already, so I put the paper down and drove on.
The postman's house was better than I expected: old, but solidly built. In fact most of the houses in this “Negro” section looked pretty good. There was a driveway and a garage in the back. I parked in the driveway, in the rear of the house, locked the car. My license plates were muddy enough. A plump woman with a warm brown face opened the door, said, “You must be Mr. Jones. Come in. I've hardly had time to straighten up the guest room. Haven't used it since my cousin Allen, from Dayton, was here. Take me a minute to dust and—”
“I'm pooped,” I said, suddenly aching with tiredness. “I'd like to go to bed now.”
“You must think I'm a terrible housekeeper.”
“I don't. I'm too tired to think anything. Can I go to my room now?”
“As you wish. You do look tired. I'll get you a towel. Where are your bags?”
“In the car,” I lied. “I'll get them later.”
I followed her upstairs to a large room filled with old, heavy furniture. The bed looked wonderful. She gave me a towel, said the bathroom was down the hall, and kept chattering about the dust and things. The room looked neat as a pin to me. I stopped her mouth by hanging my Harris-tweed overcoat in the large closet. She stood in the doorway, said, “Mr. Davis told you two dollars a night and—”
“Yeah.” I gave her a five-dollar bill.
“Well, he was wrong about the meals. Food's gone up. It will be two dollars a day instead of one for meals.”
“Okay.”
“I'll give you your change later.” She hesitated, pulled at her apron with the money hand. “I hope you're not a drinking man, Mr. Jones.”
“I'm only a tired man. Good day, Mrs. Davis.” When she left I hung up my coat, locked the door, hid my wallet and badge under the mattress, the data on Thomas under the rug. Taking off my nylon shirt and underwear, I made sure the hallway was empty and sprinted to the bathroom. It was the largest I'd ever seen. I took a fast shower, washing my shirt and stuff, toweled myself dry, and made another nude sprint down the hallway. I hung up the shirt and underwear carefully, pulled the shades down, and jumped into bed.
I wanted to think; I had to think if I wanted to get out of this mess. But I hadn't slept in two days and the bed was soft as a good dream. When I jerked myself awake the pale green hands on my wrist watch said it was ten o'clock. I'd pounded my ear for a dozen hours. I felt great—and mad as hell at wasting all that time.
I pulled up the shades; it was very dark outside, the dim street lights blocks apart. My wash was dry and I got my pipe working as I dressed. It wouldn't be safe to hang around this burg for more than a day or two, if it was safe at all. Normally it would be a cinch to shake a little town like Bingston clean in two days, only it was south and I had dark skin. I'd stand out and somebody would peg me as “the' Negro being hunted by the New York police.
I was too much of a stranger. If I only had a contact, somebody in town to do the more obvious asking around. Old super sleuth me, what asking? I didn't have one idea as to what I was looking for. A hick town could be either a wonderful hideout or a trap.
Taking out the TV data on Bob Thomas I read through it for the tenth time. I felt a little better, still had a hunch the killer had to come from Bingston. Unless it was a freak job, one that didn't fit any pattern. If it was a crazy killing, then I might as well go back and put it down in the electric chair.
The house was so quiet I knew the old couple were asleep. And I was hungry enough to see what the refrigerator held. The TV was on, giving the parlor an unreal glow. There was a young girl watching the screen. I could see her face clearly, a lean dark face, skin as dark as mine, hair piled atop her head au naturel. When she saw me she stood up and turned on a lamp. She was wearing a simple knitted gray suit that clung to her tall, strong figure. In the light she looked older than I thought, about twenty-seven. Her nose was short, her eyes large and deep, and she had full, heavy lips.
“Mr. Jones? I'm Frances Davis. Mom said you might want supper. Do you?”
The voice was low and sullen, maybe even bitter. “Where is everybody?”
“Asleep. It's after ten—late for us.”
“Sorry I kept you up. I'll go out and grab a bite.”
“Where? There ain't any 'coloured' restaurants here. You didn't keep me up; I'm a TV bug. If you want to eat follow me into the kitchen.”
“Doesn't seem much worth getting up for at any time in Bingston,” I said as she walked by me toward the kitchen. She was about six feet tall, and in flat shoes.
“Not if your skin isn't pale.” She stopped in front of me. “Your shoulders make you seem short. You're not. And your clothes—they're the end. You're really togged down.”
Up close her face looked a little on the cute side, the heavy lips and eyes interesting. “Thanks, honey. I like your suit too.”
“Bought it in Cincinnati last year. How did you break your nose?” she asked, opening the kitchen door.
“Played football a lot of years ago. Had a pigskin scholarship—till the war came.” The kitchen was big and bright, and a little crazy: very modern refrigerator and freezer, electric washing machine and electric grill—and an old-fashioned coal-burning stove polished a glistening black. She pointed toward a white table and I sat down as she took various pots out of the refrigerator, which was stocked with food. “Greens, rice, roast pork, biscuits, potatoes, and pie. Coffee or tea. Okay?”
“Fine, but I'll skip the biscuits and potatoes. And tea.”
“What's your instrument and what band are you with?”
“Drums. I'm not with any outfit at the moment. Been playing a few club dates down in New Orleans and Lake Charles—heading up to Chicago for some more. Mostly wild-cat jobs.”
“How's New Orleans?”
“Hot and damp. I was glad to blow the city.”
“Man, I dug your Jaguar outside. It's the greatest.”
“Honey, why don't you cut the phony jive talk?”
She turned from the coal stove, which must have been going all the time—the kitchen was overwarm. “I was putting it on for you, being you are a jazz man. Speaking of phony things, stop calling me Honey.”
“Okay, Miss Frances. And I didn't mean to talk out of turn.”
She gave me a quiet stare as she started loading my plate. “I took it as a compliment, Mr. Jones. Tell me, why did you come to Bingston?”
I didn't get the compliment angle. And it was time I started asking questions. Between mouthfuls of the fine food I said, “No reason, merely passing through and thought I'd rest up for a couple of days. I was reading the Bingston paper this morning; seems like you had a little excitement here—a local lad was killed in New York. Did you know this Tutt—or Thomas?”
“I remember him but I didn't know him. He was white. I read about his being killed. You know, the older I get the more I'm convinced whites are crazy.”
I nodded, swallowed a lot of rice. “You remind me of my old man. He was a nationalist. Last thing I expected to find... here.”
“You mean in this wide-spot-in-the-road,” she said, sitting opposite me, nibbling on a small hunk of pie. Her brown skin looked velvet smooth, and the kitchen light showed rather high cheekbones. “We didn't have to fight for integration here—this isn't really 'South.' Yet Bingston is a prison with colour bars. A Negro girl can only work at certain jobs; she has a choice, or a chance, of marrying only two or three single men; must live within a certain area; can't eat anyplace but— But you know that too.”
“A small town is a small town, even for whites.”
“And ten times as small for us!”
“Must be buses leaving here every day. This Thomas guy took off, and look how he ended up. What does Bingston think of his murder? Any—eh—fuss because a Negro was supposed to have done it?”
“It was different for him here; he was white, although a poor one. They even were doing a TV show about him. Sometimes I think of trying to make it in New York or Los Angeles—but I'm scared. You can be lonely in a big city too. Be different if I knew people there. And I've seen pictures of the Harlem and South Side slums, know they aren't any paradise.”
“True, but at least you have more room to swing. Maybe this Thomas swung too wide?”
She shrugged her shoulders, seemed to have larger breasts than I'd thought. “I dream a lot about leaving here. Sometimes Bingston seems a living cemetery for me. Then I tell myself I'm living in a comfortable house with my folks, why should I run away? This is my town as much as the ofays'—why give it to them?”
“Doesn't Ohio have a civil-rights law?” I asked over another forkful of rice and gravy. Her words were giving me an idea—if I worked it right maybe I'd found my local helper.
“You mean do we fight back? Sure. As I told you, it isn't the actual law here as much as custom. But in the long run they mean the same thing. We're only a handful and most of us have 'good' jobs. For instance, I could make and save a lot of money as a domestic. But a few of us try to raise some sand—we've just won a two-year fight to sit in the orchestra of the movie house instead of the balcony. Big deal.” She shook her head. “I shouldn't say that, it was a big thing. Only—damn, there has to be more to living than sitting in the orchestra.”
“What do you do? Going to college?”
“My brother is at Howard. It makes me burn, Pop insisted on sending him to a coloured college. I wanted him to go to Ohio State. Another lost battle. I couldn't go to college. It wasn't a question of money—I'm just a female and marriage should be my career. Bunk!”
“Your folks are old-fashioned?”
“Pop finally sent me to a business school up in Dayton, as if anybody needs a brown secretary in Bingston. I work as a part-time typist for Mr. Ross, a mealy-mouthed tan lawyer and real-estate hustler. Has a family and a hobby— making passes at me. I
