Native Son - Richard Wright [19]
“See you later,” Jack said.
They walked along the street in the morning sunshine. They waited leisurely at corners for cars to pass; it was not that they feared cars, but they had plenty of time. They reached South Parkway smoking freshly lit cigarettes.
“I’d like to see a movie,” Bigger said.
“Trader Horn’s running again at the Regal. They’re bringing a lot of old pictures back.”
“How much is it?”
“Twenty cents.”
“O.K. Let’s see it.”
They walked six blocks in silence. It was eleven-thirty when they reached Forty-seventh Street and South Parkway and the Regal was just opening. They bought tickets and walked into the darkened movie and took seats. The picture had not yet started and they sat listening to the pipe organ playing low and soft. Bigger moved restlessly and his breath quickened; he looked round in the shadows to see if any attendant was near, then slouched far down in his seat. He glanced at Jack and saw that Jack was watching him out of the corners of his eyes. They both laughed.
“You at it again?” Jack asked.
“I’m polishing my nightstick,” Bigger said.
They giggled.
“I’ll beat you,” Jack said.
“Go to hell.”
The organ played for a long moment on a single note, then died away.
“I’ll bet you ain’t even hard yet,” Jack whispered.
“I’m getting hard.”
“Mine’s like a rod,” Jack said with intense pride.
“I wished I had Bessie here now,” Bigger said.
“I could make old Clara moan now.”
They sighed.
“I believe that woman who passed saw us.”
“So what?”
“If she comes back I’ll throw it in her.”
“You a killer.”
“If she saw it she’d faint.”
“Or grab it, maybe.”
“Yeah.”
Bigger saw Jack lean forward and stretch out his legs, rigidly.
“You gone?”
“Yee-eeah….”
“You pull off fast….”
Again they were silent. Then Bigger leaned forward, breathing hard.
“I’m gone…. God…. damn….”
They sat still for five minutes, slumped down in their seats. Finally, they straightened.
“I don’t know where to put my feet now,” Bigger said, laughing. “Let’s take another seat.”
“O.K.”
They moved to other seats. The organ still played. Now and then they glanced back up to the projector’s room high in the rear of the theatre. They were impatient for the picture to start. When they spoke again their voices were throaty, drawling, tinged with uneasiness.
“You reckon it’ll go all right?” Bigger asked.
“Maybe.”
“I’d just as soon go to jail as take that relief job.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Let’s think about how we’ll do it, not about how we’ll get caught.”
“Scared?”
“Hell, naw.”
They listened to the pipe organ. It was humming so low that it could scarcely be heard. There were times when it seemed to stop altogether; then it would surge forth again, mellow, nostalgic, sweet.
“We better take our guns this time,” Bigger said.
“O.K. But we gotta be careful. We don’t wanna kill nobody.”
“Yeah, but I’ll feel safer with a gun this time.”
“Gee, I wished it was three now. I wished it was over.”
“Me too.”
The organ stopped and the screen flashed with the rhythm of moving shadows. Bigger sat looking at the first picture; it was a newsreel. As the scenes unfolded his interest was caught and he leaned forward. He saw images of smiling, dark-haired white girls lolling on the gleaming sands of a beach. The background was a stretch of sparkling water. Palm trees stood near and far. The voice of the commentator ran with the movement of the film: Here are the daughters of the rich taking sunbaths in the sands of Florida! This little collection of debutantes represents over four billion dollars of America’s wealth and over fifty of America’s leading families….
“Some babies,” Jack said.
“Yeah, man!”
“I’d like to be there.”
“You can,” Bigger said. “But you’d be hanging from a tree like a bunch of bananas….”
They laughed softly and easily, listening to the commentator’s voice. The scene shifted to and fro over the glittering sands. Then Bigger saw in close-up the picture of a slight, smiling white girl whose waist was encircled by the arms of a man. He heard the commentator’s voice: Mary Dalton, daughter of Chicago