“I thought you was on your way to Tulsa.” Though my mind was still numb from the grisly death, my tongue was on automatic.
“I had a change of plans,” the reverend said.
“I bet you did.”
“I want to get together and talk to you about our friend.”
“Elana Love?”
“That’s right.”
“You know the Charles Diner?”
“On Eighty-ninth?”
“That’s the place. Meet ya there at nine tonight.”
“I’m in a little bit of a hurry, Tyrell,” Grove said.
“I’m jammed up right now myself, brother,” I said. “It’s nine or nuthin’.” Looking around I saw pieces of glass on the floor near the back door. The little window had been broken in.
“Maybe I could come to your place,” he suggested.
“Not a chance,” I said, thinking that he might never know the favor I was doing him.
There was silence and then, “Nine.”
Grove hung up, but I didn’t. I just stood there with the phone in my hand. I couldn’t believe all the trouble that had followed that woman into my bookstore.
“Was that the police?” Gella asked me. She was so pale that it was frightening to look at her.
“No, Fearless,” I lied as a reflex.
Gella sank into a chair in the dinette.
“When did she come back?” I asked.
“I told you, this morning. Morris brought her.”
“What time was that?”
“Morris was on the way to work at the bank. It was about seven.”
“Did he come in?” I asked.
“No. I called five minutes later. Hedva said that Morris was gone and that she was going to make kugel for you. She sounded upset.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask because I knew I was going to see her for lunch…” She sat there on the verge of tears.
“So that was seven-fifteen?”
“Maybe. About then. What does it matter what time it was?”
The doorbell rang, and I realized that I was about to be arrested for murder. I was so shocked by the death that I had forgotten to run. A dead white woman, and there I was, a black man already suspected in an attack on her husband. I should have run out the back door at that moment, but I didn’t. I didn’t have the strength in my legs.
Gella went to the door. I trailed in behind her. Seven uniformed cops came in and spread out through the lower floor.
“Who are you?” the lead cop, a sergeant, asked me.
“Paris Minton,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
I tried to think of a reason but failed.
“He was my aunt’s boarder,” Gella said, neatly explaining what for me was inexplicable.
“Where were you when this happened?”
“I wasn’t here last night,” I said. “This morning I was playing chess with a friend over on Slauson, at John- John’s.”
“The chili burger place?” a corporal asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I was playing chess with the night guy. After that I went over to the shoeshine stand on Florence near Central. I got here about eleven.”
“Gino, right?” the corporal asked.
“Say what?”
