I crumpled the newspaper and tossed it in the general direction of the wire basket beside the park bench, pushed back a slightly frayed cuff, and took a look at my bare wrist. It was just habit; the watch was in a hock shop in Tupelo, Mississippi. It didn't matter. I didn't have to know what time it was. Across the park most of the store windows were dark along the side street. There were no people in sight; they were all home now, having dinner. As I watched, the lights blinked off in the drug store with the bottles of colored water in the window; that left the candy and cigar emporium at the end of the line. I fidgeted on the hard bench and felt for a cigarette I didn't have. I wished the old boy back of the counter would call it a day and go home. As soon as it was dark enough, I was going to rob his store. I wasn't a full-time stick-up artist. Maybe that's why that nervous feeling was playing around under my rib cage. There was really nothing to it. The wooden door with the hardware-counter lock that would open almost as easily without a key as with one; the sardine-can metal box with the day's receipts in it; I'd be on my way to the depot with fare to Miami in my pocket ten minutes after I cracked the door. I'd learned a lot harder tricks than petty larceny back when I had a big future ahead with Army Intelligence. That was a long time ago, and I'd had a lot of breaks since then--none good. * * * * * I got up and took another turn around the park. It was a warm evening, and the mosquitos were out. I caught a whiff of frying hamburger from the Elite Cafe down the street. It reminded me that I hadn't eaten lately. There were lights on at the Commercial Hotel and one in the ticket office at the station. The local police force was still sitting on a stool at the Rexall talking to the counter girl. I could see the .38 revolver hanging down in a worn leather holster at his hip. All of a sudden, I was in a hurry to get it over with. I took another look at the lights. All the stores were dark now. There was nothing to wait for. I crossed the street, sauntered past the cigar store. There were dusty boxes of stogies in the window, and piles of home-made fudge stacked on plates with paper doilies under them. Behind them, the interior of the store looked grim and dead. I passed, looked around, moved toward the door-- * * * * * A black sedan eased around the corner and pulled in to the curb. A face leaned over to look at me through lenses like the bottoms of tabasco bottles, the hot evening air stirred, and I felt my damp shirt cold against my back. "Looking for anything in particular, Mister?" the cop said. I just looked at him. "Passing through town, are you?" he asked. For some reason I shook my head. "I've got a job here," I said. "I'm going to work--for Mr. Foster." "What Mr. Foster?" The cop's voice was wheezy, but relentless, a voice used to asking questions.