by Lionel White
“You’re right," Partridge said. “That's a thought. I’ll tell you what I’d better do. That school would certainly be a natural for someone with any brains who wanted to make real trouble. I’ll get a man over there to keep an eye on things.”
“I better be getting back,” Albright said. “I don’t suppose you’d have a cup of coffee laying around, would you, Chief? It’s been a pretty tough ..." He was wiping the soot and sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and Partridge interrupted him to say, “Got something better than that.”
He opened the drawer of the desk and reached for the flask of bourbon.
6 GEORGE Evarts had shot the bolt locking the door leading from the lobby to the street of the Peabody Hotel at twenty-five minutes after nine. Up until that point, he had remained calm and collected, doing the best he could to supply candles to the guests who had besieged him. He considered the fact that the phones weren’t working a blessing in disguise. He knew that, if they had been, the damned switchboard would be lighting up like a Christmas tree.
Christ, you’d think he personally had screwed up the damned
electric and telephone systems, the way they screamed at him. And those people, constantly coming in off the streets and demanding a room for the night. They all must be mad. Didn’t they have enough sense to stay at home? Suppose they were out of lights. Well, so was the Peabody Hotel. And in any case, he was completely filled up. There wasn’t a single blessed room to be had, at any price.
Shortly after nine o’clock he’d had it. The best thing was just to lock the front door and retire behind the desk. Let them knock. Let them knock their damned hearts out. He wouldn’t even bother to explain anymore. Of course, he would stay on duty and, if he recognized someone knocking at the door as a guest, he would naturally let them in. But the others? The hell with them.
He wanted to save what little candle power he had so he satisfied himself with a single candle and kept his flashlight only for emergencies. It was unfortunate, because there wasn't enough light for reading. He didn’t have a battery-powered radio and so all he could do was sit. He wasn’t even sleepy. As a matter of fact, he was afraid to fall asleep. He, like everyone else in the hotel, had heard all about the rioting and looting and he sat in back of his desk, his eyes glued to the front door, half-expecting at any moment to have a rock come crashing through the glass. He was staring at the door, almost as though he were hypnotized, when the figure loomed up and he heard the doorknob rattle.
He took up the flashlight and crossed the lobby, waving whoever it was to go away. And then the light fell on the man through the glass and he recognized Mr. Jackson.
He hurried forward to pull back the latch and open the door.
“Mr. Jackson,” he said. “We’ve been worried about you, out there on the streets tonight. You are just about the last one. Except old Mrs. Williams, whose son drove in to take her out to his house tonight. And Captain Parker, of course.”
“Captain Parker?" Mr. Jackson said.
“Captain Harry Parker, of the police force, you know. He’s a bachelor and he’s been with us for several years now. He’s with the detective force, I believe. At least he doesn't wear a uniform. I should imagine you have seen him around.”
Evarts relocked the door as he spoke.
“Odd thing, but of course, you must have met him. Why, only this afternoon before he left to go on duty, he was asking me all about you. He wanted to know ..
Evarts stopped speaking suddenly as he noticed the odd way that Mr. Jackson was looking at him.
“Yes? He did? And just what did you tell your Captain Parker about me?”
The manager of the Peabody looked suddenly embarrassed and hemmed and hawed for a moment.
“Why,” he said, “why, nothing, naturally, Mr. Jackson.” He half-giggled and said, “After all, what could I tell him? And anyway, it isn’t the policy here for us to carry information, now is it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Mr. Jackson said. “But perhaps you will break your policy and tell me exactly what the captain’s interest in me was. Just what did he want to know about me?”
“Well, really, Mr. Jackson ...”
Evarts suddenly gulped and, to his absolute amazement, Mr. Jackson suddenly reached out and grabbed him by his coat lapels, twisting them in an unbelievably strong grip, so hard that for a moment he couldn’t catch his breath.
Before he could so much as speak, Mr. Jackson had pushed him so that he was backed against the reception desk.
“I asked you what he wanted to know about me."
He had to struggle to get his breath and, when he found it, he began to splutter.
“See here. Now, you just see here. What do you think . ..”
“It doesn’t matter,” he heard Mr. Jackson mutter and then he saw the raised hand and a second later the flashlight flew out of his own hand. Mr. Jackson’s other hand had simultaneously released its hold on his coat lapels and, as he had been virtually standing on his tiptoes, he began to fall forward. The flashlight was still falling, still turned on, and as he rocked forward, George Evarts saw the side of Mr. Jackson’s hand sweeping toward him.
He lost consciousness a second after the blow had struck him, crushing his larynx. An hour later, when the man in room twenty-four came down to see if he could replace his rapidly diminishing candle, he found the hotel manager slumped down on the floor in front of the desk. Rigor mortis was already setting in.
7 BOYD Millard, the Mayor of Oakdale, checked himself out of Memorial Hospital ten minutes after midnight. He did it over the violent protests of Mrs. Perez, the supervisor, who had had firm instructions from Dr. Fielding to see not only that he didn’t leave the hospital, but that he remained quietly in bed.
Mrs. Perez, over the Mayor’s own protests, had administered a powerful sedative at half past seven and at twelve o’clock had looked into his room, expecting to find him deep in slumber. Mayor Millard was struggling into his clothes.
She started to remonstrate with him, reminding him that he’d had stitches in his head only a couple of hours previously, that he was running a high fever and that he very likely had a concussion.
Mayor Millard swore at her and told her to mind her own business. He had things to do, important things. He wasn’t going to stay locked up in a hospital room while Oakdale—Oakdale, his city —was being destroyed.
Realizing that she was powerless to stop him short of the use of physical force, and she wasn’t at all sure that she was capable of exerting that, Mrs. Perez hurried off in search of some more restraining influence. When she returned, trailed by an intern, who may not have had an authority equal to her own but certainly had a superior physical capacity, she found the room empty and the patient gone.
She threw up her hands helplessly.
“That man!” she said. “He shouldn’t have left. Lord knows what Dr. Fielding will say when he finds out. He’s sick. I tell you, he is sick. Wandering out there somewhere on the streets! Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was found dead in the morning.”
She couldn’t have made a more accurate guess had she been a fully accredited fortune-teller.
Mayor Boyd Millard’s body was discovered less than half a mile from the hospital at eight o’clock on Sunday morning, under the hedge in front of a house on Cottonwood Street. An autopsy showed that he had died as the result of a massive brain hemorrhage. But the brain hemorrhage had not been the result of the automobile accident he had suffered the previous evening. It was impossible to determine for sure exactly what had caused it, but there was a fresh wound near the base of his skull which could have been made by a blunt instrument, such as a blackjack, a rock, or even a hammer. His solid-gold wristwatch was missing and his empty wallet was found several feet from the body.
Mrs. Perez, who until the day she died blamed herself for having let her patient make his escape, resigned from her position at the hospital within two weeks. It was probably just as well. After that one terrible
night’s duty, she was so completely shattered that it is very doubtful if she would ever again have been equal to her very strenuous customary duties.
ten
1 HOLDING his tennis shoes in one grimy hand, Snookie Durham, his large brown eyes as big as saucers, skipped back up the stairs in the dark. He moved like a cat as he crept through the front room and into the back where the older boys sat huddled on the floor. Most of them had half-filled cans of beer in their hands and two of them, Manuel Makepeace, who was twenty-two, and Dabby Wilson, who had just turned nineteen, were sharing a pint flask of rye.
Snookie, who was small for his twelve years and had a slight speech defect which became quite pronounced when he was excited, so that at times he found it difficult even to get his words out at all, moved in on the circle like a ghost.
“Man, oh man, oh man!” he said.
“What they doin’? Come on, Snookie, what they doin’ now? Talk up man!” Dabby said.
“What you see, boy?”
“Come on, speak it up? What they doin’?”
“What happen, man?”
Half a dozen voices shot out the questions at once and Snookie stood there, his mouth half open as he struggled to utter the words which wouldn’t come. Finally, he shook his violently and slapped his hand sharply against his face. Again he said, “Man—oh man!”
“God damn, speak up!” Barney, his older brother, said. “Come on, Snookie. What they doin’?"
Again the youngster slapped himself in the face and gradually he gained control of himself.
“Dey got her nakkid,” he said. “Plum Goddamn nakkid. You never see a pair of boobs like dat in your life, man!”
“What you mean, Snookie?” his brother asked. “Who nakkid?”
“Miss Vargle. I’m tellin’ you. She nakkid. Right from her belly button up. Thas what. You don’ believe me, you go down there and look. And man, those boobs. I’m tellin’ you . . .”
He again grew speechless in awe and Dabby stood up and reached out and shook him.
“Keep your voice down or they hear you,” he said. “What about Miss Candle. She nakkid, too?”
Snookie shook his head from side to side and again struggled for a minute before he began to stutter out the words.
“She on the floor,” he said. “That big one, one they call Joe, he on top of her. He on top of her and just pumpin’ away. Right there in front of Miss Vargle. I’m tellin’ you, I seed it with my own eyes.”
“You crazy, Snookie,” Barney said. “Miss Candle’s Buddy’s girl. You mean to tell me Buddy just standin’ there watching while that ol’ Joe puts the boots to his girl? You crazy.”
“I ain’t crazy!" Snookie said. “I know what I seed. Anyway, Buddy weren’t watchin’ what they doing. Buddy got all cut up. I think he’s dead.”
“What you mean, man, dead?”
“That’s what I say. Dead. I couldn’t see too good, but he all in a heap and they plenty a blood all around.”
“That Parky,” Dabby said, “man, he’s a mean cat. They don’t come no meaner than Parky.”
Barney, Snookie’s brother, put his beer on the floor, shaking his head. “What was Miss Vargle doing, Snookie?” he asked.
“I already tol’ you,” Snookie said. “She just sitting there in that chair an’ cryin’.”
“And Parky, what’s he doin’?"
“He just sitting there, too. He keep reaching over and snapping her tits with his fingers an’ laughin’. She’s cryin’ like a baby and Parky jus’ laughin’.”
“He shouldn’t do that to Miss Vargle,” Barney said. “No, sir, it isn’t right. It isn’t right at all.”
“I betcha he’s goin’ be jumpin’ on her,” Manuel said. “He’s just workin’ up a good hardon and then he’ll have her down on that floor. Man, I can get all excited thinking what Parky will ...’’
“You crazy," Dabby Wilson said. “That Parky don’ like women. Parky, he just like boys.”
“What you talkin’ about?” Manuel said. “That Parky a real mean son of bitch.”
“I tell you he like boys," Dabby said. “Man, I know! Remember las’ year I was in jail? They put me in for stealin’ that bike. Well, Parky, he in jail, too. We in the same tank. And that cat got me. My God, he like to bust me wide open. I sure know ’bout Parky. They had ta take me to hospital and get me all sewed together.”
“Why, you a regular little sweetheart,” Manuel said and laughed.
“You watch who you callin’ a sweetheart,” Dabby said. “No bastard goin’ call me a sweetheart.”
“All right, all right,” Manuel said. “But it don’ matter what Parky do to you. He’s gonna put da boots to that white gal and you can bet on that. That cat Parky would screw a snake. What you think he’s takin’ her clothes off for, playin’ with her tits? He’s just gettin’ himself all excited so when he ready, he can really put it to her."
Barney stood up, shaking his head.
“It ain’t right,” he said again. “Not Miss Vargle. That lady’s been real good to us. You know that, Snookie.” He turned to his brother. “You know she been good to us down here.”
“Yeah, Miss Vargle’s a real nice lady,” Snookie said.
“We shouldn’t let him do anything to her,” Barney said. “It ain’t right.”
“How you intend to stop him?” Manuel said. “Jus’ how you goin’ stop him?”
“Yeah, Barney,” one of the other boys spoke up, “how you goin’ stop him? Miss Vargle is sure a all right lady an’ Parky shouldna made her naked. He shouldna hurt her. But what we goin’ do about it? Parky—he’s tough."
Barney took a pocket knife out and looked at it.
“They’s six, seven of us,” he said.
Manuel took a drink and shook his head.
“Sho,” he said. “But they’s Parky and Joe and Buddy.”
“Buddy, he don’ count no more,” one of the boys said. “Snookie say he all cut up and jus’ lyin’ there.”
“Ain’t none of our business anyway,” Manuel said. “Ain’t our business what Parky and that Joe do.”
“This is our clubhouse," Dabby said, stubbornly. “Our clubhouse. Parky and Joe got no right here. They got no right doin' what they doin’ to Miss Vargle. They got no right doin’ it to Miss Candle either, I don’t care if she is black.”
“Black, white, makes no difference once you got ’em on their back,” Manuel said.
Barney reached down and took the pint flask from Manuel’s hand. “I wanna a drink a that,” he said, taking a long slug. “I’m fellin’ you, we oughta go down an’ stop that. Yes, sir, we shoulda ...”
“What you mean, we?” Manuel said. “You speak fo’ yo’self, man.”
Barney looked around the circle at the boys, studying each one in turn.
“If all a us ...” he began, but Manuel again interrupted him.
“You gotta knife there in you han’,” he said. “You wanna stop anythin', you go down and tell Parky. Me, I jus’ wish I was down there. I wouldna be snappin' my fingers at her tits, I can tell you, man. I’d be ..
“You don’t even belong here at the center,” Barney said. “How ’bout the rest of you? Miss Vargle help ever’ one of you sometime or other.”
“She speak up for me when that judge want to send me away to reform school,” Cy Philpot said. “Yes, sah, she kep’ me outta reform school.”
“I say we should help her,” Barney repeated.
“If it just Parky alone,” Dabby said, “then maybe . . . But Parky got Joe there, too.”
“Snookie say ol’ Joe all tied up wit’ his own business,” Cy said. “Man, if I’m doin’ what that Joe’s doin’, I wouldna stop for nottin’.”
“Why don’ we do this?” Cy Philpots suggested. “We sneak down those stairs an’ we watch. If Parky really starts to hurt Miss Vargle, then we, well, we ...”
“We what?” Manuel asked. “What we do then?”
“Well, we jus’ stop him, that’s what.”<
br />
Manuel put the flask to his lips again.
“You stop him, man,” he said. “You stop him. Me, I’m jus’ stayin’ right here, sippin’ this booze an’ mindin’ my own business. Yeah, and wishin’ I was in the saddle instead of that Joe.”
“It won’t hurt nothin’ to jus sneak down and see anyway,” Dabby said. “If’n that Parky starts to...”
The high, piercing scream coming from the floor below stopped him in midsentence and a half dozen pairs of eyes opened wide as the boys suddenly froze where they huddled around the candle.
Manuel was the first to recover from the sudden terror with which each of them had reacted to the sharp, agonizing cry. He jumped to his feet, kicking over the uncorked whiskey flask.
“I’m gettin’ outa here, man!” he said. “I’m gettin’ my ass outta here. That Parky not only goin' fuck her, he goin' kill that pink-toe white girl. I don’ wanna be around no place where no white woman goin’ be killed. Not me, man!”
2 LYING there, thin, naked shoulderblades pressed to the hard boards of the floor, her arms outstretched and her hands palms down, fingers curved and nails futilely digging into those same hard floor boards, thighs at a forty-five-degree angle as she was forced to accept him, it wasn’t until he actually physically hurt her that Shirley’s fear suddenly changed into a blinding sense of anger.
She had been raped before. She had been raped when she was thirteen years old and it had been by a white man. It had happened at ten o’clock in the evening in the playground of the school which she’d attended. The white man had actually been a boy of seventeen and the rape had been, to some extent at least, her own fault. She’d known that voluntarily meeting him there, long after the sun had set, carried an element of risk.
It had been rape all right, real as well as technical, and he had been clumsy and rough. But he hadn’t been brutal, hadn’t hurt her merely for the sake of hurting her.
