Free The Transgressors by Jim Thompson

been here in the first place, ’cept for your interference. Not chiding you, y’understand. City girl wouldn’t know about prairie fires.”
    He took a long drink from his glass, rolled it around in his mouth. He took another drink, nodded to her seriously.
    “Have to backfire ’em, burn off ground in front of ’em. Got nothing to feed on, they burn out. You follow me, Miss?”
    “Of course, Tom. I understand. Now—”
    “Apply the same principle with cloudburst. Just substitute liquid f’r fire. Defense always corresponds t’ the impending threat ’r disaster. Fire against fire, liquid against liquid, an’—an’—” He hiccuped, rubbed his eyes wearily. “Ver’ complex problem. Not something you c’n reduce to ten words o’ basic English. But you understand principle, Joyce?”
    Joyce assured him warmly that she did understand. She was also sorry, she said, that she had so thoughtlessly interfered with him.
    “You can have all you want to drink, dear. If there isn’t enough here, I’ll go out and get some more. Now, why don’t we go into the living room where we can be comfortable.”
    “Now, it can be told, Joyce. The hidden secret ’ve the ages is about t’be revealed.”
    “Uh-huh. Certainly, Tom; and we’ll just take the bottles into the living room with us.”
    She got him into the living room, seated him in an easy chair with a full bottle of whisky in his hand. Then, as he talked and drank, she knelt in front of him, gently loosened his shirt collar and his belt, and slid off the ridiculously small, handmade boots.
    She had seen him, taken care of him, on only one other binge. That was the day when the lease swindle had become obvious and, in effect, undenied. He had been sodden that time, drunk for a solid week. But he had not acted as he did now, on this occasion. This one had really scared her out of her pants. For a few minutes it was as though she were dealing with some terrifying stranger, instead of her drawling, kidding Tom Lord.
    Yet he seemed to be all right, now. No longer frightening, at least, and much less a stranger. He wasn’t making too much sense; still talking in that overserious way. But gradually the stranger was fading, blending with the old familiar Tom.
    “…I’ll tell you somethin’, Joyce. There is no open season on man, pop’lar opinion ’n’ practice to the contrary notwithstandin’, an’ any violation of his person’s an infringement of the natural law. You grasp that, Joyce? Ought t’be pretty simple f’r great thinker like you. Someone ’at knows what all the movie stars eat for breakfast.”
    “Aah, now, Tom,” Joyce laughed tenderly. “I’m not that bad, am I?”
    “ ’S’smatter of semantics an’ custom. Liable to vary from day t’day. Howsomever, there is certain eternal truths an’ customs, one of which, despite many interruptions, I am about to propound. T-t-to wit: The Lord law of the disintegration o’ farts in high winds.”
    Joyce laughed again, half-protestingly. Lord waggled a finger in a reproving manner.
    “Think about it,” he said. “Tragedy of the ages. Because nothin’ and no one is ever completely destroyed; simply assumes new shapes ’n’ forms. Take me now, f’r example. Ask you if I’m destroyed, ’n’ the answer is yes an’ no. Or no’n’ yes, if you prefer. Know what I’m talking about. Speakin’ from personal experience…I…I…” His eyes clouded, and he looked around wildly. “Where is it? What did you do with the bot fire?”
    “Here! Right here, honey!”
    She thrust a fresh bottle into his hands.
    He drank from it gaspingly, and his eyes cleared again.
    “Know what I’m talkin’ about. Had the clouds dropped spang on me, like cow-dab on a flat rock, with a consequent removal o’ the terrain from b’neath my well-shod feet. Can’t just hang there, can I? Defies the law o’ gravity. So I jump to ’nother piece of ground, an’ I just get dug in good there when there’s another