Suddenly a small man in a floppy gray hat and bright-red bow tie stepped out of the crowd. ‘We don’t use yellow in this poolhall,’ he said. He picked a small cube of chalk from the table beside him and tossed it to Ben.
‘We use blue chalk here,’ the man said. ‘That’s all we’ve ever used.’ He glanced around at the other men and smiled. ‘Ain’t that right?’
‘That’s right,’ someone said.
‘Uh huh.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s right, Larry.’
The man walked over to Coggins. ‘Ain’t I seen you before?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Coggins told him.
‘When all them kids was marching down the street,’ Larry said. ‘Didn’t I see you with one of them little walkie-talkies, sort of in charge of things?’
‘Well, maybe,’ Coggins said slowly. ‘I was monitoring the demonstration?’
‘Say what?’
‘Keeping tabs on things,’ Coggins added. ‘Watching out for the kids.’
Larry laughed. ‘Yeah, I thought I seen you.’ He offered his hand. ‘Larry Sugarman. I own this place.’
Coggins grasped Sugarman’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sugarman.’
Sugarman’s eyes slid over to Ben. ‘Robert Kennedy, huh?’
Ben said nothing.
Sugarman thrust out his hand. ‘Well, good luck to you, sir.’
Ben shook his hand.
Sugarman stepped back, smiling. ‘And as far as that yellow chalk’s concerned, they got that over at Better Days Pool Hall. You might ought to check in over there.’
‘We will,’ Coggins assured him enthusiastically. ‘We sure will, Mr Sugarman.’ He glanced back toward the other men. ‘And thank you, gentlemen,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Sorry for the interruption.’
Back on the street, Coggins drew in a deep, relaxing breath. ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ he asked.
Ben glanced back toward the downtown corner of the avenue. Several fire trucks had joined the first one at the edge of the park, and the Chief’s white tank was stationed in front of them, almost like a mascot. Lines of firemen had taken up positions along the avenue and at various places within the park. Long strands of fire-hose snaked out behind them like thick black tails.
Coggins slapped his hands together happily. ‘Well, want to hit the next one?’
‘Yeah,’ Ben said quickly. He glanced down the hill to where the Highway Patrol was massing.
TWENTY-ONE
Ben and Coggins moved down Fourth Avenue toward the Better Days Pool Hall through steadily thinning crowds. On both sides of the street, people were hurrying off the avenue and onto the side streets. Shopkeepers had begun removing goods from their display windows, and by the time the two men reached Better Days, almost all of them were empty.
When they stopped outside the door of the pool hall, Coggins turned to face the street, his eyes sweeping it north and south. ‘I’d say we have about twenty minutes before it starts,’ he said confidently.
‘You don’t know for sure?’ Ben asked.
Coggins shook his head. ‘This is a civilian demonstration, not a military operation. You can’t time things that well.’ He glanced up at the sign above the poolhall. It was written in thick red letters, and on either side of BETTER DAYS someone had drawn crisscrossed pool cues. ‘Nice,’ he said as he looked back at Ben. He smiled mockingly. ‘I mean, what’s law school compared to a classy place like this?’
Inside, the atmosphere was decidedly different from the poolhall down the street. There was the same smoky air, the same jukebox, soda and cigarette machines, even the same speckled linoleum over the cement floor, but the tone was darker, grimmer, and Ben recognized it immediately as being similar to the sort of white redneck bar where he’d seen violence erupt like a broken sore, spewing blood on all four walls.
Coggins appeared to see no difference at all, and as he stepped forward toward the first line of tables, he offered the men who were standing at them the same innocent grin. ‘How y’all doing, fellows?’ he asked cheerfully.
One of them lifted his cue slowly and massaged the tip. ‘What you want, dickhead?’ he asked in a voice as flat as steel.
Coggins’ smile vanished.
The man continued to finger the tip of the cue. His eyes squeezed together slowly as they moved back and forth from Ben to Coggins. ‘This is a nigger poolhall,’ he said when they finally settled on Ben.
‘Well, now, we … uh … we,’ Coggins sputtered.
The man’s eyes shifted over to Coggins. ‘I said a nigger poolhall,’ the man said menacingly, ‘and you don’t look black to me, Tomboy.’
Coggins offered a high nervous laugh. He glanced down at his arm and rubbed it smoothly. ‘My skin looks as black as yours,’ he said.
The man shook his head. ‘No, it don’t,’ he said. He looked around at the other men. Some of them began to move forward slowly, slapping their cue sticks in their hands. ‘No, you look like a cracker to me, boy,’ he said. He smiled coldly. ‘Don’t this boy look like a cracker to you?’ he called to the other men.
A thin, edgy laughter rippled through the room.
The man’s eyes remained fixed on Coggins. ‘What’s your name, boy?’ he asked.
‘Leroy Coggins,’ Coggins said tensely.
The man took a small, barely perceptible step toward him, and the group behind him seemed to move forward at his signal.
Ben glanced to the left and saw a tall, thin man circle over toward the wall, then stand stonily in front of the room’s only rear exit.
‘I’m here about a little girl,’ Coggins said quickly.
The man laughed as he took another small step. ‘You want a little dark meat, that it, cracker?’
Laughter broke through the room again, and as it faded away, a large man stepped through the front door, closed it behind him, and then stood, his arms folded over his chest, and stared lethally at Ben and Coggins.
Now there was no way out, and Ben felt his body tense suddenly, as if preparing for the worst.
‘She was murdered,’ Coggins said desperately, his voice all but breaking over the last word. ‘We found her body over in Bearmatch.’
The man’s eyes seemed to draw together. ‘We? Who’s we, Leroy?’
‘The police,’ Coggins blurted before he could stop himself.
A low murmur swept around them.
‘Police,’ the man bawled. He glanced back at the other men. ‘You hear that? This boy’s with the police.’
‘No, I’m not!’ Coggins cried. ‘I’m not with the police.’
The man took another small step, his hand crawling slowly toward the back pocket of his trousers. ‘Who the white cracker, Leroy?’ he asked mockingly.
Coggins looked imploringly at Ben, but he said nothing.
‘Who the white cracker, Leroy?’ the man repeated.
Coggins stared at him, terrified, but he did not answer.
‘What’s the matter, nigger, you deaf?’ the man asked. He took another step, and the men behind him surged forward. ‘
Coggins stepped back slightly, but the man was on him, a knife glinting in the light from the tables.
Instantly, Coggins’ hand snapped the pistol from his belt and pressed it hard under the man’s chin. ‘Drop that knife!’ he screamed, his hand trembling almost uncontrollably, his finger squeezing down on the trigger. ‘Drop it, motherfucker!’
The man at the front door lunged forward, and Ben turned and punched him hard in the stomach, then pulled him up by his collar and slammed him against the wall.
