Spring 1960 • Vol. XXII No. 2 Fiction |

One of These Days . . .

They closed the windows every night against a hoped for rain, and by the time Ralph Pickens got to his office in the morning the air was stale and hot with the June sun. They wouldn't also lower the shades. Twice Pickens had left notes taped to the shade, saying If you pull down the windows, which you needn't since it won't rain until July 4th, pull down the shade or leave the oven door open one or the other. Twice he had found the notes untouched, the windows closed, the shades up. Each time he thought, so okay I'm only assistant solicitor prosecuting crimes the newspapers don't even know have been committed and even the niggers can ignore me. That was the way they got back at you, through you at everybody. He had vowed never to leave another note until he was sure it would make them look smart and do what he said. And they would some day, when he was chief, and nobody would push him any more. "If I were chief," Pickens said, "I'd invest a little money in the life span of m

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