‘Mr Ballinger?’ Ben asked.
‘Who that?’
Ben could see a single cloudy eye staring through the crack in the door. ‘I’m looking for Esther,’ he said. ‘Are you Mr Ballinger?’
‘You looking for Esther? How come?’
‘It’s about Doreen,’ Ben said.
‘She dead,’ the man said. ‘Somebody done kilt her.’
‘I know,’ Ben said. He pulled out his badge. ‘I’m trying to find out who did it.’
The door opened slightly. ‘Little gal never hurt nobody,’ the man said resentfully. ‘Didn’t deserve to git kilt.’
‘May I come in, Mr Ballinger?’ Ben asked.
The door opened wider and the old man stepped into the light.
‘Esther ain’t here,’ he said. ‘She gone to work.’
‘I know,’ Ben told him. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’
Mr Ballinger looked at him suspiciously. ‘What fer?’
‘Just ask you a few things.’
The old man continued to stare at him apprehensively.
‘I’d be much obliged if you’d let me in out of this rain,’ Ben said.
The old man retreated back into the room, leaving the door open. Ben followed him inside.
‘Set down, then,’ the old man said.
Ben waited for Mr Ballinger to lower himself into the rocking chair, then sat down on the sofa opposite him.
‘Esther told me that you noticed Doreen never made it home on Sunday afternoon,’ Ben said.
The old man nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘You didn’t see her at all on Sunday night?’
‘Naw, sir. But Esther seen her on Saturday. They went down to the church together.’
‘When was the last time you actually saw Doreen?’ Ben asked.
Mr Ballinger took a can of snuff from his shirt pocket and opened it slowly. ‘Well, now, that musta been on … lemme see … that musta been on …’ He took two fingers, dug them into the snuff, then brought them to his mouth. ‘I ain’t too good at figuring back.’ He thought a moment longer. ‘Saturday afternoon, I guess. I was still sleeping when she left on Sunday.’
Ben took out his notebook. ‘Well, I know that she went –’
Mr Ballinger leaned forward suddenly and held out the tin. ‘Want a dip?’
‘No, thank you,’ Ben said.
Mr Ballinger smiled. ‘Young folks don’t much like snuff no more,’ he said. His eyes drifted over to Doreen’s room. A large tin bucket sat at the base of her bed, gathering a stream of droplets that fell from the ceiling. ‘I promised her I’d fix that leak in her room,’ he said quietly. ‘Now, I guess it don’t matter.’
‘The man who used to take Doreen to work and then bring her home,’ Ben said. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘Why sure,’ Mr Ballinger said. He started to go on, then suddenly stopped, his eyes squinting slightly as he concentrated on Ben’s face. ‘I seen you before,’ he said. ‘You was at the ballfield. You the one that come to look after Doreen.’
It came together instantly. ‘And you’re the one who found her,’ Ben said. ‘Who called the police. You’re the one who was watching us from across the field.’
Mr Ballinger’s eyes seemed to grow inexpressibly weary. ‘I seen that little hand from a long way off,’ he said. ‘But I knowed it was Doreen. My heart knowed it.’ He shook his head. ‘She a good little girl. When she didn’t come home that night, I knowed it was something wrong.’ He picked an empty Buffalo Rock bottle from off the floor beside his chair and spit into it. ‘I looked all over just the same. But that wadn’t enough for Esther. She stubborn, that gal. She say she gone down to the police, and that’s what she done.’
Ben glanced down at his notes. ‘The man who drove Doreen back and forth from her job – did you get to know him?’
‘I talk to him a few times,’ Mr Ballinger said. ‘Name of Gilroy, Jacob Gilroy. He got a sister down on Nineteenth Street.’
‘Where on Nineteenth Street?’ Ben asked immediately.
The old man shrugged. ‘Little house there on the corner of First Avenue. Look like a cave or something, all them vines growing on the porch.’
Ben wrote it down quickly, then glanced back up at Mr Ballinger. ‘I talked to Mrs Davenport today,’ he said. ‘Gilroy doesn’t drive for them anymore.’
‘That’s right?’ Mr Ballinger asked without surprise. ‘I thought something wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, that last Sunday,’ Mr Ballinger said, ‘I waited and I waited, but I never did see her.’ He blinked rapidly. ‘I seen the car, though. It passed right by the house.’
‘This house?’
‘That’s right,’ Mr Ballinger said. ‘Went right by, but they wasn’t no little Doreen in it.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘Just a white gentleman,’ the old man said.
‘Mr Davenport?’
Mr Ballinger shrugged. ‘Don’t know ‘bout that. I never seen Mr Davenport.’ He shook his head. ‘He live a long way from here.’
SIXTEEN
The house was not hard to find, and from Mr Ballinger’s description, Ben instantly recognized it. Dense clusters of poke salad grew along the porch, their pink stalks surrounding it like a rail. Vines spiraled upward toward the roof, then nosed over it, while thick waves of kudzu tumbled over the edge in an impenetrable green flood. A dark oval had been hacked out of the vine, and through it, Ben could make out the brown rectangle of the front door.
He knocked once and waited. There was no sound but the rain as it slapped against the leaves or drummed on the tin roof overhead.
He knocked again, this time a bit louder, rapping his knuckles against the wooden frame of the screen. Still there was nothing but the rain which swept across the sodden porch or streamed off the roof in slender white threads.
A low moan came from the house after he knocked a third time, and the door opened slowly to reveal a large man, slightly bowed, with gray hair and large brown eyes.
‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’ the man asked blearily, his eyes blinking painfully in the grayish light.
Ben took out his identification. ‘I’m looking for Jacob Gilroy.’
The man’s head bobbed slightly to the left as he stared at Ben. He labored to hold it upright. ‘What you want him for?’ he asked weakly.
‘It’s about Doreen Ballinger,’ Ben said.
The man’s eyes lowered drowsily. ‘That little deaf girl?’
‘Yes.’
The man retreated back into the house. ‘I’m Jacob,’ he said. ‘You can come on in, I guess.’
Ben followed him into the house and stood near the center of the room as the old man lowered himself uneasily into a small blue chair. ‘I hope you be gone before my sister come back. She mad at me enough already. She mad at me for having to stay with her.’ He leaned to the side, picked up a bottle of whiskey and took a long pull. ‘But I can’t help it. I ain’t got no other place to go.’
Ben took out the picture of Doreen and showed it to him.
‘Yes, sir, that’s her,’ the old man said. ‘That’s surely her.’
‘How well did you know her?’ Ben asked.
‘I knowed Doreen a little,’ Gilroy said. Another line of whiskey spilled from one corner of his mouth, then washed over his belly. ‘Something happen to her?’
‘She’s been murdered,’ Ben told him.
Gilroy stared at him nervously. ‘Didn’t know her that good,’ he said quickly, ‘but she was real sweet, far as I could tell.’
Ben took out his notebook. ‘I understand you used to work for the Davenport family.’
Gilroy’s eyes squeezed together. ‘Forty years, I done it,’ he said as if it were a badge of honor. ‘Forty years I work for them.’ He shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I ain’t got nothing against them. Not a thing. Wouldn’t do them no harm at all.’
Ben returned the picture to his pocket.
‘I d
one everything for them,’ Gilroy protested. ‘Everything they said. I done their driving, done their errands, done ever-thing they said.’
‘And Doreen worked for them, too,’ Ben said.
‘She a nice little girl,’ Gilroy blurted immediately. ‘She real nice. I ain’t got nothing against her.’
‘Did you spend much time with her?’
‘She tend to Miss Shannon,’ Gilroy said. ‘They up in Miss Shannon’s room a whole lot.’
‘So you didn’t see her very often?’
‘No, sir, I didn’t,’ Gilroy said. He took another drink from the bottle, then burrowed it deep between his legs. ‘I take a drink once in a while, but it don’t do nobody no harm.’
‘Did you pick Doreen up on Saturday and Sunday morning?’ Ben asked.
‘That was my job, so I done it,’ Gilroy said. His head drooped forward slowly, bobbed softly, then lifted again. ‘You be gone before my sister come back,’ he said. ‘She mad at me for quitting.’
‘Why did you quit?’ Ben asked immediately.
Gilroy shook his head despairingly. ‘Just a stupid thing, like my sister say, just a stupid thing.’ He looked at Ben plaintively. ‘It happen so fast, I don’t know what hit.’ He shook his head. ‘Fast as anything, that’s the way it goes,’ he went on, beginning to ramble, his voice slurred. ‘Like he say, “Hey, now, ain’t that the way it is?” And you got to say, “Yes sir, that’s the way, sir, just like you said, sir.”’ The light in his eyes swam in and out rhythmically. ‘Got to say, “Yes, sir, you right, sir.”’
Ben could see the stupor coming on him, and he raced forward to find out what he could before the old man was gone entirely.
‘Did you take Doreen home Sunday afternoon?’ he asked.
Gilroy shook his head. ‘I was gone by then.’ He looked up slightly, his large eyes now deeply hooded by dark lids. ‘I was gone way ‘fore supper.’
‘Was Mr Davenport there when you left?’ Ben asked.
Gilroy nodded shakily.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Just him, just ole Massa,’ Gilroy said. He smiled grimly. ‘He say, “Jacob, what you think ’bout all this what’s going on downtown?” I say, “Well, I guess they’s something to it.”’ Gilroy’s voice deepened mournfully. ‘And he look at me like I ain’t nothing, and he say, “Pack up, Jacob. I ain’t having no agitators in this house.”’
‘So you were fired?’ Ben asked.
‘’Cause I said they was something to it,’ Gilroy told him. His eyes drifted toward the small window to his right. ‘My sister, she say I crazy for saying anything. She say I lose my job over nothing.’ He nodded clumsily, his head shifting heavily to the left. ‘I can’t say she wrong.’
‘What do you know about Doreen?’ Ben asked.
Gilroy shrugged. ‘I come and get her. I take her home.’ He gazed at Ben helplessly. ‘She deaf, like I said. Ain’t much talking to her.’ He glanced down at the bottle. His fingers tightened around its neck. ‘I ain’t saying what these folks is doing is a good thing,’ he protested. ‘I just say they’s something to it.’ He gazed at Ben pleadingly. ‘I ain’t never marched or nothing. I just say they’s maybe something to it, that’s all.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the house on Sunday?’ Ben asked.
‘Just ole Massa,’ Gilroy told him. The Missus, she gone someplace. She not around when he ask me.’ He brought the bottle up slowly and took another drink.
‘Do you think he took Doreen home?’
Gilroy dropped the bottle to his side suddenly, and some of the liquor sloshed up out of the bottle and onto his fist. Gilroy licked it off quickly, then lifted his eyes slowly toward Ben. They think it’s me that done it?’ he asked.
Ben said nothing.
‘They think it’s me, don’t they?’ Gilroy repeated earnestly. A sudden steely terror infused his eyes. ‘They think somehow I kilt that little girl.’
‘No,’ Ben told him. ‘I don’t think so.’
The old man’s eyes grew wild in panic. ‘They send the Black Cat boys, that’s what,’ he cried. ‘They send the Black Cat boys for ole Jacob.’
Ben lifted his hand toward him. ‘No,’ he said emphatically.
Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes, then ran down his face. ‘That’s what they do when they got you,’ he cried. His whole face was trembling violently, ‘They gone send the Twins for ole Jacob.’ The bottle slid from his hand and crashed onto the floor. A wave of whiskey swept out over the broken glass, then disappeared between the cracks in the floor.
Ben stepped toward him quickly. ‘Nobody’s sending the Twins anywhere,’ he said insistently.
The old man stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. ‘They gone whip ole Jacob, that’s what,’ he wailed. ‘Maybe gone shoot him in the head.’
‘No,’ Ben repeated.
The old man’s body slid out of the chair. ‘Naw, naw, naw,’ he moaned.
‘Get up,’ Ben said desperately.
Gilroy slumped forward at his feet. ‘Naw, naw, naw,’ he begged.
‘Stop it.’
The old man’s body curled inward, as his lean brown arms wrapped around Ben’s legs. ‘Don’t let them shoot ole Jacob,’ he whimpered just before he passed out.
Ben marched directly into Luther’s office and closed the door behind him.
‘I want to ask you something, Captain,’ he said.
Luther looked up from an enormous gray ledger. ‘Ask me something?’ he said. He swept his large pink hand out over the book. ‘You see this, Ben?’ he said. ‘This is the Police Department Budget. Now I look at what we got, and I think about all the extra shit we’ve been having to do since all these demonstrations started, and I ask myself a question. I say, “Luther, how the hell you going to pay for all this?”’
Ben stared at him resolutely. ‘I want to know what the Langleys have been doing in Bearmatch.’
Luther’s face stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I was questioning this old man about the murder,’ Ben said. ‘He was drunk, I admit it, but he got to thinking about the Langleys, about how they might just come and get him, and it just about tore him up.’
Luther leaned back slightly. Sheets of rain continued to sweep against the large window at his back. ‘You think a scared old colored boy is worth my time, Ben?’
Ben stared at him evenly.
Luther folded his arms over his chest. ‘The Langleys? That’s what’s bothering you? Well, the only thing I know for sure about those two boys is that one of them is a whole lot smarter than the other one.’ He glared at Ben hotly. ‘Now get on out of here,’ he said as he returned to the ledger.
Ben did not move, and after a moment Luther’s eyes snapped back toward him.
‘Did you hear me, Ben?’ he demanded.
‘I never saw a person more scared than that old man,’ Ben said.
Luther smiled thinly. ‘They’re a little rough, the Lang-leys,’ he said. ‘Everybody knows that. They’ve put the squeeze on a few things.’
Ben said nothing.
‘But you got to be a little rough to work Bearmatch,’ Luther added. ‘If you don’t beat it, it’ll beat you. Look what happened to Kelly Ryan.’
‘Can they just do anything?’ Ben asked. ‘Don’t they answer to anybody?’
Luther looked at him squarely. ‘And what are you saying they’ve done, Ben?’
Ben did not answer.
‘Are you saying they had something to do with killing that little girl?’
Ben said nothing.
‘Huh?’ Luther demanded. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’ He did not wait for an answer before rushing on. ‘Do you have one little tiny piece of evidence that connects the Langleys to that girl’s murder?’
Ben shook his head helplessly. ‘No.’
Luther went back to the ledger. ‘Well, if you ever do, let me know.’
Ben walked over to his desk and leaned into it. ‘I want to see your face when you tell me that,�
� he said.
Luther looked up. His voice was absolutely resolute when he spoke. ‘If you ever find anything on the Lang-leys, let me know.’
Ben nodded quickly and turned back toward the door.
Luther took a deep, weary breath. ‘Look, Ben, after this business with Kelly, the department figured Bearmatch needed a certain kind of people to keep an eye on it.’
‘Like the Langleys.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who decided that?’
Luther laughed. ‘Who do you think?’
‘The Chief?’
‘He hires the police,’ Luther said, as if he were explaining the facts of life to a child. ‘He hires the firemen. He is the Commissioner of Public Safety.’
‘So they answer to him,’ Ben said.
‘Everybody but Jesus answers to the Chief,’ Luther said. There was a troubled weariness in his voice. ‘And that’s the way it is.’ He drew himself heavily out of his chair and turned toward the window, pressing his face near the glass. Not far beyond him, lines of Negro children could be seen standing, soaked and chilled, in the steadily sheeting rain.
‘Can’t they be brought inside?’ Ben asked as he joined Luther at the window.
‘No,’ Luther said sharply. ‘No room.’ His eyes drifted to the right where, at the entrance to the lot, Teddy Langley could be seen standing in a black rainslick, a double-barreled shotgun pointed toward the sky. ‘But I won’t say I think it’s right,’ he whispered. ‘Nobody can ever get me to say I think it’s right.’
SEVENTEEN
The rain had finally subsided by early evening and the warm orange glow of a radiant summer sunset drifted down on the city. Ben sat at his desk, rethinking the slender threads of the case while he twisted the large purple ring in his fingers. In his mind, he could see Doreen as clearly as if she stood before him, bright and smiling in her clean white dress. But who had brought her to Bearmatch? How had she gotten home from Mountain Brook? And if it was Davenport who had taken her, why had he not brought her all the way home, as his driver always had? Why had she been let out? And where? Had someone seen her, perhaps for the first time, as she made her way home that afternoon, some gray figure watching her from one of the dark windows of the scores of shanties she must have passed on the way?
Streets of Fire Page 12
