Frank swabbed his neck with the dishcloth. It felt very cool against the morning heat that was beginning to rise all around him.
Alvin looked at Frank pointedly. “Sheila wasn’t so bad,” he said. “Okay, maybe you two weren’t made for each other. Who is, Frank? Grow up.” He glanced around the room, taking in its dishevelment. “At least she kept a clean house, had a hot meal on the table for you when you came home.”
“That’s not a marriage, Alvin.”
“And this, the way you’re living, you call this a life?”
“It’ll do,” Frank said quietly. He stood up, walked to the window and parted the blinds. “I’m on duty today at eight.”
“I got the afternoon tour,” Alvin said wearily.
Frank released the blinds and returned to the sofa. “How’s Mildred these days?” he asked.
“She’ll do,” Alvin said. “Says maybe I should let you go, just like Sheila did.”
Frank shrugged. “Well, maybe you should, Alvin. I mean, what the hell, right?” He cleared his throat roughly, then changed the subject. “How’s Maryann?”
“Fine,” Alvin said. “Dating a quarterback.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the badge and tossed it to Frank. “Patrolmen found this in the alley.”
Frank placed the badge on the small table in front of the sofa. “I’ll thank them.”
“Where was your service revolver?” Alvin asked pointedly.
“I left it home.”
“You’re supposed to have it with you all the time.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea for me.”
“Could have saved you a beating.”
“Or got me something worse, like a manslaughter rap if I’d smoked one of those guys.”
“Still regulations, Frank,” Alvin said. “Next time, take it with you.” He stood up. “I’m heading home now.” He glanced at his watch. “Might be able to grab an hour of shut-eye.”
The phone rang as Frank stood up to walk his brother to the door. He answered it immediately. It was Pitman at headquarters, making a last call before leaving duty.
“You fit for a tour?” Pitman asked.
“Yeah.”
“We’ve got a body off Glenwood. Feel like checking it out?”
“Okay,” Frank said. He reached for the small pad beside the phone and copied down the address as Pitman gave it to him.
“Sure you’re up for it, Frank?” Pitman asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Frank said, trying to bring some lightness into his voice. “Just a little tussle.”
He hung up and glanced at Alvin, who was poised, waiting, at the door.
“What is it?” Alvin asked.
“A body.”
Alvin smiled wearily. “Oh,” he said, “one of those.”
Caleb Stone was already at the scene when Frank arrived. He was the old man of the division, full of what appeared almost ancient wisdom about the ways of men and murder. He’d been born into a tenant farmer family in south Georgia, and his early years had been spent picking a rich man’s cotton from dawn to dusk. He’d moved to Atlanta at the age of twenty, brought there by his mother, who worked in the huge brick textile mill which still stood at the border of Cabbagetown, and which, in a sense, served as its monument, towering over the unpainted wooden tenements in which its workers lived.
Caleb lumbered over to meet Frank and squinted hard. “Heard you had a little trouble,” he said, “but I didn’t figure you for this kind of whupping.”
“Three of them,” Frank explained.
They were standing at the edge of a large deserted lot. The surrounding buildings were squat, brick constructions, an evangelical storefront church stood at one corner of the lot, a small auto parts store at the other.
“Nice neighborhood,” Caleb said with a slight grin. “Ask God what the trouble with the Ford is, then march right over and buy the part.”
“What have we got here, Caleb?” Frank asked.
“What we got, Frank,” Caleb says, “is something that gives new meaning to the phrase ‘shallow grave.’”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning we got a body dumped in a hole and sort of covered over with dirt and grass and garbage, whatever was around that could be thrown on her.”
“Her?”
“A woman. From the look of it, more like a girl.”
“I see,” Frank said.
“Young girl. Pretty,” Caleb said. “That sort of puts the cherry on top.”
“How’d she die?” Frank asked.
“Don’t know yet,” Caleb said. “Photo car didn’t get here yet, and we can’t move a thing till after the pictures.” He turned and pointed toward the center of the lot. A few patrolmen could be seen erecting crime-scene barriers and roping off the entire area. Knots of people, all of them black, stood staring at them from across the adjoining streets.
Caleb lit his pipe and eyed the crowd. “People do love to stare, don’t they?” He smiled. “I remember back in the forties, Frank, why, hell, a few cops would take off through a neighborhood like this at full steam, siren louder’n hell, just shooting their pistols into the air.” He laughed. “Hiyo Silver, away.” He chuckled. “No more of that.”
“You didn’t ever do that, did you, Caleb?” Frank asked.
Caleb turned from the crowd to look at Frank. “Once or twice,” he said softly, “but I stopped before I lost my soul. There’s not a black in this division don’t come to me for help now.” He turned back toward the vacant lot. “Funny thing is, the girl, she’s white.” He looked back at Frank. “It’s little things like that, Frank, that make life interesting.”
Frank did not answer. He looked away from Caleb and over to the vacant lot. It was high with summer weeds, dandelions and goldenrods. Kudzu twined about the rusty hulk of an old car at the far rear of the lot, and two patrolmen were already slogging through the thick growth of ragweed and briar to search it.
Caleb pulled a red handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his balding head. “Going to be a hot one, looks like.”
“They all are, this time of year,” Frank said indifferently. “Well, I’ll go take a look.”
It was only about twenty yards from the sidewalk to the body, but it was heavy going all the way. The ground was pitted as if it had been under mortar fire, and the surrounding weeds grew more and more thickly as Frank neared the small patch of barren ground where the body lay.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” one of the uniformed officers said as Frank trudged forward.
Frank instantly recognized him as one of the men who’d pulled him up from the gutter only a few hours before. “You’ve had a busy morning, I guess,” he said.
The officer smiled sheepishly. “Yes, sir, I guess I have.”
Caleb came slogging through the brush, still mopping his face and neck. “Goddamn,” he blurted, “nothing but briar bushes and huckleberries in this whole damn lot.” He stopped, and nodded toward a group of patrolmen who stood at some distance talking quietly and glancing toward the ground.
“Right yonder, Frank,” Caleb said, pointing to a break in the undergrowth. “We found her fast, so it’s not too bad.”
Together, they walked slowly over to a dusty area of ground and looked down.
Caleb pocketed his handkerchief, his eyes fixed, almost lovingly, on the body which lay sprawled before him. “I don’t care what they say, you don’t ever get used to it,” he said. He glanced at Frank. “That’s what makes us good, Frank, we don’t ever get used to it.”
The body lay face up in a shallow gully, and by the time the police photographers arrived, Frank felt as if he
