance on someone overhearing it and recognizing it.  I'm just going by Frank Scott.  It's the name I'm using now.  I've used lots of names."</div> <div>      Dave sighed.  "Okay, look, I believe you--Frank.  You're hiding out from your family.  You don't want them to be able to find you.  You don't even want them to get a whisper of where you are.  That's beyond me, but I'm not gonna make any judgements on you.  Can't you just say your name--one time?  I'll forget it right away, I swear."</div> <div>      "It's Quentin.  Quentin Collins."</div> <div>      "Praise God!" Dave said mockingly.  Then he held his hand out.  "Happy to meet you, Frank.  Now what's this business you want to be discussin with me?"</div> <div>      Quentin explained again how he wanted to fly from New Orleans to either Cuba or Puerto Rico and buy hard liquor there, cheap.  He wanted to fly to the Florida Keys and drop the liquor and then bring it back to New Orleans by boat; from there they could get it to Dave's club by truck.</div> <div>      Dave was intrigued.  "What about this plane and this boat?  Won't they be expensive to rent?"</div> <div>      "No, I told you.  I have a plane, and I have a boat."</div> <div>      "So where'd you get this money from to get you a boat and a plane?  Not your family?"</div> <div>      "Not all of it, no."</div> <div>      "You do this before?  You a rumrunner?  You in with anybody else?"</div> <div>      "No, never have.  I got the idea listening to other people."</div> <div>      "You ain't never done this before?  You know what the risks might be, or are you just a kid and you don't care?"</div> <div>      "Hey, I don't need to be insulted!"  Quentin objected angrily.</div> <div>      "Look, if we're friends, you need to be able to talk plain and listen plain," Dave said reasonably.  "Maybe I'm just more cautious than you because I'm older."</div> <div>      Quentin made a contemptuous sound.  "Age doesn't mean a thing."</div> <div>      "Well, that's true, I guess.  I've known some old folks who were damn fools.  But there's nothing so dangerous as a young damn fool, Frank.  I'm not especially interested in getting killed."</div> <div>      "Okay, just forget it," Quentin said in disgust.</div> <div>      Dave started up the car again.  "No, no I didn't say I wanted to forget it.  Just let me chew on it awhile.  And while I'm chewing, let me just ask you a few more questions..."</div> <bR> <div>      The first run they made was nerve wracking for both of them but they were able to turn a big profit on the good liquor they brought back.  Dave found he didn't have to raise the price of his drinks that much to increase his share, and the demand for the decent tasting stuff was there.  He raised his price again and was delighted to see that some of the patrons were happy to pay premium.  He gave Quentin a cut, too.  There were a few other small time backwoods operators like Dave that approached him and wanted to make a deal.  They wanted to form a cooperative partnership so that everyone could serve the more expensive stuff.</div> <div>      The next trip out was by far more relaxing because they had experience behind them.  As usual, Quentin was taken by the native women and while they were there, he would disappear into the night with one of them.  Sometimes there would be two or three, and Quentin would ask Dave to join them.  It was a very profitable and enjoyable trip.</div> <div>      The third time out, they were picking up good rum for the establishment the band played for.  This was a much more complicated trip because they would be carrying back their largest cargo yet.  They'd make a lot of money off this one.  "Third time's the charm," Dave said, but although they enjoyed themselves on the island as much as they had the previous time, they ran into trouble on the run home.  </div> <div>      The way their plan had worked so far was:  Quentin would fly the plane in low over the Keys, and they would drop the kegs into the water.  George, Cholly, and Jack waited nearby in Quentin's small motorboat.  They'd run out quickly, pick up the kegs and head for New Orleans. There they would wait for Quentin and Dave to show up with a truck.  They all loaded the kegs into the truck, which was then covered over with sacks of cheap corn seed.  Then Dave and Quentin would drive the liquor back to wherever it needed to go.</div> <div>      This time, however, the plan was different.  There were too many kegs to fit into one boat trip, so the boat made two trips, running to the nearest lagoon.  Dave and Quentin showed up with the truck, and the plan was to drive it across Mississippi to Louisiana.  They would meet the other three in New Orleans.  However,  just before crossing Mississippi into Louisiana, they were stopped.  Dave had broken out in a sweat and was practically gasping as the policemen got out of their car and approached the truck.  Quentin looked at him, sharply, and hissed, "Jeez, Dave, calm down, would you?"</div> <div>      "Ohhh, man, don't you know we're in the middle of Klan country?" Dave moaned.</div> <div>      "Just shut up and let me handle this," Quentin said.</div> <div>      "Step on out, boys," one of the policemen ordered.  Quentin and Dave climbed out of the truck.  Dave could barely stand up straight; he was shaking all over, genuinely scared.  A bright light flashed in their faces; Quentin squinted and put his hand up to protect his eyes. "What you all have in the back, boys?"</div> <div>      "Just some seed corn," Quentin answered.  "Why'd you stop me?  Was I going too fast?"</div> <div>      The policeman chuckled.  "Going too fast, he says.  You PLAYIN too fast, sonny-boy.  Come on, now, why don't you tell me what's really in the back?"</div> <div>      "Seed corn,"  Quentin said stubbornly.</div> <div>      The policeman hooted.  "Go have a look, Bobby Lee," he said to his partner.  "The two of you stand still."  He looked at Quentin speculating.  "What're you doing with seed corn anyway?  You ain't no farmer?"</div> <div>      "How do you know?"</div> <div>      "Don't smart mouth me, boy.  I ain't a fool.  You ain't from here.  And who's your nigra friend?  He your farmhand?"</div> <div>      "He's just along for the ride."</div> <div>      "Tom!"  Bobby Lee called from inside the truck.  He'd been tossing bags of corn out for several minutes.  "You ought to see what I found!"  He jumped out of the back of the truck and came back around, pulling handcuffs off his belt.</div> <div>      Tom grinned nastily.  He shoved Dave against the truck, hard.  He grabbed Dave's shoulder and spun him around so that he was facing the truck and yanked one of his arms behind his back.  Dave cried out.  "Hey, stop!  He's not fighting you!"  Quentin protested.  </div> <div>      Bobby Lee stepped up and clouted Quentin on the side of the head with his open hand.  Quentin staggered backward, and Bobby Lee hit him again.  Quentin sat down, hard.  Bobby Lee was right on him, pushing him to the ground face down.  Sitting on his back, Bobby Lee yanked Quentin's arms behind his back and cuffed them.</div> <div>      "Stop fighting me, boy!" Tom hollered.  He grabbed the back of Dave's head and slammed it into the side of the truck.  Both of Dave's hands had already been cuffed behind his back.  Tom stepped back, and Dave dropped to the ground, unconscious.  He bled from the nose and mouth.  Tom turned on Quentin, who'd risen to his knees .  "You gonna resist any more?"</div> <div>      "We weren't resisting!"  Quentin gritted.  He was furious.  He was not used to being manhandled by anyone, and especially not by a policeman.  The fact that a so-called law enforcer had so eagerly injured his friend was even more infuriating.  Tom strode over to him and kicked him savagely in the ribs.  Quentin yelped involuntarily and fell over on his side.</div> <div>      " Like coloreds, do you?  Well, you got anything else to say, boy?"  Tom demanded.</div> <div>      This time, gasping with pain, Quentin wisely kept his mouth shut.  He knew that the pain would go very quickly, but he wasn't going to risk his own safety or that of Dave's any more.  With both prisoners effectively subdued, the two policemen climbed back into the back of the truck.  Quentin listened to them breaking into one of the kegs.  "Wooohooo!"  they yelled.  </div> <div>      They were jumping out of the truck and approaching again.  Quentin braced himself for another blow, but it didn't come.  Tom squatted down by Quentin and grinned at him.  "You boys are in a whole world of trouble now."  Quentin closed his eyes and shuddered.</div> <bR> <div>      They were placed in adjoining cells for the rest of the night.  Dave began to come around toward dawn, moaning and feeling his injured nose.  "Ohhh, man, I think it's busted," he groaned.</div> <div>      "I'm sorry, man," Quentin said, feeling guilty.  "They shouldn't have done that.  You weren't fighting."</div> <div>      Dave laughed sardonically.  "What a dummy you are. Welcome to the real south, Franky."  Groaning again, he sat up and looked at Quentin through the bars of their adjoining cells.  "I'm scared.  Don't nobody know we're here, and they don't like people like me 'round here.  In case you couldn't tell."</div> <div>      "Don't worry, Dave.  I'll get us out of this," Quentin promised.</div> <div>      "Yeah?  Well, in case you didn't notice, Franky, I don't think they liked you very much either.  What was that term of affection they used with you since we was stopped?"</div> <div>      Quentin shook his head, thinking.  He wasn't naive enough to believe that Tom and Bobby Lee were going to turn the whisky they'd seized over to the authorities.  He really hated to lose their investment, but it was already too late.  He wondered how corrupt these two were and just how far he could minimize their losses.</div> <div>      Dave was still talking, trying to cover his anxiety.  "Good thing my jaw ain't broke.  I can still play the horn with a busted nose, just don't know how well I can breathe. You're lucky they didn't bust your pretty face, kid. You got an idea yet, Frank?"</div> <div>      "I was wondering if we could buy our way out of here."</div> <div>      "Guys like that, they could take what we got and still put us on a chain gang.  Don't nobody know where we're at."</div> <div>      Quentin pulled his shirt off.  "I guess it's a chance we're going to have to take."  Picking at the stitches of his collar, he pulled it apart to get at the several hundred dollars he'd hidden there.  In the next cell, Dave started to yank heel of one shoe off.  "Wait, Dave.  We don't want to give it all up at one time."  Quentin walked to the wall closest to the door and yelled, "Hey!"  as loud as he could.  "Hey!"</div> <div>      After a few minutes, Tom opened the connecting door from the office to the back room where the cells were located.  "What you yelling for?  It ain't breakfast time yet."</div> <div>      "I just wanted to find out how long you were going to hold us.  We really need to be on our way," Quentin   said, blustering.</div> <div>      Tom laughed at him.  "Sorry to hold you up, sonny-boy.  You got to appear before the judge and let HIM decide how long you gonna be visiting us.  Got a feeling you and the nigra going to be our guests for awhile."</div> <div>      "Well, we really don't have time for that.  Would you send a wire for me, please?"  Quentin held a hundred dollar bill out through the bars.  Tom's eyes gleamed.  He stepped forward and took the bill.  "Now, if you'll kindly bring me some paper, I'll write down where the wire needs to go and a message."  Tom gave Quentin a greedy, appraising look and shut the door.</div> <div>      "Man, I hope you know what you're doing!"  Dave worried.  "Who you gonna send a wire to?"</div> <div>      "To the only person I know of who can help us get out of this," Quentin replied.  "He's family."</div> <div>      "Family?  I thought you were hiding from them?"</div> <div>      "I am--except for this one, my nephew."</div> <div>      "Nephew?"  Dave's voice scaled up a little, incredulously.  "Where's a little kid gonna get money?"</div> <div>      Quentin realized his mistake.  "What makes you think he's a kid?" he asked, stalling so he could think.</div> <div>      "You ain't much more than a kid yourself.  How old is this nephew?  Twelve?"</div> <div>      "Actually, we're about the same age," Quentin lied quickly and then threw in a little truth just in case Dave didn't believe him.  "My brother is a lot older than me.  He married young.  Happens a lot in our family--"  He was relieved when Tom came back with a pad of paper and a pen.  He took the paper and pen from Tom and asked, "Look, just tell me straight out--what'll it take to get me and my friend out of here?"</div> <div>      Tom reached through the bars to grab Quentin's shirt, yanking him close so they stood nose to nose.  "Just what the hell are you sayin to me, boy?"</div> <div>      "I'm saying you've got the whisky and the truck.  I'm saying I want me and my friend out of here.  I'm saying I can pay whatever more you need to do that.  Just tell me how much and I'll have it sent here."  Quentin inwardly braced himself to either get hit or pulled against the bars.  Instead, Tom let him go and regarded him thoughtfully.</div> <div>      "Some kind of Rockefeller, are you?"</div> <div>      "You might say that,"  Quentin answered.  "Do you want to make a deal or should we just take the booze to the judge and take our chances there?"</div> <div>      Tom thought and then said, "Five thousand for the trouble you've caused us."</div> <div>      Quentin was so relieved he almost laughed.  He forced himself to appear to hesitate, thinking.  "That's a lot, but I'll get it for you."  He started writing.  When he finished, he pushed the pad of paper out toward Tom.  "If you'll kindly send that, the money will be wired right to you."</div> <div>      Tom glared at Quentin and then read the message.  "You ain't saying anything here about--"</div> <div>      "No, sir," Quentin said softly, "I'm just saying it's for the fine."</div> <div>      Tom was mollified.  "Okay, Mr. Rockefeller.  You better be right."  He left.</div> <div>      "Franky, I don't trust that man," Dave said.</div> <div>      "I don't either.  I have a code I use with Jamison--my nephew.  He'll wire the money here and if I don't contact him within the day, he'll send someone to find out what's going on.  He'll let them know it, too, so they don't try anything stupid."</div> <div>      "Good plan, kid," Dave said with admiration.</div> <div>      Quentin sighed.  "Well, it's come in handy before, and I'm really not such a kid, you know."</div> <div>      "No, I guess not.  But don't take offense, Franky, I don't mean it like that.  You get us out of here in one piece, you'll have my eternal gratitude." Dave was silent, thinking.  "This nephew of yours--he's bailed you out before, then?  He's not angry with you?"</div> <div>      "He's not angry.  We've always been close."</div> <div>      "So you made your brother mad, huh?  Or something?"</div> <div>      "Or something.  I don't think I've ever done anything to please my brother--except leave."  Quentin laughed.  "Of course, the time I left before this one, his wife followed me.  All the way to Egypt."</div> <div>      "Go on!"  Dave exclaimed, shocked.</div> <div>      "Well, I didn't ask her to," Quentin replied defensively.</div> <div>      Dave shook his head, smiling, and laughed.  "You are a card, kid.  I've seen you with the ladies.  You must have some kind of scent on you to make them fall all over you the way they do." He sounded a little envious.  Quentin shrugged.  "But your brother's WIFE?  Isn't that just a little sinful, Franky?"</div> <div>      "Those that lead pure lives often live very dull lives," Quentin said sardonically.  "Besides," he added, feeling defensive again, "she seduced me.  I'm not claiming to be any innocent, Dave, I've done more than my share of seducing ladies.  It just so happened she was the first, and she seduced me."</div> <div>      Dave was impressed.  "Lord, lord!"  he said.  "Do tell, Franky.  Or is that a secret you can't tell?"</div> <div>      Quentin shrugged.  "It was a long time ago.  I was sixteen.  My younger brother and I had been thrown out of another school and sent home. My parents had been dead for years, so we were sort of raised by my grandmother, my older brother and older sister. Edward has always been the morally upright citizen and so he took exception to the fact that we'd been expelled from another school.  He felt it was his duty to show me the error of my ways with his strap, and I thought I'd outgrown that, so we got into this fight....Well, I threw a couple of punches at him, just to try and stop him, you know..."  Quentin's voice trailed off.  Remembering the violence and the angry feelings disturbed him.  Dave didn't say anything, understanding, waiting for Quentin to either go on or stop.  </div> <div>      Quentin cleared his throat.  "It scared me.  I'd never hit my brother before.  There was blood on his face, and that stopped me.  I was scared I'd really hurt him.  I told him I was sorry.  I tried to help him get up.  And when I did, he turned on me and beat the hell out of me.  I mean, this was nothing like any of the fights I'd been in before with the other guys.  He really whaled on me, and I was black and blue all over.  Scared everybody else in the house as well.  They'd never seen anything like it before.  That's not the way Collinses behave."  Quentin laughed darkly.  "What a bunch of hypocrites.  Well, how it started with Laura was, she came to my room out of the 'kindness of her heart' to minister to my hurts.  And did she!"</div> <div>      "Mm, mm, mm," Dave commented.  "Ain't nothing like being a young boy with an older woman."</div> <div>      Quentin laughed again, this time with real good humor.  "Make that a young, inexperienced boy.  She was bored with Edward--I can't say I blame her for that.  I always thought she was beautiful.  I always thought about her.  So to have her come to me like that--" He stopped suddenly and flushed to a deep red.</div> <div>      "You're blushing there, Franky," Dave teased. Quentin fanned himself with his hand and laughed, embarrassed.  "Hey, I can just imagine what you went through there, kid.  Musta been awful."  They both laughed again.  "Thing is, with me, I just don't blush--not that you could tell, anyways.  She must've been an awfully beautiful woman, Frank.  Your nephew ever knew you foolled around with his mother?"</div> <div>      "Ah, no," Quentin said.  He just remembered that he'd said he and Jamison were almost the same age.  He was about to add on a story but decided the less said the better.  He'd learned that telling a good lie meant using as much truth as possible.</div> <div>      "Did Edward find out?"</div> <div>      "Not then, no.  My brother Carl and I got sent away to another school and thrown out of that one.  When we came back that time, Edward just gave me the back of his hand but nothing else.  I still got to see Laura again.  That was the way it went until I finally finished with boarding school.  Then I went to college and came back just a couple of times.  But there was always Laura.  And we were discrete.  I can't imagine Edward looking the other way all the years it went on.  We did get caught, finally.  It's a long story.  There was the usual ugly scene, and then I left.  Laura followed me."</div> <div>      "So what happened to your sister-in-law?"</div> <div>      "She died in a fire," Quentin said truthfully and then added, "It was an accident."  He bit his lip and decided to change the subject.  He didn't want to tell too many lies.  "Are you married, Dave?"</div> <div>      "Was.  Not no more."  He looked at Quentin and smiled.  "I'm not so pure, either, Franky.  Music man lives with a lot of temptations.  A lot.  She was too nice a girl for me anyhow and didn't need to be married to someone like me.  I wouldn't have gotten married but I knocked her up, you see.  It wasn't any good, right from the beginning.  I travelled a lot with the band, out to all hours of the night.  Then I didn't want to go home to where the baby was screaming and she'd be nagging at me to find a real job and stay home with her.  My life was too much fun.  I love the music, you know, I can't give that up.  And when the music playing's over, well, the parties and the women are just too much to give up.  I just got to be free.  So i just left her and the baby.  I'm not proud of that, I want you to know that.  But I can't live that way, man."</div> <div>      Quentin nodded sympathetically.  "You ever see your kid?"</div> <div>      "Nah, not really.  I send her some money to help out with the kid.  Sometimes when I go back through home, I go down to where they live, you know, and I just kind of stand there and watch and wait.  I seen them a couple times."</div> <div>      "Boy or girl?"</div> <div>      "Girl.  Real pretty, too.  Her mama's bringing her up just right.  Takes her to church regular and got her goin to school.  She'll be the first in our family to get herself a high school diploma.  My, my.  Imagine that!"</div> <div>      "You didn't finish high school?"  Quentin asked, surprised.</div> <div>      "Why, hell, no, how would I do that?"</div> <div>      "Well, I--I--," Quentin stuttered, confused.  "I don't know.  I just assumed--"</div> <div>      "Assumed what?"</div> <div>      "Well, I mean, I just assumed you went to high school and on--"</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "You are something!  You're the first one to assume I was smarter than I was!  Glory be!"</div> <div>      Quentin was embarrassed.  "I'm sorry.  I feel like an ass now."</div> <div>      Dave was still laughing.  "It's all right!  Makes me feel kinda good, actually, that you figured I was some kind of educated person.  You rub shoulders mostly with rich folks.  They're the kind that go to high school and college.  Not folks like us, specially not us black folks."</div> <div>      "Why?"</div> <div>      "Why?  Because they aren't that many schools for us, first of all.  Second of all, we got families to support.  We got to work.  The opportunities just aren't there.  Didn't you notice we eat in separate restaurants, go to separate movie houses, go to separate bathrooms?"</div> <div>      "Well--"</div> <div>      "Frank, next time you come to a club like we play in, look around you at the clientele.  We're sitting in the band area, not at any of the tables.  And you noticed you were the only white boy at my place, didn't you?"</div> <div>      Quentin frowned, thinking.  "It's different in the islands," he said finally.</div> <div>      "Yes, it's different, but the islands aren't the US of A," Dave said, a little exasperated.  "You didn't ever notice how much easier it is for you than for me?"</div> <div>      "Well, to be honest, I just didn't think about it very much," Quentin said honestly.  "I didn't think things ought to be different."</div> <div>      "Maybe they ought not to be, but they are.  You sit up and take notice, Frank.  You'll see what I mean.  Don't they have any colored folks up Northeast where you live?  Where IS that anyway?  It can't be New York?"</div> <div>      "No, it's Maine.  It's as far northeast as you can go," Quentin answered.</div> <div>      "Okay, so what about the colored folks up there?"</div> <div>      "Well--"</div> <div>      "Or don't you know any?"</div> <div>      "No."</div> <div>      Dave made a contemptuous sound and waved his hand dismissively.  "Probably too damn cold for us up there."  He laughed.  He looked at Quentin and realized his friend was embarrassed.  "You are something, Franky.  I never met anyone like you in my life."</div> <div>      The door opened, and Tom strode in, cutting off the rest of the conversation.  Bobby Lee stood in the doorway as Tom opened Quentin's cell.  "Okay, come on out of there.  Your 'fine' was just paid and we're giving you a ride to the Louisiana line."</div> <div>      Quentin stood up but didn't move.  "What about my friend?"</div> <div>      "You deaf or just stupid?  I said YOUR fine has been paid.  Now come on."</div> <div>      "No, the deal was for me and my friend to get out of here."</div> <div>      "Listen, you dumb damn fool, I'm tellin you for your own good.  You wanted out of here, fine.  We'll take you right where you need to go.  Now come on.  I know you got to call someone."</div> <div>      "That's right, I do.  But I'm not going anywhere without my friend.  And I'm not calling anyone, either."</div> <div>      Tom snarled and stepped forward.  "Fine, we can drag you out if you want."</div> <div>      "Go ahead.  I won't leave and I won't make that call," Quentin said stubbornly.</div> <div>      "Let it go, Tom, we don't need this trash here," Bobby Lee said from the door.  "Come on."</div> <div>      Tom was furious and frustrated.  "Okay, that's right!  We don't need no more of these black boys here, and we sure as hell don't need agitatorss like him around stirrin up the colored folks."  He backed out of the cell, leaving the door open.  Fumbling at the keys furiously, he found the one that opened Dave's cell.  "Okay, come on out of there, boy."</div> <div>      Dave looked at Quentin.  "Let's go," Quentin said.  </div> <div>      Their truck was waiting for them outside.  Both policemen carried shotguns.  "You boys in the back," Bobby Lee ordered.  </div> <div>      Quentin stopped and looked at Tom.  "I need to place my call by six," he said warningly.</div> <div>      "Yeah, yeah, get in the damn truck.  You'll have time."  Tom still sounded very angry.  He got into the truck, behind the wheel and the other three climbed into the back of the truck.</div> <div>      "Where we drop you off, you can just walk over into Louisiana and find you a phone to call from," Bobby Lee explained.  "You just walk down the road a couple miles and there's a store there.  Phone's there."</div> <div>      "What about the truck?"  Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "Confiscated evidence.  You want to dispute that?  We can go up before the judge."</div> <div>      "No."</div> <bR> <div>      At the state line, Tom pulled the truck over.  Everyone got out.  Tom was still fuming.  "Okay, this is the end of the line, boys.  You two walk down that road till you come to the town store.  Then you make your call, you understand?"</div> <div>      "Sure, I understand, Mr. Law Abiding Officer, sir," Quentin answered, with a contemptuous little smile.</div> <div>      "Hold him," Tom ordered.  Bobby Lee grabbed Quentin's arms as Tom drew his fist back.</div> <div>      Dave clenched his fists, considering. "No, no!" Quentin yelled at him, and Dave stopped.  He dropped his eyes and closed them as Tom rained punches on Quentin's face, uppper body,  and ribs.</div> <div>      "Okay, enough!"  Bobby Lee said in a warning tone.  Tom stopped punching, but he quickly went through Quentin's pockets and retrieved the rest of the cash.  Then he stepped back, and Bobby Lee let go off Quentin's arms.  Quentin fell to the ground, curled up into a ball, holding his ribs.</div> <div>      "Traitor!" Tom hissed and spat on Quentin's writhing body.  "Make sure you report that to your rich friend!  You don't want to stick with you own kind, then you stay the hell out of this state, you hear me?"  He gave Quentin a solid kick for good measure, and then he and Bobby Lee climbed back into the truck and backed off.</div> <div>      Dave dropped down beside Quentin and rolled him over to get a look.  He cradled his friend's head in his lap.  He pulled a handkerchief out and pressed it to Quentin's nose and mouth, which were bleeding profusely.  "You hurt bad, you crazy damn fool?" he asked, concerned.</div> <div>      "I'm okay, I'm okay," Quentin mumbled.  "It'll go away."</div> <div>      "You think your ribs broke?  He kicked you pretty hard."</div> <div>      "No, no, I'll be okay in a few minutes. It'll go away."</div> <div>      Dave shook his head in wonder.  "I don't think nobody else would've stood up to that man to get me out, and don't think I don't know that.  You got a lot of guts and I thank you for that.  But why you wanted to go and provoke that man when you knew he was already mad enough to kill you, I'll never understand."</div> <div>      "Because it wasn't right," Quentin answered.  He was still breathing hard from the pain of the beating, testing his jaw and ribs.</div> <div>      "Because it wasn't right?  Boy, you are the craziest white man I ever met!"  Dave marvelled.  He insisted on pulling Quentin's shirt up to look at his ribs.  Quentin winced when Dave pressed on them gently.  "Hurt you to breathe?"</div> <div>      "No, they just hurt," Quentin answered, pulling his shirt back down and sitting up.</div> <div>      "You think any of them ribs might be busted?  Don't want you to punch a hole in your lung."</div> <div>      "No, don't worry.  Help me get up, will you?  Let's get outta here."  Dave helped Quentin get to his feet.  Quentin groaned.  "Listen, Dave, do me a favor, willya--next time I start to shoot my mouth off like that, would you just tell me to shut up?"</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "As if you'd listen to me!  Can you walk, do you think?"</div> <div>      "Well, I guess I better.  I don't want Jamison down here getting mixed up in all this."</div> <div>      Dave put his arm around Quentin to support him, and they began limping down the dusty road. Before they came to the store, they came across a small stream.  Quentin wanted to stop and wash the blood off his face.  He was feeling better already.  "You don't look so bad," Dave commented in approval.  "Never know anything had happened to you."</div> <div>      "Good," Quentin said tersely.  They both scooped water into their mouths and then continued down the road.  They saw the store Bobby Lee had told them about.  Quentin suddenly remembered his money was gone.  He turned to Dave, who sat down and pulled his shoe off.  Prying the heel off, he pulled out a few bills.  "This is all we've got left," Quentin said.  "Shall I buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate?"</div> <div>      "You crazy.  Just make your phone call and get us something to eat, huh?  I'm hungry."</div> <div>      "You're not coming?"</div> <div>      Dave shook his head, banging the heel back onto his shoe with a rock.  "This is what I was talkin bout, Frank--that's not a store I can go into."</div> <div>      So Quentin went into the general store, which was run by an elderly couple who regarded him very suspiciously.  He bought a couple of cokes and asked for a couple of sandwiches. The older woman pointedly stared out the window at Dave, waiting alongside the road. When Quentin asked for the phone, the man hesitated, and then reached under the counter and set it on top.  "Look, here, sonny, you just make your call and be on your way.  We don't like trouble hereabouts," the man said firmly.</div> <div>      Quentin was about to answer resentfully and then thought better of it.  This older couple might look harmless, but one of them might be able to pick up a shotgun....Quentin was still painfully aware that he'd been reckless with not only his own safety but Dave's as well.  He nodded and picked up the phone,  making his call collect.  After what seemed like a long time, the line rang, clicked, and someone picked up.  "Hello?"</div> <div>      "Jamison?"  Quentin asked tentatively.</div> <div>      "Quentin, you're all right?"</div> <div>      "Listen, it's Frank Scott."</div> <div>      "All right, Frank.  I was worried. You're all right?"</div> <div>      "Yes--fine.  Thanks for helping me out.  I'll get your money back to you."</div> <div>      "I know, don't worry about that.  I want you to come home."</div> <div>      "I know you do, but I can't do that.  You know that."</div> <div>      "Tell me where you are and I'll come there."</div> <div>      "No!  I don't want you to do that, either.  Look, I'm probably going to come back up in that direction.  It doesn't look so good here right now.  I can call you from New York."</div> <div>      "You've always said that, all these years," Jamison said, sounding disappointed.  </div> <div>      "I know, but this time I will call you.  I mean it this time."</div> <div>      "All right, if you say so.  Look, I don't know when you'll call again, so I guess I better just tell you.  Aunt Judith died."  There was a silence.  "Hello--Frank?"</div> <div>      Quentin was surprised that he actually felt something.  He was positive his sister had always hated him, and he had always believed he hated her, too.  He suddenly understood that it wasn't hate he felt, just hurt and regret that she didn't love him.  "Yes, I'm here," he said slowly.  "What happened?"</div> <div>      "The doctor said she just had heart failure.  She said a couple of things about you before she went."</div> <div>      "She did?  What did she say?"</div> <div>      "I couldn't understand some of it.  It didn't make any sense to me.  She asked where you were and she said she wanted to tell you that she didn't mean it."</div> <div>      "Didn't mean it?"</div> <div>      "That's what she said."  There was a pause.  "We had the services for her already."</div> <div>      "When did all this happen?"</div> <div>      "Last week.  The services were three days ago."</div> <div>      Quentin cleared his throat and swallowed.  He felt very sad.  "How's your father, Jamison?"</div> <div>      "Older--less bark.  Listen, I really want you to come to New York.  You will, won't you?  You're not just saying that?  I'd like you to meet my wife, Ruth.  And you haven't met Elizabeth, my little girl."</div> <div>      "Elizabeth?" Quentin repeated.</div> <div>      "We named her for Beth, you know."</div> <div>      Quentin's mouth went dry.  He could see Beth's face before him, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if to block the image-it was sometimes still too painful for him to remember her.  "I'll come, Jamison.  I better go--this is costing you a lot of money."  Quentin just wanted to get off the phone now.  Jamison sensed it, too, and said, "I'll wait to hear from you then.  I'll wait."</div> <bR> <div>      "What's wrong, Franky?"  Dave asked, taking one look at Frank's face.  Quentin passed him a sandwich and a coke and sat down beside him.  "Bad news?  Your nephew okay?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, he's fine.  He wants me to go to New York."  Quentin opened his soda with a church key he'd pocketed.  He reached over and opened Dave's soda for him.  "My sister died."</div> <div>      "Oh, sorry, kid," Dave said with sympathy.  </div> <div>      "I'm surprised I feel the way I do," Quentin said.  "I gave up on her a long time ago.  I didn't think she ever cared for me at all.  I used to wonder what it was I did that made her hate me."</div> <div>      "Hate you?"  Dave was shocked.</div> <div>      "Now I find out that maybe it wasn't like that at all.  She was asking for me.  Said she didn't mean it.  And I don't know what she meant."</div> <div>      "I don't understand half the things you tell me about your family, Frank.  They just don't make any sense to me.  I never felt like my family hated me.  I can't imagine people feeling that way about their kin.  She tell you that she hated you?  Maybe that's what she didn't mean."</div> <div>      "No, she never said she hated me.  It all in the way she treated me.  I thought it was because I got the scarlet fever first and gave it to my mother and sister.  They died."  Quentin looked at his hands and sighed.  "It just wasn't the same after that.  She was always so cold and angry toward me.  I think maybe she blamed me for what happened."</div> <div>      "Wasn't your fault, though, Frank.  You were just a little boy.  It's not like shooting someone or stabbing someone.  You just got sick."</div> <div>      Quentin swallowed, hard.</div> <div>      "What we gonna do now, Frank?"  Dave asked to change the subject.  He could see that Quentin didn't want to talk about his sister anymore.  "We lost all that money.  How we gonna pay them back?"</div> <div>      "Well, we could make another run--"</div> <div>      "What with?  Our good looks? Listen, we got a real problem here.  Those guys who gave us their money are gonna be expecting their booze.  Either that, or they're gonna want their money back.  They're not gonna want to hear about no police in Mississippi.  These guys mean business, Frank.  They aren't that much different from them gangsters in Chicago and New York, you understand?  I might offer them my place, but I don't think it'll be enough, considering."</div> <div>      Quentin thought.  "Well, I can sell the boat or the plane.  That should be enough.   What are you going to do if you have to give them your business, though?"</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "Oh, bands always need horn players."</div> <div>      "You ever think about going back to New York?"</div> <div>      Dave  thought about it.  "Well, I ain't been there in years."  He looked at Quentin.  "Why'd you ask?  You thinkin about goin up there?"</div> <div>      "Jamison did ask me to come.  I kind of feel like it's time to move on.  I didn't find what I needed here anyway," Quentin replied.</div> <div>      "You sure talk some strange talk, kid.  New York, huh?  Y'know, that might not be such a bad idea at all after all.  I hear tell it's easier for a musician like me to get into the white clubs up there.  You want some company?"</div> <div>      "I wouldn't have brought it up if I hadn't."</div> <div>      Dave stuck his hand out.  "Sounds like a good plan, kid."  Quentin shook his hand.  Now the two friends had to figure out how to get back to the city.</div> <bR> <div>      The experience with the corrupt policemen had been enlightening to Quentin.  He'd moved so freely about the city before that he'd never given much thought to the segregation Dave was talking about. Talking about the move to New York made him notice the differences he hadn't paid attention to before.</div> <div>       Once they got back to the city, he sold his plane to a man interested in making the same types of runs to the Keys.  The money paid off the club owners and there was enough left over to get them to New York.  When Cholly, George, and Jack arrived back in New Orleans and learned what had happened, the five friends went to Cholly's flat to talk things over.  George and Jack wanted to throw in and go to New York with Dave and Quentin.   "More opportunity for us," George said.</div> <div>      "I hear tell it's better there than in Chicago," Jack agreed.  "White folks don't want colored folks playing in their clubs in Chicago."</div> <div>      Cholly wasn't sure he wanted to go.  He liked New Orleans.  He agreed to think about it.  He did agree to accompany them to the train station and took Dave's home address in New York.  He'd look them up if he changed his mind.</div> <div>      "Okay, kid," Dave said to Quentin as they waited to board the train.  "We'll see ya at the next stop.  You got your lunch with you?"</div> <div>      "What are you talking about?"  Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "Well, you goin to sit up with the white folkses, and we all are sitting in the colored folkses car," Dave explained patiently.</div> <div>      Quentin was irritated.  "If you can't sit up with me, why can't I sit with you all?"</div> <div>      "Well, you can, it just ain't regularly done, unless you're a child, you know," Dave said.   "But I keep forgetting you're not like most white folks I know.  But don't feel bad if people stare at you.  And some of the other folks have something to say to you-at least until we get a little further up north."</div> <div>      "Frank, you might cause a scene," Cholly put in.  "You have to remember the way most of these people think down here."</div> <div>      "I don't care what they think," Quentin replied.  "THEY'RE not my friends."</div> <div>      "Well, you just might make it tough for the other guys, that's all," Cholly explained.</div> <div>      "You approve of this?"</div> <div>      "No, Frank, I don't.  But what's real is real.  And if you want to sit with them, fine.  It just MIGHT cause hard feelings, that's all."  Quentin looked at Dave, George, and Jack, who kept their faces devoid of any expression.</div> <div>      "Well, then, this is ridiculous," Quentin said.  "I don't want to go to New York this way.  We'll get a car."</div> <div>      "A CAR?"</div> <div>      "We lost the truck.  Let's get a car.  We'll drive up.  Then we can go together without causing any scenes, right?"</div> <div>      "You are something, you really are," Dave said, laughing.</div> <div>      It was more relaxing going to New York this way, in the used Essex Quentin bought with some of the money he had left over.  He'd also called Jamison to let him know that he was coming to New York and needed more money.  Excited, Jamison had eagerly wired him all the funds he needed for them all to arrive in comfort.  The roads were generally terrible, but they didn't encounter too many people along the way and there were no more confrontations.  It was one of the last trouble free trips Quentin took in years.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id54.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="2: Mary Margaret"><U>2:  Mary Margaret</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U>Taking Wooden Nickels</U></A>    <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U>Cassie's Writing</U></A></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>