“What?” Horace said.
“Who is it?”
“Senator Snopes. Cla’ence Snopes.”
The victrola blared, faint, far away; he could see the man, the soiled hat, the thick shoulders, leaning above the instrument—in a drugstore or a restaurant—whispering into it behind a soft, huge, ringed hand, the telephone toylike in the other.
“Oh,” Horace said.
“Yes?
What is it?”
“I got a little piece of information that might interest you.”
“Information that would interest me?”
“I reckon so.
That would interest a couple of parties.”
Against Horace’s ear the radio or the victrola performed a reedy arpeggio of saxophones.
Obscene, facile, they seemed to be quarreling with one another like two dexterous monkeys in a cage.
He could hear the gross breathing of the man at the other end of the wire.
“All right,” he said.
“What do you know that would interest me?”
“I’ll let you judge that.”
“All right.
I’ll be down town in the morning.
You can find me somewhere.”
Then he said immediately:
“Hello!”
The man sounded as though he were breathing in Horace’s ear: a placid, gross sound, suddenly portentous somehow.
“Hello!” Horace said.
“It evidently dont interest you, then.
I reckon I’ll dicker with the other party and not trouble you no more.
Goodbye.”
“No; wait,” Horace said.
“Hello!
Hello!”
“Yeuh?”
“I’ll come down tonight.
I’ll be there in about fifteen—”
“ ’Taint no need of that,” Snopes said.
“I got my car.
I’ll drive up there.”
He walked down to the gate.
There was a moon tonight.
Within the black-and-silver tunnel of cedars fireflies drifted in fatuous pinpricks.
The cedars were black and pointed on the sky like a paper silhouette; the sloping lawn had a faint sheen, a patina like silver.
Somewhere a whippoorwill called, reiterant, tremulous, plaintful above the insects.
Three cars passed.
The fourth slowed and swung toward the gate.
Horace stepped into the light. Behind the wheel Snopes loomed bulkily, giving the impression of having been inserted into the car before the top was put on.
He extended his hand.
“How’re you tonight, Judge?
Didn’t know you was living in town again until I tried to call you out to Mrs Sartorises.”
“Well, thanks,” Horace said.
He freed his hand.
“What’s this you’ve got hold of?”