“Good idea, and will you please call me Jesse, or Jess, if you like?”
“Sure. My name is Jenny.” She held out her hand for the first time.
He took it and didn’t want to let go. “I’m starting at the Wood Products plant tomorrow morning,” he said.
“Then you’ll want an early breakfast. That’s all right, we rise early here. Go to bed early, too.”
“That’s fine by me.”
“Cereal or eggs?”
“Eggs, please, scrambled?”
“I can manage that. I’ll put lunch in a bag for you. When would you like to move in?”
“I’ll go back to the motel and get my things and be back in half an hour.”
“Fine.”
“May I have a door key?”
She laughed. “Oh, we don’t lock our doors in St. Clair,” she said. “No burglar would dare operate in our town.”
Jesse pointed the pickup toward the motel and reflected on his good fortune. A very handsome landlady, and a little girl in the house, to boot. He would have to be very careful not to sweep her into his arms when he saw her. The daughter, he meant, chuckling to himself.
On Main Street he passed the Bank of St. Clair, and, on impulse, pulled into a parking spot. He might as well start getting respectable, he thought. He got out of the truck and walked toward the building. He opened the front door, stepped in and immediately knew something was wrong. A young man was backing toward him and, across the marble floor, a guard stood, a riot shotgun held tensely at port arms. He’d never seen a bank guard with a shotgun before he thought, as the man continued to back toward him, apparently oblivious of his presence. Before Jesse could move, the man bumped into him.
The younger man spun around, his face full of surprise, and Jesse saw the pistol coming around. Instinctively, he grabbed the man’s wrist, made the gun point toward the ceiling and twisted hard. The gun came away in his hand. At that moment, all hell seemed to break loose. Jesse saw the guard’s shotgun swing toward the robber and, flinching, he turned his body away. The shotgun went off at exactly the moment that the front window of the bank caved in.
The robber flew toward Jesse, knocking him off his feet, then there was another shotgun blast. Jesse thought it was the third. He looked out onto the street and saw another young man, looking frightened, standing next to a pickup truck and yelling.
“Come on, Dan, get out of there!” he screamed.
Dan was lying on top of Jesse, and he wasn’t going anywhere. The young man outside suddenly figured this out and leapt into the pickup. As he did, a police car suddenly appeared, skidding sideways into the truck, and another squad car rammed the pickup from behind. The driver started out the truck’s door, but before both his feet had made the ground there were half a dozen gunshots, and the young man was lying on his face in the street.
Jesse pushed the robber’s body off him and started to get up, but he was pushed back onto the floor by a large foot. The bank guard was standing over him, pumping the shotgun.
“Hold it, Frank!” somebody shouted from the street, and the guard stepped back, still pointing the weapon at Jesse.
“I don’t think he’s one of them,” the voice said, and then Pat Casey was helping Jesse to his feet.
“Well hello, Pat,” Jesse said. “I was just coming in to open an account. Does this happen every day in St. Clair?”
Casey laughed. “Put down the shotgun, Frank; this is a customer.”
The bank was suddenly filled with policemen, and Jesse was herded off to one side. Eventually, somebody took his particulars, accepted his money and gave him a temporary checkbook. The man called Ruger watched from an office and talked with Casey, occasionally nodding at Jesse.
Jesse finished his business and left for the motel, to collect his things. On the way he reflected on the bungled robbery, and it occurred to him that at least one of the robbers, the one he’d taken the gun from, had been shot unnecessarily, after Jesse had the pistol. The other one had been shot down very quickly, too, but Jesse hadn’t seen that as clearly.
He remembered Jenny Weatherby’s comment that no one would dare commit a burglary in St. Clair. Now he knew why. He bet himself that there were no prisoners in the city jail.
Chapter 12
Jesse packed his things, then checked out of the motel and drove up Main Street. He parked in front of police headquarters, went inside and asked for Pat Casey. Casey, who was sitting in a glass-enclosed cubicle, waved him into his office and into a chair.
“What can I do you for, Jess?”
“I just wanted to thank you, Pat. I arrived in this town less than twenty-four hours ago, a complete stranger, and now I have a job and a very nice place to live and you to thank for all of it.”
“I’m glad to be of help. I’m grateful for your help, too. It seems you disarmed one of the bank robbers.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Casey laughed. “It certainly was.”
“I’m a little overwhelmed, I guess,” Jesse said. “Since I got out of the hospital I’ve been sort of numb, just going through the motions, wandering across the country. Now, all of a sudden, I seem to have some sort of life again. I just want you to know I appreciate your help, and I hope I’ll be able to find a way to repay you some day.”
Casey shrugged. “Who knows? One of these days you might be able to do something for me. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, just settle into St. Clair and be one of us.”
Jesse stood up. “That, I’ll do.” He shook Casey’s hand and left the station.
Jesse carried his bags up the front steps of Jenny Weatherby’s house and was met at the door by a somber little girl with hair so blonde it was nearly white.
“Hello,” Jesse said to her. “I’ll bet you’re Carey.”
“How did you know?” the little girl asked.
“Oh, I know all about you. You’re six years old and in the first grade.”
She smiled shyly. “Mama told you.”
“That’s right, she did.”
“Are you going to live with us?”
“I sure am, and I hope you and I are going to be good friends.”
“That depends,” Carey said. “Do you like niggers?”
Jesse was brought up short. “Why do you ask that?” he asked.
“Because at school they told us we’re not supposed to be friends with nigger lovers.”
Jesse set his bags down at the bottom of the stairs, struggling for a way to continue this conversation. “And where do you go to school?” he asked lamely.
“At the First Church school,” Carey replied. “Everybody goes there.”
“And do you like school?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “We get to learn lots of stuff.”
“Well, I want to hear all about that,” Jesse said, “just as soon as I take my things upstairs.”
“Carey!” her mother called from the kitchen. “Who’s that out there?”
She turned to him. “What’s your name?”
“Jesse.”
“It’s Jesse, Mama,” she called out. “I’m helping him take his stuff upstairs.”
Jesse handed her his small bag and followed her up the stairs to his room.
“Do you like this room?” Carey asked. The phone rang downstairs.
“I like it very much,” he said, sitting on the bed. “And I think I like you very much, too.”
The little girl giggled and ran out of the room and down the stairs.
Jesse was stretched out on his bed, dozing, when there was a soft rap at the door.
“Come in.”
Jenny opened the door. “Seems you’re the local hero,” she said.
“You’ve heard already?”