‘Yes.’
Ryan scratched his chin slowly. ‘I’m not one bit ashamed of what I felt for that girl. That’s what they can’t stand down at City Hall. That’s what the Chief can’t stand. That I have never done anything since then to apologize for it or to say I was wrong. That’s why they keep me on with the department. They’re waiting for me to break down and cry over it and say what a fool I was.’ His eyes hardened. ‘I’ll die first,’ he said determinedly. ‘And they can bury me in Gracehill where they’ve made me bury so many others.’ His face grew red suddenly and a trembling swept over it. His eyes widened wildly, then closed slowly as he drew in a long, lean breath. ‘You good for another beer?’
‘Yeah,’ Ben said. He signaled the barman for another round and sat silently until he deposited them on the table.
Ryan took a long draw and wiped his mouth quickly. ‘I have a little problem with drink. Did you know that?’
‘No.’
Ryan gave him a slow, curious look. ‘You married?’
‘No.’
‘Never have been?’
Ben shook his head.
Ryan smiled. ‘Like me.’
‘I guess,’ Ben said. He took a sip from his glass. For an instant he saw his little wooden frame house, saw it empty without him, unenlivened by any presence other than his own. ‘This girl, the one you liked,’ he said finally. ‘What happened to her?’
Ryan emptied the glass. ‘She went up North,’ he said. Then he lifted the glass slightly. ‘And I guess you might say I went a little hit to this.’
For a time Ben watched as Ryan sat quietly, staring into the empty glass. His face had the kind of grief he’d seen in pictures of Jesus in the Garden, silent, inexpressibly mournful, waiting for something even worse than what had come before.
‘This other girl,’ he said at last, ‘the one we found in the old ballfield. I’m not getting very far with it.’
Ryan’s eyes lifted toward him slowly. ‘What do you have on it?’
‘A few things, nothing much,’ Ben told him. ‘What I really need is a name, some way to trace her.’ He took out the picture and brought the two sides together on the table in front of Ryan. ‘That’s her.’
Ryan stared expressionlessly at the photograph.
‘Somebody in Bearmatch must know who she is,’ Ben said insistently. ‘Somebody must know everything that goes on there.’ He looked at Ryan pointedly. ‘You know a man named Roy Jolly?’
Ryan glanced up immediately. ‘Everybody who’s ever known anything about Bearmatch knows about Roy Jolly.’
‘Where can I find him?’ Ben asked.
Ryan said nothing.
‘Help me,’ Ben said.
‘Telling you where to find Roy Jolly may not be the best way to help you.’
‘Right now it’s the only way you can.’
Ryan thought about it for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Over on Twenty-first Street there’s a little yellow house. It looks like all the others, except it’s yellow. That’s where you’ll find Roy Jolly.’
Ben swept the photograph back into his pocket. ‘Thanks, Kelly.’
They finished their drinks silently, then walked outside together. The orange glow of the furnaces could be seen through the rusty storm fence across the way, and above it a single enormous smokestack belched a thick tumbling smoke into the sulfuric night air.
‘Get in,’ Ben said as he stepped over to his car.
Ryan remained some distance away, standing idly in the middle of the street. ‘No, thanks,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll walk. I don’t live too far from here.’
A sudden piercing whistle shook the air around them.
‘Late shift coming in,’ Ryan said. Then he hunched his shoulders slightly, sunk his hands deep into his pockets and disappeared into the thick, humid darkness.
ELEVEN
The windows of the little yellow house on Twenty-first Street were glowing brightly when Ben pulled up at some distance down the street from it. He could see a steady stream of figures moving in silhouette behind the thin red windowshades, and even from several yards away, he could make out the soft tinkle of muffled piano music. A continual flow of lightly murmuring voices came from the small open windows, and as he sat behind the wheel, staring at the house, he could sense the dark, guarded happiness that seemed to energize the air around it. It was a Negro shothouse buried deep within the folds of a dense Negro district, and for the first time in his life Ben suddenly felt the odd allure he remembered from his youth when he d worked in the nearby railyards until late in the night, and then, before going home, stood behind the rusty fence that cordoned off the Negro district and peered out longingly toward the beguiling lights of Bearmatch. At the time, he could not fathom the look he saw in the eyes of the other men who sometimes watched beside him, or even begin to understand the strange and fearful stirring he felt in himself. But now, as he listened to the music and the voices, it all came back to him, and he felt his hand grasp the door, then his feet drop to the ground, felt himself moving toward the house with a strange, beguiling urgency.
Several cars were parked in the adjoining driveway, while others lined the street in both directions. Most of them were empty, but a few contained a varying assortment of men and women in their front and rear seats. The people inside fell silent as he passed them, and he knew that they were staring at him with a mixture of fear and resentment.
People continued to filter in and out of the house as he approached it through the covering darkness. Others lounged idly on the small front porch, and as he drew steadily closer, he could hear them talking and laughing, but he still could not make out any details. A single lone figure stood silently at the end of the front walkway, glancing left and right down the street, his body bathed in the bluish glare of a streetlamp not far away. His body tightened as Ben emerged suddenly from out of the shadows, still walking slowly but with a steady, determined gait. For a moment the young man stood completely still, his eyes staring straight at Ben as he chewed his lower lip nervously. Then he glanced back toward the house, nodded quickly and raced away.
Instantly the voices on the front porch fell silent.
Ben turned up the walkway. From behind, he could hear several of the cars start their engines and pull away, some peeling loudly as they dashed from the curb.
When he reached the first small step of the front porch, he stopped and looked silently at the people who still remained in place. He could see a tall slender woman in a bright red dress, and another, larger woman beside her. A tall, heavyset man stood behind them, his enormous arms draped loosely over their shoulders.
‘You sure you in the right place?’ the man asked finally.
‘I think so,’ Ben said.
The man pushed his way between the two women, strode to the middle of the porch and glared down toward Ben, his enormous frame blocking the light from the front windows and throwing Ben once again into deep shadow.
‘What you want, mister?’ he asked in a hard, demanding voice. ‘A little jelly-roll?’
‘What?’
‘A little poontang, maybe?’ the man added. He glanced at the women. ‘A little chocolate poontang?’
The women laughed as the man returned his eyes to Ben.
‘So what you want, huh?’
Ben moved his hand inside his coat, reaching for his police identification.
‘Hold it right there now,’ the man said instantly.
Ben’s hand froze in place, then lowered slowly to his side.
‘You wouldn’t happen to be toting a piece, would you now?’ the man asked.
