Invisible man

            I saw him vaguely though his voice came clear.

            "Sure," I said.

            "Man, you lucky you ain't dead. These sonsabitches is really shooting now," he said. "Over on Lenox they was aiming up in the air. If I could find me a rifle, I'd show 'em! Here, take you a drink of this good Scotch," he said, taking a quart bottle from a hip pocket. "I got me a whole case stashed what I got from a liquor store over there. Over there all you got to do is breathe, and you drunk, man. Drunk! Hundred proof bonded whiskey flowing all in the gutters."

            I took a drink, shuddering as the whiskey went down but thankful for the shock it gave me. There was a bursting, tearing movement of people around me, dark figures in a blue glow.

            "Look at them take it away," he said, looking into the dark action of the crowd. "Me, I'm tired. Was you over on Lenox?"

            "No," I said, seeing a woman moving slowly past with a row of about a dozen dressed chickens suspended by their necks from the handle of a new straw broom . . .

            "Hell, you ought to see it, man. Everything is tore up. By now the womens is picking it clean. I saw one ole woman with a whole side of a cow on her back. Man, she was 'bout bent bowlegged trying to make it home -- Here come Dupre now," he said, breaking off.

            I saw a little hard man come out of the crowd carrying several boxes. He wore three hats upon his head, and several pairs of suspenders flopped about his shoulders, and now as he came toward us I saw that he wore a pair of gleaming new rubber hip boots. His pockets bulged and over his shoulder he carried a cloth sack that swung heavily behind him.

            "Damn, Dupre," my friend said, pointing to his head, "you got one of them for me? What kind is they?"

            Dupre stopped and looked at him. "With all them hats in there and I'm going to come out with anything but a Dobbs? Man, are you mad? All them new, pretty-colored Dobbs? Come on, let's get going before the cops git back. Damn, look at that thing blaze!"

            I looked toward the curtain of blue fire, through which vague figures toiled. Dupre called out and several men left the crowd and joined us in the street. We moved off, my friend (Scofield, the others called him) leading me along. My head throbbed, still bled.

            "Looks like you got you some loot too," he said, pointing to my brief case.

            "Not much," I said, thinking, loot? Loot? And suddenly I knew why it was heavy, remembering Mary's broken bank and the coins; and now I found myself opening the brief case and dropping all my papers -- my Brotherhood identification, the anonymous letter, along with Clifton's doll -- into it.

            "Fill it up, man. Don't you be bashful. You wait till we tackle one of these pawnshops. That Du's got him a cotton-picking sack fulla stuff. He could go into business."

            "Well, I'll be damn," a man on the other side of me said. "I thought that was a cotton sack. Where'd he get that thing?"

            "He brought it with him when he come North," Scofield said. "Du swears that when he goes back he'll have it full of ten-dollar bills. Hell, after tonight he'll need him a warehouse for all the stuff he's got. You fill that brief case, buddy. Get yourself something!"

            "No," I said, "I've enough in it already." And now I remembered very clearly where I'd started out for but could not leave them.

            "Maybe you right," Scofield said. "How I know, you might have it full of diamonds or something. A man oughtn't to be greedy. Though it's time something like this happened."

            We moved along. Should I leave, get on to the district? Where were they, at the birthday celebration?

            "How did all this get started?" I said.

            Scofield seemed surprised. "Damn if I know, man. A cop shot a woman or something."

            Another man moved close to us as somewhere a piece of heavy steel rang down.

            "Hell, that wasn't what started it," he said. "It was that fellow, what's his name . . . ?"

            "Who?" I said. "What's his name?"

            "That young guy!"

            "You know, everybody's mad about it . . ."

            Clifton, I thought. It's for Clifton. A night for Clifton.

            "Aw man, don't tell me," Scofield said. "Didn't I see it with my own eyes? About eight o'clock down on Lenox and 123rd this paddy slapped a kid for grabbing a Baby Ruth and the kid's mama took it up and then the paddy slapped her and that's when hell broke loose."

            "You were there?" I said.

            "Same's I'm here. Some fellow said the kid made the paddy mad by grabbing a candy named after a white woman."

            "Damn if that's the way I heard it," another man said. "When I come up they said a white woman set it oft by trying to take a black gal's man."

            "Damn who started it," Dupre said. "All I want is for it to last a while."

            "It was a white gal, all right, but that wasn't the way it was. She was drunk --" another voice said.

            But it couldn't have been Sybil, I thought; it had already started.

            "You wahn know who started it?" a man holding a pair of binoculars called from the window of a pawnshop. "You wahn really to know?"

            "Sure," I said.