Standing on the small stage in Grossman’s dance hall, a white-haired old man raked a bow across his fiddle in slow, sweeping strokes. "Good Night, Ladies" was the tune. The sound was an easy whine with a few unintentional squeaks between notes.

The guitar player had lost his enthusiasm for the festivities an hour earlier. He jerked his pick mechanically across the strings in time with the tune, but with complete indifference, flicking his wrist occasionally to change the chord.

The third, and only other member of the band played the bull fiddle. His instrument was leaning against the back wall while the player sat on his hams at the edge of the stage talking to a plain faced girl. She had a frozen smile on her face as she listened. The tune was the signal that the dance was over. The frenzied dancing by the hot and perspiring partners had caused the room to be extra humid and steamy. The roar of the lone pedestal fan in the corner didn't help. It was a hot, typical Georgia summer evening.

Soon the dancers were making their way out of the dance hall to the unpaved parking lot. Some were still holding hands. Others were wiping away the sweat with a large handkerchief. Most had a tired, but satisfied look on their faces.

The dance hall admission fee was fifteen cents, paid to Mrs. Grossman at the door. That got the customer a black ink stamp on the back of the right hand. Girls were exempt. The stamp allowed the men to travel freely to the outside toilet to dispose of the illegal beer sold from under the counter by Mr. Grossman. The parking lot was the gathering place for those who didn't have the price of admission or didn't dance. A smiling, young city policeman stood next to his Model "A" Ford police car watching the crowd come and go.

The town of Marietta was still in the grips of the Depression and times were hard. Work was scarce, and the men standing in groups were mostly husbands and fathers. Some had that vacant look of despair that usually accompanies men whose hope and pride had died long before. There were less than ten cars and pickup trucks parked on the lot, most of them old and dilapidated.

The car parked the farthest from the police car was the 1930 Hudson owned by Soldier Slocome. He had been wounded by mustard gas in the first World War and couldn't work, so the police ignored the little bit of moonshine he made and sold by the drink to supplement his small pension.

One pickup truck was owned by some men from the cotton mills of Cartersville, fifteen miles to the north. It was the focus of the moment by Sam McBride and his friends. Sam, a six-foot, broad shouldered youngster who had just turned eighteen, was standing on the other side of the parking lot, away from the dance hall door, watching the Cartersville pickup. His rugged, weathered complexion and suntanned arms exposed by a shirt with the arms torn off at the shoulder, made his biceps look even larger. That, coupled with his rough, oversized hands, also made him look older than his years. He watched with anticipation as he clenched and unclenched his right fist. His eyes flashed in the semi-darkness showing his anger. Three beers and one swig from Soldier's jug had made him feel aggressive. He needed to hit somebody or something. His extraordinary strength came from his work, loading trucks at Gray's brickyard. Three of his best friends also worked there, the brothers Julius and Tub Wattle, and Al Watson. They stood beside him, all ominously quiet as they gazed from the door to the pickup. They were ready to settle an argument that had started earlier on the inside.

The young Marietta men routinely stopped by the dance hall after payday and on holidays. Tonight they had come directly from work still dressed in their work clothes, well-worn shirts and trousers and work shoes.

Sam had cut his index finger on his left hand at work that morning and had a small, dirty white rag tied around it. He could feel it throb occasionally and knew that he should be home soaking it in liniment water. Instead he decided to go along with his friends for a while and have a beer. He was the fighter of the group and they needed him to protect them when they got into trouble with their smart mouths.

It was shortly after midnight as they stood in the shadows waiting for the five millworkers from Cartersville to come out of the building. The insults between the groups had nearly developed into a full-fledged brawl inside when Al and Julius tried to talk to two sisters who had their eyes on the millworkers. The girls had objected and the millworkers had come to their rescue. The bouncer, a big railroad section hand by day and the strongest man in town, ordered Sam and his friends out of the building.

As they left, Julius promised the cotton millers in a loud, threatening voice that they would see them later. The Cartersville men were older than Sam's group.

As the building emptied, Julius yelled, "Here they come. Let's get 'em." The mill workers were hastily making their way toward their pickup truck.

Julius, seventeen years old and the smallest and loudest of the four, was leading Sam's group toward the truck. He yelled over his shoulder as they walked faster, "Come on. Don't let 'em beat us to that truck. I'll bet the sons-a-bitches got guns in there." He started to trot. The other three followed.

The young policeman realized what was about to happen. He started yelling for everybody to stop in the name of the law. Both groups ignored him.

Sam knew Julius would be the cheerleader, but when the fighting started he would turn the heavy work over to the bigger boys. Tub Wattle weighed nearly twice as much as his younger brother. Tub was running as fast as his fat legs would carry him, trailed by Sam and Al. The millworkers kept running toward their truck. Julius stopped short and let Tub get there first. Two of the millworkers started pushing Tub away from the truck. They were all slim and very pale from working long hours at the looms and breathing cotton lint. A crowd gathered to watch the fight.

The combatants were milling around in front of the truck, shoving each other and talking loud, making accusations and denials. The air was thick with both sides cursing the other. That caused more shoving and then someone threw a punch. Within seconds, fists were flying. Tub and one of the millworkers were wrestling on the ground yelling at each other. Sam hit the closest guy and knocked him over the hood of the truck. He noticed the fellow shaking his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs, and appeared to be in no hurry to get up. He was looking for another target when Tub yelled that he had been cut. The wrestling millworker on top of Tub quickly folded his pocket knife and jumped into the back of the truck.

The policeman had worked his way into the brawl and was standing over the writhing mass of men. For the first few minutes he yelled for the fighters to stop. When that failed, he fired a single shot in the air. The explosion sounded like a cannon shot in the hot, humid night. The shouting crowd instantly became quiet and began to scatter. The fight was over. Tub was sitting on the ground moaning and holding his arm. Sam ran over and told him to stay still. He checked him over looking for the cut.

Sam stood up laughing, "Get your ass up, you jerk. You’ve got a scratch about an inch long. You ain't cut."

Tub stopped moaning and sat up, blinking foolishly.

By that time the millworkers were in their truck with the motor running, yelling for a straggler to come on.

"Hold it right there," the young cop yelled, rushing from Tub toward the truck. ----

Ed note:  This novel starts slowly, but rapidly picks up speed.  It is one of the most unusual stories I have ever read.  It has all of the elements of a great action thriller, but cannot escape the fact that Sam is a dedicated killer with little concern about his work, and who only occasionally allows a spark of emotion to surface.  Genius gone wrong.