But I didn't know how to steal a car. Taking license plates off a parked car would be simple—but it could mean more trouble; if I was stopped for going through a light or anything and had to show my license, I'd be cooked. The best thing was to keep to the Jag. If I got any sort of break, the police wouldn't know Thomas' identity for a day, and wouldn't know about me for a couple of days. By that time I'd be dead bum if I didn't come up with at least a sure lead. Hell, my money would only last about a week.
At 4:20 a.m. I started cutting across New Jersey toward Pennsylvania and Ohio. I drove carefully, not too fast, and the Jaguar ate up the road in the quiet darkness as I wondered how much longer I'd be able to drive it—or any car. I kept the radio on but the killing didn't make the news. Most of the time I felt confident, although now and then I had this doubt that I wasn't being a detective, I was merely on the run.
In the middle of the morning I stopped again for gas, then turned into a deserted side road and walked around to relax my cramped legs. It was a cold, sunny day, and it felt good to walk on the grass and dirt, fill my lungs with the clean air.
I drove till noon, when I stopped at a small roadside restaurant. There were several trucks parked outside, so I figured the food would be okay. A moon-faced woman with wild white hair was behind the counter, serving the truckers. As I sat on a stool this biddy shrieked, “No you don't! I don't serve no coloured here. Don't you see the sign?” She pointed a fat finger at a fly-specked WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE... sign.
I was in Pennsylvania and I told her, “That sign is so much cardboard. There's a state civil-rights law here.” I wasn't sure if there was or not, and was too tired and rattled to think straight.
“I go by a higher law—God. If God had meant you to be white he would have made us all the same. Now get!”
One of the truck jockeys snickered and I wanted to hit him so badly I thought I'd explode. But a rumble was the very last thing I could chance now. I stood up and told the old bitch, “You sure fooled me. I thought this was a 'coloured' place. I mean, seeing you, your face and the hard hair—bet you got as much 'coloured' blood in you as I have. That's why I sat down, seeing you.”
I walked out hearing her scream, ashamed of myself for such childish stupidity. Still, I had to hit back, some way. One thing was for sure, as the song says, when you leave Manhattan you're not going anyplace.
As I turned the Jag back toward the road, one of the truckers came out—not the one who'd snickered—said, “Wait a minute, Mac.” He walked over to the Jag and I got out fast, knowing I couldn't control myself any longer. He was a little guy, compactly built, freckles on his pale face. He had a Thermos under his arm and held it out as he said, “Old Ma hasn't all her buttons. You want some hot Java, I have a Thermosful you're welcome to.”
“Thanks a lot. But I'll get a regular meal some other place. But thanks again.”
“Suit yourself. Guess you must be a musician, huh?”
“Yeah. On my way to a job now,” I said, sliding back behind the wheel, waving as I drove off.
I stopped in the next town at a grocery, bought a loaf of bread, cheese, and a bottle of milk—ate in the car from then on. White people are nuts but I'd be even crazier if I got into a fight about it—now.
6
WE WERE driving along country dirt roads, but carefully. A low-slung Jaguar wasn't made for such roads. I'd about talked myself out, was waiting for her to say something. Her silence made me nervous. When we turned into a paved road Frances asked, “Can I take the wheel? I've never driven a foreign car.”
I stopped and we changed places. She drove with cool skill and after a moment said, “What can I do to help you, Touie?”
“The first thing is to understand what you're getting into. I'm wanted, so helping me makes you an accessory to a crime, or whatever the exact legal term is.”
“Don't worry about that. All I know is you're a musician and I'm showing you the town.”
“It won't be that simple once they start grilling you.”
“You talk as if you expect to be caught, Touie.”
I spread my palm on my knee. “I did some thinking on the drive here. No point in kidding myself. The New York City police are good, big time. For all I know they've identified me already, have 'wanted' flyers on me in the mails. Honey, I want your help, I need it badly, but at the same time I don't want you in over your head.”
“I want to help you. As for the rest—you can't cross a bridge until you reach it.” She turned off into a bumpy dirt road.
“Go slow; a rock can rip the transmission.”
She drove another few hundred feet and stopped. “What do we do first?”
“Answer a few questions. Has May Russell left town recently?”
“Not that I've heard.”
“Would you hear?”
“Yes and no. Actually I haven't seen May for weeks, but in a small town, taking a trip is over-the-fence news. I'd have heard if May left town.”
That didn't mean a thing. She could have flown to New York and back in less than an afternoon. “How about her... eh... clients? Have any of them left Bingston recently?”
She grinned. Her mouth was small and the heavy lips seemed to be pouting. “If you believe rumors, every white man in town is a 'client' of May's. I haven't heard of anybody leaving Bingston in months. Tomorrow I'll take you to somebody who can tell you everything you wish to know about May. And a lot about Porky Thomas. What else can we do now?”
I pulled out the TV data, held it near the dashboard light. “When Thomas was in school, he beaned a kid named Jim Harris with a rock, gave him a concussion. Where's Harris now?”
“In South America. He left Bingston years ago, went to college and came out an oil engineer. I know he's still down in South America. Pop saves stamps and takes them off Harris' letters to his folks here.”
“Now, in '48 Thomas did a couple of months with a Jack Fulton for petty theft. In '45, he and this same Fulton did a stretch at reform school. Do you know Fulton?”
Frances nodded. “He died in Korea. His name is on the bronze tablet next to the school flagpole. What else?”
I crossed Fulton's name off. The trouble was, there wasn't much “else.”
“Nothing about it here, but I suppose Thomas was on the lam from the draft too. Was he drafted?”
“I don't know. What next?”
She sounded like we were playing a quiz game. I put the TV stuff back in my pocket. “That's about it. Are you certain nobody—I mean, anybody who really knew Thomas— hasn't left town in the last month or two?”
“People don't leave Bingston or come to it. Dad would know if anybody has left recently or— Oh, I forgot, the McCall sisters, a couple of old-maid school teachers. They sold their house two months ago and moved to California, but you wouldn't be interested in them. Although when Porky was about ten he was supposed to have pinched Rose McCall's behind.”
“He was an all-round cut-up. Look, can you remember anybody Thomas ran around with, or anybody who hated him?”