date of the postmark, which fortunately was legible, and concluded that the fellow could most probably be eliminated, unless he had hopped a couple of supersonic jets. And worked fast, at that. Not that Surcher seriously considered this. It just didn’t look like the work of a French Moroccan to him. No, he mused. He just couldn’t consider this. Though such was the nature of the blank wall he was up against that he was ready to consider anything. He thought back now to his interviews with Jill’s closest friends today. None had helped him much in any way. Sandra Seymour cried just about the whole interview, and though Alice Patmore had certainly tried very hard to be of help, she just had nothing much to tell. Jill had simply been too much of a healthy, wholesome, yes, All-American girl. Surcher shook his head, slowly, thinking now about the abusive phone calls he had received during the day from certain quarters. He was used to such calls, of course, for they cropped up during any investigation. He thought of the one he had taken just a half hour or so ago, here in his own home. The caller had identified himself as “an active member” of the John Birch Society. He had thereupon launched upon a vituperative assault on the lack of police activity in the matter, with special reference to their apparent failure to focus their inquiries on the most obvious immediate suspects, to wit, the “black boys” in the school. Surcher wasted no time talking to the man, of course, but before hanging up he was presented to boot with a sermon on the inherent stupidity and evil of even this kind of token “mixing of the races,” a mixing which was “against all nature,” according to his caller. Surcher was polite to him, however. He said “Thank you for calling,” before hanging up. He knew that was the way to handle such crackpots. Polite, but firm, and ignore them. It was the only way. If you handled them like they really should be handled, that is, a swift kick in the rump, they would only keep phoning, and phoning, and organize all their friends too—to do so. Surcher sighed, musing poignantly, as he often did, over the trials besetting even the most honest and dedicated policemen, in this day and age. Perhaps any age. As if the immediate task, and problem, weren’t enough. He certainly was grateful though for the excellent caliber of help he was getting from the authorities up at the
“I haven’t.”
“Sit down. Want to?”
“I think I will. Yes. I will. If you’re not too busy—”
“Take your coat off,” he said, “In a hurry? It’s warm in here—”
“O.K.—I will,” she said.
Tiger got up from his chair and moved toward Saw-yersville High’s outstanding Literature teacher. She smiled at him. He stood behind her and helped her slip out of her coat. Her unique, fresh fragrance came to him, already, in fact, it was starting to fill the office. He loved it. As the coat slipped away from her, he saw her marvelous profile, all the way down. She had on one of her sweaters. He stood there a moment, looking at her. He put the coat on the coatrack, beside his own. Then he returned to his chair behind the desk. She took a chair near the desk. She sighed. She opened her bag.
“Cigarette?” She said, pulling out a fresh pack.
“Don’t mind ii I do,” Tiger said, grinning, and reaching for one.
“You don’t inhale much, do you?” She said, lighting them up.
“I try not to,” Tiger said.
“Of course that takes all the fun out of it,” Miss Smith said, with another soft laugh.
“True, true,” Tiger said, “But what can you do?”
“You want to live too long, Mr. Tiger McDrew, that’s your trouble, I think—”
Tiger shook his head, slowly, “Oh man, man, have I got troubles—”
“Haven’t we all—” Miss Smith told him, taking a long drag on her cigarette, “Ummmm—so good—”
“So—what’s new?” Tiger asked, admiring the view, “You’re working overtime tonight, my bonnie lass, aren’t you?”
Miss Smith blew out a long cloud of smoke, slowly. Tiger caught it as it came drifting by him. He loved it. It smelled good, doubly good, having been inside her.
“I could say the same for you—Mr. McDrew—"
“And—in view of the circumstances—my lass—”
“God! The circumstances! Tiger, did you ever think we had a lunatic loose in the school?”
“O.K.”
“Sure you know where I live?”
“Elmwood Avenue—”
“That’s right.”
“O.K.”
She smiled again. Her hand left him.
“Don’t forget now,” she said.
“I won’t—Miss Smith—”
She stood there a moment looking at him. He was there, but a few million light years away, also.
“Alright, Ponce,” she said.
“Bye, Miss Smith—•”
“See you later—” she said.
“O.k!, Miss Smith—”
She walked away, down the hallway, her heels tapping away. Ponce, trembling violently now, watched her.
She disappeared down the hallway.
19
Somehow, Ponce left the building, soon after, but the English Literature teacher didn’t. She got as far as the Guidance/Counseling office, stopped, touched her hair, and tapped gently on the door, twice. She waited a moment, then entered. She closed the door behind her. She looked around the office, she looked at the desk, she looked at the chair behind the desk—she looked at Tiger.
“Hi,” She said, feeling a distinct, warm flush.
“Well Hi,” he said, lifting his head from a mass of papers, “You look great,” He said, “You are the greatest,” He said, “know it?”
She laughed softly, moving deeper into the room.
“That’s what you tell them all,” she said.
“Don’t I,” he chuckled.
She approached the desk. He grinned now, sitting back in his chair, surveying her.
“What a day, what a day,” he said.
“Wasn’t it!"
“Ever been through such a day?” school. He was particularly impressed with that Assistant Principal, Mr. Mike McDrew, who of course was known throughout the entire State for his football-coaching activities, his amazing teams. The Principal himself, Mr. Proffer, wasn’t anywhere near as impressive, but at least he didn’t create any problems, and certainly cooperated, in every way. Surcher felt sorry for him. He certainly had a mess and a half on his hands. Imagine some of the phone calls he would be getting tonight—from parents, mainly. Surcher sighed again, and opened a letter. It was from a magazine.
Dear Jill,
Thanks a lot for telling me about the plans for the Carverton game. It was awfully nice of you. I want to do the nicest article on you and your Cheerleaders for the next issue, as you know, and so I’ll certainly be there to meet you. It will be a tremendously popular article, I’m sure, for there is great interest, as I’m sure you know, in the extraordinary football teams of Sawyersville High School, and naturally, in the wonderful Cheerleading squad that so loyally and effectively supports them. I’m going to be bringing along a really first-rate photographer to take a lot of shots of you and the rest of the girls, in action. They will make a wonderful splash beside the article. The Editor has already told me I can have at least four pages. And I’m telling you now!
Looking forward to seeing you,
Janet Lance (Features Writer)
Surcher sadly laid that one aside. How many similar ones would he have to read through? He tried another one. His eyes were getting a little blurry and tired now, for it was his forty-fifth one, at least, some of them ten pages long, no less.
—Honey—
It began.
Surcher sprang to attention.
—You honey you, let me tell you, I’m true blue,
“Honey—” she whispered, “Oh you honey—” she also whispered.
His hands touched her waist, he pushed his chair back and brought her in one deft movement onto his lap. She gave a little sigh, and made a cooing sound. He moved his hands up toward her breasts, he stroked them, gently, he fondled them, through that soft sweater. He loved them.