The man followed, his haste at odds with his appearance. He wore a conservative pinstriped suit, a plain dark tie, and a businessman’s hat. He was middle-aged and well-groomed. Not the sort of WASP-type gent to be chasing a shapely black girl at a honky-tonk amusement park.
I was on his heels as we emerged on the midway again. Luck was against the black girl. The crowd was too thick here for her to run. She tried to duck into a bar, bumped into a couple coming out through the swinging doors, and stumbled. By the time she recovered herself, her pursuer had her by the arm.
“Come along with me, girlie.” Tough-guy voice with a gutter twang. It didn’t go with the gray pinstripe. More the rasp of a Chicago hood putting on the muscle; it shattered his image of respectability.
“No! Let go of me!” She struggled.
“Don’t give me no trouble,” he hissed.
A crowd was collecting. A young black man detached himself from it and went up to them. “What is it you want from this lady, mister?” he asked politely. His tone was calm, not hostile, but firm.
“Butt out!” the white man told him. He twisted her arm.
“You’re hurting me! Let me go!”
“I think you’d best let her go, mister,” the black man told him.
“Mind your business!”
“I’m making this my business!” The black man grabbed him from behind and forced him to release his grip on the girl’s arm. It was obvious he wasn’t trying to hurt the gir1’s assailant. He was merely holding onto him until the girl could get away.
She dived into the crowd across from where I was standing. The black man released the hood. He spun around, snarling. “You dumb bastard!”
“I don’t want any trouble, mister.” The black man turned away.
“That’s what you bought, shithead!” The torpedo spun him around by the shoulder and threw a punch.
While this was going on, I was hustling around the perimeter of the crowd, trying to spot the girl. But she had vanished.
The black man blocked the punch with his left arm and counterpunched with a short right. It caught the bully-boy on the side of the jaw, and he went down. He tried to brace the fall, and the sudden wrench tore both his suit jacket and his shirt. The shredded material hung away from a naked, hairy armpit.
“I’m sorry, mister.” The black man apologized. He held out his hand to help the other to his feet.
But the aggressor wasn’t signing any peace treaties. He brushed away the helping hand and came up frothing. There was an audible click, and then he was going for the black guy with an open switchblade!
The crowd scrambled back. The knife-wielder lunged. The black man jumped sideways. People hustled out of their way. Another lunge!
The black brother was cool. He didn’t turn his back and try to run. He knew that would only get him a shiv between the vertebrae. Instead, he faced the knife, gauging each pass as it started, jumping backward or to the side to avoid the stab.
The hood, however, wasn’t all klutz, either. He handled the switchblade like an expert. Each lunge was a little closer to being on target.
Retreating, the black man came abreast of me. The blade streaked, he dodged, the hood’s foot shot out. It hooked the black man’s leg, and he went down. The hood dived on top of him, knife plunging. The black man grabbed his wrist and stayed it. But the white guy had more leverage. The knife slowly inched toward the black throat.
I don’t like seeing people killed. Particularly if it’s a battle where one side has all the warheads. Besides, there was all that tempting hair sticking out of the armpit where the shirt and jacket had torn.
Bending over, I took a firm grip on the armpit hair and yanked. Hard! It sprang the knifer’s arm muscles.
He yelped. The switchblade flew from his grip and went clattering across the midway pavement.
The black man’s knee came up, caught the hood in the chest, and sent him sprawling over backward. Then the black man sprang to his feet and stood over him, fists held at the ready. But the fight had gone out of the white man. He just lay there looking up at his adversary.
“Thank you, mister.” The black man nodded to me. Then he backed away to where the knife had landed. He bent over, caught the blade under his heel, and snapped it. “See you around,” he told the hood noncommittally. He disappeared into the crowd.
The hood got to his feet. The crowd dissolved. I ambled back toward the shooting gallery.
It was over. I’d muffed it. I hadn’t even found out if the black girl was Phoebe Phreeby. And now she was gone. That’s what I figured. But I figured wrong.
Approaching the shooting gallery, I noticed a man shooting at the targets there. It took a minute before my mind registered the fact that there was something unusual about the gun he was using. It wasn’t one of the gallery rifles. It was a precision—made, high-powered job with a telescopic sight!
Suddenly he swiveled around and aimed up at one of the cars careening down the tracks of the roller coaster. Following his aim, I saw that the black girl was in the car. Calmly, he adjusted his sights. His finger squeezed the trigger.
I yelled!
The girl screamed!
He fired!
All three sounds were lost in the cacophony of the amusement park. Pleasure seekers’ ears aren’t attuned to the vibes of homicide. Nobody hears when it’s—
Murder on the loose!
CHAPTER TWELVE
The black girl’s scream coincided with her spotting the rifle aimed at her. It preceded the shot by a split second. She dived to the floor of the car, and the bullet passed over her.
I raced toward the shooting gallery, my eyes darting back and forth between the marksman and his target. The roller coaster whipped around a loop, climbed again, and then started its final breathtaking descent. When it hit the bottom of the curve, I could see, the interior of the car the girl was in would be clearly visible. She’d have no place to hide! He’d have a clean shot at a completely exposed target!
The car reached the last lap of its steep plunge. He had her in his sights now. Calmly, like a pro, he once again squeezed the trigger!
And just as he did, I lurched into him, spoiling the shot. “I beg your pardon,” I said with bland innocence.
He didn’t waste time on recriminations. I’ll give him that. He quickly dismantled the weapon, tossed the pieces into a black bag that looked like a doctor’s satchel, and walked swiftly away.
I didn’t try to stop him. My first objective was to get to the black girl, and I couldn’t do both things at once. So I headed for the roller coaster.
She was off and running before it came to a halt beside the bottom platform. I was quite a ways behind her, just managing to keep her in sight. Suddenly, as she was passing the entrance to the Tunnel of Love, she stopped short. I looked past her and saw the man in her path. What made this third man as ominous as his two predecessors was the revolver he was flashing at her.
He held it in close to his body so as not to attract attention. But he’d made sure that the black girl could see it. When he beckoned to her with his other hand, she had no choice but to continue toward him.
Then, providentially, a group of teen-agers chasing each other swarmed between the gunsel and the girl. She took advantage of the distraction to dart into the entrance to the Tunnel of Love. She threw some change to the cashier, passed through the turnstile, and jumped into an empty boat being chain-towed past the dock. She vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.
The torpedo started to follow her, then checked himself. Instead, he headed for a point where the water-way emerged from the tunnel and reentered it. I joined him there just as the first gondola of the boat train emerged.
In it were a large lumberjack in a red plaid shirt and a small, thin girl who looked like a toy in his hands. Those hands were all over her. She was fighting not so much for her virtue as for the chance of getting another wearing out of the blouse he was mangling.