He was also carrying an axe.
Jinnah was speechless.
“Whatcha want?” rasped the scarecrow.
What Jinnah wanted at that moment was a safe and graceful exit, but he certainly didn’t want to seem rude. Suddenly, of all those dozen perfectly sound and reasonable reasons why he might be here in the middle of what was, after all, nowhere (urbanly speaking), none immediately sprang to mind. Well, the best defence was a good offence. Take control of the situation, he thought.
“I saw the gas can —” Jinnah began.
“What about it?” the man said curtly.
His voice was low, rough, and sharp, like a river running over a gravel bar. He advanced slowly towards Jinnah, axe rising almost imperceptibly in his right hand.
“Well, there’s been a fire here recently, hasn’t there?” Jinnah said, nervously eyeing the axe, for this Tin Man needed no oil to loosen his limbs.
“I know why you come now. Better come into the shack,” he pronounced.
Jinnah looked over at the shack, which had transformed from a charming riverside shanty to the Bates Motel. He considered his options. If he ran, the man could bury the axe in his back with ease. On the other hand, he could have done that while Jinnah’s back had been turned in the first place, transfixed by the gas can. He had said he knew why Jinnah was there. Did he want to confess after all? Jinnah’s inherent instincts struggled with his congenital cowardice. In the end, he decided to accompany the man inside the shack. At the very least, he wouldn’t be able to swing the axe right over his head in the confined space. Jinnah bowed stiffly and threw an arm in the doorway’s direction.
“After you, my friend,” he said.
The man grunted and moved sideways, keeping Jinnah in view at all times as he slid into the shack. Jinnah followed. The small space inside was full of junk. Cans, empty and full, were piled everywhere. There were stacks of newspaper on the floor, covering the small counter on the far wall and almost obscuring the tiny table in the right hand corner. The stench of rotting garbage was overpowering. Jinnah almost gagged as his host pointed a crooked, bony finger at the ceiling by the door.
“See that?” he barked.
Looking up, Jinnah could see a string of dull, reddy-brown stains about two feet long above their heads on the grimy ceiling. It looked like someone had sprayed it with ketchup. He looked mutely at the man.
“Some son-of-a-bitch broke in here last month,” said the Tin Man, voice hard with anger. “Hit me on the goddamn head. That’s my blood! Sprayed up there like a fountain, right outta my head!”
“Yes, how terrible,” Jinnah coughed. “Dreadful, my friend. I do hope you —”
“Kill the bastard if I catch him,” growled the Tin Man.
Jinnah stood, transfixed, as the man’s cyclopean eye squinted slightly and his voice dropped to a suspicious stage whisper.
“Never did get a good look at his face,” he said menacingly. “Might even come back, pretendin’ to be interested in gas cans.”
Fantastic, thought Jinnah. This is what comes of being an enterprising, self-starting reporter who doesn’t swallow the police line. An axe-murderer wants to check my fingerprints against his scalp to see if I did the head-dance on his nut. Jinnah tried to reassert what little control of the proceedings he could.
“About the fire,” he coughed. “Did you happen to see anything, my friend?”
By this time, the Tin Man had positioned himself between Jinnah and the door, barring escape. Any hopes for a quick resolution to the interview vanished as he banged his fist on the nearby counter.
“I haul wood, y’know! Outta the river — used to be a fisherman, y’know that? That’s how I had my accident.”
Before Jinnah had a chance to assimilate this information properly, the man leaned close to him, balancing his weight on the counter with one bony hand while his other drew an unsteady line down the middle of his face.
“Years ago. Line snapped on me. Tackle block came flying back before I could get outta the way. Took my left eye out and part’a my brain. Should be dead.”
“I’m awfully sorry to hear that.”
Jinnah felt in his jacket pocket for his cellphone in case he had to call 911 — not that they’d arrive in time, but at least he would have tried to save himself.
“Listen, this fire. It was Sunday evening?” Jinnah persisted, not wanting to seem unsympathetic, but business was business.
This remark elicited a strange response. The Tin Man looked around his shack as if the walls had ears.
“Shush!” he hissed. “Mounties got this place bugged!”
Jinnah found his eyes involuntarily scanning the ceiling and walls for likely spots to place a listening device. He was convinced this man could very well have burned Sam Schuster alive in cold blood — if it was possible to burn someone in cold blood. The Tin Man stood there silent for a second. He looked as if he had something devastating to add, then shook his head as if he’d forgotten what he’d been talking about and walked past Jinnah to the table. He started shuffling through the mounds of paper.
“I know why ya come,” the Tin Man said once more, using the blade of his axe to scrape a layer of newsprint and other paraphernalia off the midden. “With all yer questions about fire!”
Jinnah’s head was pounding. He felt sick. He needed both a cigarette and a tranquilizer. But some fresh air would do in the meantime and the Tin Man’s movements had opened a clear path to the door. But despite his terror, despite the feeling that he was about to hurl the contents of his stomach (mostly coffee) onto the shack floor and despite frantic messages from his brain to take three steps to freedom, the reporter in Jinnah could not help but ask one last question.
“Did you see the fire on Sunday night, sir?” he asked, steeling himself.
The Tin Man looked up sharply. His already tight face went rigid. His axe rose from off the table in his shaking fist as he transfixed Jinnah with his cyclopean stare.
“Questions! Always questions! You can never ask enough, your kind!”
This struck Jinnah as being pejorative. His jelly-like spine stiffened a scintilla.
“What do you mean by that?” he said, although not too stridently.
The Tin Man held his axe at chest height and his whole frame trembled.
“Why do ya need to know? Haven’t I given enough, eh?” he cried. “Yer a dark messenger from the black forces!”
“I’m brown, not black,” Jinnah said peevishly, now convinced the Tin Man was insulting his race and heritage.
“Black!” shouted the Tin Man. “You’re all black! All shall be consumed by fire! Ye shall burn in the flames of righteousness that the Lord shall send —”
The Tin Man raised his axe over his head with both hands as high as the low roof of the shed would allow. Jinnah