“What about the troubles he got into? I mean, before the business with May?”
The old woman pulled out a tin snuffbox, put some under her lip. “They was real nice children, the Russell kids. Tim still drops by. After me to move, but he means well. Porky wasn't in any real trouble, never. Before he beat on May. He did a lot of things young boys do, but seemed he was always caught. If he stole it was only because he was needing things so bad. Ask me, he was meaner when he come out of that reform school than before he went in. I do recall how—after he come out of this reform place—he slapped Mamie Guy and her husband beat Porky up something terrible. Of course none of that got to the police. He'd stole some shirts from Mamie and was angry because she accused him to his face.”
“Who's Mamie Guy?”
“Lives out on Beech Road. Shucks, when I was a girl coming along, wasn't even a house or road there, just woods and woods. Nice for picnics and—”
“Mamie Guy still live there?”
She sighed. “You just won't let me finish a sentence. I had to give up my washing; pains in my legs and shoulders was getting fierce. I gave her my customers. Porky, he was helping me, delivering and calling for the laundry on an old beat-up bicycle he'd put together. So he begins helping Mamie; her boys was too young to help her then. He took these expensive silk shirts, tried to say Mamie had done it. But it was all straightened out.”
“Where does Mamie's husband work now?”
“Last I hear he was doing porter work in one of them big stores downtown.”
“Who else did Porky ever have a serious fight with? Is there anybody else who hated him?”
“Sam Guy never hated him. Nobody did, just didn't pay no attention to Porky.”
“Did he ever knife or pistol-whip any one, seriously hurt somebody? Even another kid?”
“No siree. Porky wasn't real bad. I seen plenty young ones wild like him who settle down to a good life. Ask me, I think May made a mistake in not marrying him. I mean, before she had to.”
I couldn't think of any more questions. I stood up. She rocked back and forth as she said, “A welcome sight to see a black man dressed good like you. All the washing and ironing I done, I know expensive duds.”
I thought, “Yeah, I'll be the best-dressed man in the hot seat,” as I said, “Well, good day, Mrs. Simpson. Thank you for your time.”
She got to her feet. “A coloured writer, my how times have changed. Now, like I told those other people, don't make Porky out a bad one. It wasn't he was good nor bad, just so hungry poor. Now that he's dead I know the Lord will give him a better time up there.”
Out on the porch I asked, “Does Tim Russell come to see you every day?”
“Oh my no. Maybe once or twice a month. Matter of fact I ain't seen him for couple weeks now. He drives me to town, helps me shop.”
“Does he leave Bingston often?”
“Tim leave here? I should say not, except for the time he was a soldier.”
I said good-by again and headed for town. My brain was going in circles. I was still wondering who the “stooge” might be, what motive he could have for killing Thomas. And for some reason I was amazed at Mrs. Simpson being so hale and full of cheer despite all the hard work she must have known. I couldn't remember if the local paper had two editions, so I parked on the main drag and went into the tobacco shop. It was the same paper I'd read in the morning. As I stepped back into the Chevvy, the cop I'd run into when I first hit this burg, and maybe Bingston's only cop, called from across the street, “Hey there, boy, I want to see you.”
I knew a “wanted” flier had finally reached him and my stomach started churning—until I saw the lazy way he was ambling across the street. He said, pleasantly, “Hear that pretty car of yours broke down. Puzzles me: America makes the best darn cars in the world, like this old Chevvy still gets you places.... Like I told the wife, why should a body buy a foreign car and pay so much more money?”
“I got a buy on mine, secondhand.” Bingston was a damn goldfish bowl. I had to clear out of here fast. It was, or could be, as dangerous for me as New York. At least in New York I could be checking on this stooge angle. In Bingston I was a sitting duck.
“Me, I don't even hold much with the new cars coming off the Detroit assembly lines today. Too much fancy stuff on 'em. Waste of money.”
“I suppose so,” I said, wanting to say something about Thomas, that I'd read about it in the papers. But I didn't have the nerve. The N.Y.C. police must have some kind of contact with Bingston, and the last thing I wanted was to get this hick cop interested in me. He asked, “Think you can get your car fixed soon?”
“Expect to... sir. I'm having a part sent here air mail.” I waved and he nodded, as if dismissing me, and I drove off.
I parked outside the bakery. Through the window I watched Frances waiting on a customer, the pleasant contrast of her white worn jacket and her warm brown skin. When the customer left I honked the horn. Frances waved at me, then said something to the elderly white woman camped on a high stool behind the cash register. They argued for a moment, then Frances came rushing out, asked, “Did you learn anything new, Touie? I can only stay a second.”
“Nothing, except that I have to leave Bingston.”
“Why?”
“Far as the killing goes, I'm running in circles here, going no-place. Bingston isn't even a good hideaway; everybody in town knows I'm here, even about my car 'breaking down.'”
“Where will you go?”
“Back to New York, I guess. I've thought of something that needs looking into there.”
“But they're looking for you in New York. Touie, why leave at all? People know about you here because you're a stranger. If you remained here and found a job, as Jones, you'd soon be forgotten—I mean, wouldn't stand out. As you said, the New York police are looking for 'a' Negro. Once you became a part of the community here, you'd be safe. They certainly aren't looking for 'a' Negro in Bingston.”
The woman in the bakeshop knocked on the window.
“No dice. I phoned somebody in New York this morning; the police already know I'm the Negro. In time they're sure to contact Bingston, if they haven't already. Main reason I came here was to find the killer. All I've found was that Thomas was a mixed-up kid.”
“If the police know about you, then to go back to New York seems—“ She turned sharply and nodded at more knocking on the window. “When are you leaving?”
“Thought I'd go out to the farm and pick up my car, leave now.”
“Touie, at least wait until I come home at five-thirty. Let's talk about this. All right?”
“Okay.”
“Tim should be in soon, and I'll ask about his uncle, and Thomas' father. I have to run now. Not a customer in the store and she's wearing her knuckles out on the window. See you at the house in about an hour.” She went back into the shop.
I headed for the Davis house but I was too nervous to sit around. I turned off at the nearest side street, drove aimlessly. I'd better get rid of the Jaguar. Take it from the farm, so they wouldn't get into any jam, if I was caught, ditch it in some river or lake. Although it would break my heart to do that. In New York I could get a room in the coloured section of Brooklyn, or the Bronx—although I didn't have much money, in fact no money if I took a train back to New York. Maybe I could get a job, anything, that would keep me eating for a week or two, while I checked on the stooge, Kay's boss, and Thomas' girl in the cafeteria. Damn, if I could only sell the Jag, be enough dough to keep...