building。 Masterton； part owner now but still walking with the patented shuffle
he had adopted back before World War II； was pushing a bin of lettuces into the
high； dark building。
Hallorann pushed the button that lowered the passenger side window and
hollered： 〃Those avocadoes is too damn high； you cheapskate！〃
Masterton looked back over his shoulder； grinned widely enough to expose all
three gold teeth； and yelled back； 〃And I know exactly where you can put em； my
good buddy。〃
〃Remarks like that I keep track of； bro。〃
Masterton gave him the finger。 Hallorann returned the pliment。
〃Get your cukes； did you？〃 Masterton asked。
〃I did。〃
〃You e back early tomorrow； I gonna give you some of the nicest new
potatoes you ever seen。〃
〃I send the boy；〃 Hallorann said。 〃You in up tonight？〃
〃You supplyin the juice； bro？〃
〃That's a big ten…four。〃
〃I be there。 You keep that thing off the top end goin home； you hear me？ Every
cop between here an St。 Pete knows your name。〃
〃You know all about it； huh？〃 Hallorann asked； grinning。
〃I know more than you'll ever learn； my man。〃
〃Listen to this sassy nigger。 Would you listen？〃
〃Go on； get outta here fore I start throwin these lettuces。〃
〃Go on an throw em。 I'll take anything for free。〃
Masterton made as if to throw one。 Hallorann ducked； rolled up the window； and
drove on。 He was feeling fine。 For the last half hour or so he had been smelling
oranges； but he didn't find that queer。 For the last half hour he had been in a
fruit and vegetable market。
It was 4：30 p。m。； EST； the first day of December； Old Man Winter settling his
frostbitten rump firmly onto most of the country； but down here the men wore
open…throated shortsleeve shirts and the women were in light summer dresses and
shorts。 On top of the First Bank of Florida building； a digital thermometer
bordered with huge grapefruits was flashing 79° over and over。 Thank God for
Florida； Hallorann thought； mosquitoes and all。
In the back of the limo were two dozen avocados； a crate of cucumbers； ditto
oranges； ditto grapefruit。 Three shopping sacks filled with Bermuda onions； the
sweetest vegetable a loving God ever created； some pretty good sweet peas； which
would be served with the entree and e back uneaten nine times out of ten； and
a single blue Hubbard squash that was strictly for personal consumption。
Hallorann stopped in the turn lane at the Vermont Street light； and when the
green arrow showed he pulled out onto state highway 219； pushing up to forty and
holding it there until the town began to trickle away into an exurban sprawl of
gas stations； Burger Kings； and McDonalds。 It was a small order today； he could
have sent Baedecker after it； but Baedecker had been chafing for his chance to
buy the meat； and besides； Hallorann never missed a chance to bang it back and
forth with Frank Masterton if he could help it。 Masterton might show up tonight
to watch some TV and drink Hallorann's Bushmill's； or he might not。 Either way
was all right。 But seeing him mattered。 Every time it mattered now； because they
weren't young anymore。 In the last few days it seemed he was thinking of that
very fact a great deal。 Not so young anymore； when you got up near sixty years
old （or tell the truth and save a lie — past it） you had to start thinking about
stepping out。 You could go anytime。 And that had been on his mind this week； not
in a heavy way but as a fact。 Dying was a part of living。 You had to keep tuning
in to that if you expected to be a whole person。 And if the fact of your own
death was hard to understand； at least it wasn't impossible to accept。
Why this should have been on his mind he could not have said； but his other
reason for getting this small order himself was so he could step upstairs to the
small office over Frank's Bar and Grill。 There was a lawyer up there now （the
dentist who had been there last year had apparently gone broke）； a young black
fellow named McIver。 Hallorann had stepped in and told this McIver that he
wanted to make a will； and could McIver help him out？ Well； McIver asked； how
soon do you want the document？ Yesterday； said Hallorann； and threw his head
back and laughed。 Have you got anything plicated in mind？ was McIver's next
question。 Hallorann did not。 He had his Cadillac； his bank account — some nine
thousand dollars — a piddling checking account； and a closet of clothes。 He
wanted it all to go to his sister。 And if your sister predeceases you？ McIver
asked。 Never mind； Hallorann said。 If that happens； I'll make a new will。 The
document had been pleted and signed in less than three hours — fast work for a
shyster — and now resided in Hallorann's breast pocket； folded into a stiff blue
envelope with the word WILL on the outside in Old English letters。
He could not have said why he had chosen this warm sunny day when he felt so
well to do something he had been putting off for years； but the impulse had e
on him and he hadn't said no。 He was used to following his hunches。
He was pretty well out of town now。 He cranked the limo up to an illegal sixty
and let it ride there in the left…hand lane； sucking up most of the Petersburg…
bound traffic。 He knew from experience that the limo would still ride as solid
as iron at ninety； and even at a hundred and twenty it didn't seem to lighten up
much。 But his screamin days were long gone。 The thought of putting the limo up
to a hundred and twenty on a straight stretch only scared him。 He was getting
old。
（Jesus； those oranges smell strong。 Wonder if they gone over？）
Bugs splattered against the window。 He dialed the radio to a Miami soul
station and got the soft； wailing voice of Al Green。
〃What a beautiful time we had together；
Now it's getting late and we must leave each other。。。〃
He unrolled the window； pitched his cigarette butt out； then rolled it further
down to clear out the smell of the oranges。 He tapped his fingers against the
wheel and hummed along under his breath。 Hooked over the rearview mirror； his
St。 Christopher's medal swung gently back and forth。
And suddenly the smell of oranges intensified and he knew it was ing；
something was ing at him。 He saw his own eyes in the rearview； widening；
surprised。 And then it came all at once； came in a huge blast that drove out
everything else： the music； the road ahead； his own absent awareness of himself
as a unique human creature。 It was as if someone had put a psychic gun to his
head and shot him with a 。45 caliber scream。
（！！！ OH DICK OH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE E！！！）
The limo had just drawn even with a Pinto station wagon driven by a man in
workman's clothes。 The workman saw the limo drifting into his lane and laid on
the born。 When the Cadillac continued to drift he snapped a look at the driver
and saw a big black man bolt upright behind the wheel； his eyes looking vaguely
upward。 Later the workman told his wife that he knew it was just one of those
niggery hairdos they were all wearing these days； but at the time it had looked
just as if every hair on that coon's head was standing on end。 He thought the
black man was having a heart attack。
The workman braked hard； dropping back into a luckily empty space behind him。
The rear end of the Cadillac pulled ahead of him； still cutting in； and the
workman stared with bemused horror as the long； rocket…shaped rear taillights
cut into his lane no more than a quarter of an inch in front of his bumper。
The workman cut to the left； still laying on his horn； and roared around the
drunkenly weaving limousine。 He invited the driver of the limo to perform an
illegal sex act on himself。 To engage in oral congress with various rodents and
birds。 He articulated his own proposal that all persons of Negro blood return to
their native continent。 He expressed his sincere belief in the position the
limo…driver's soul would occupy in the afterlife。 He finished by saying that he
believed be had met the limo…driver's mother in a New Orleans house of
prostitution。
Then he was ahead and out of danger and suddenly aware that he had wet his
pants。
In Hallorann's mind the thought kept repeating
（E DICK PLEASE E DICK PLEASE）
but it began to fade off the way a radio station will as you approach the
limits of its broadcasting area。 He became fuzzily aware that his car was
tooling along the soft shoulder at better than fifty miles an hour。 He guided it
back onto the road； feeling the rear end fishtail for a moment before regaining
the position surface。
There was an A&W Rootbeer stand just ahead。 Hallorann signaled and turned in；
his heart thudding painfully in his chest； his face a sickly gray color。 He
pulled into a parking slot； took his handkerchief out of his pocket； and mopped
his forehead with it。
（Lord God！）
〃May I help you？〃
The voice startled him again； even though it wasn't the voice of God but that
of a cute little carhop； standing by his open window with an order pad。
〃Yeah； baby； a rootbeer float。 Two scoops of vanilla； okay？〃
〃Yes； sir。〃 She walked away； hips rolling nicely beneath her red nylon
uniform。
Hallorann leaned back against the leather seat and closed his eyes。 There was
nothing left to pick up。 The last of it had faded out between pulling in here
and giving the waitress his order。 All that was left was a sick； thudding
headache； as if his brain had been twisted and wrung out and hung up to dry。
Like the headache he'd gotten from letting that boy Danny shine at him up there
at Ullman's Folly。
But this had been much louder。 Then the boy had only been playing a game with
him。 This had been pure panic； each word screamed aloud in his bead。
He looked down at his arms。 Hot sunshine lay on them but they had still goose…
bumped。 He had told the boy to call him if he needed help； he remembered that。
And now the boy was calling。
He suddenly wondered how he could have left that boy up there at all； shining
the way he did。 There was bound to be trouble； maybe bad trouble。
He su